A PARAPHRASE Upon Justice, Or the powerful Operation of GOLD: WITH some Resentments against the Proceedings of the CATHOLICK-CAUSE.
THat Gold more powerful should than Justice sway,
or Indian dust, should Englands Trust betray!
What boarding Omens of Approaching Fate,
With dusky Wings attends that falling State?
Where Justice staggers, and the splendid Laws,
Suffer Eclipses, in a Roman Cause.
What can we think, when Astrea thus ascend;
And Cloud, invading Magna Charta bends?
Press'd with the weight of too too ponderous O're,
Which Scarlet Robes, Ah me, too oft Adore.
If 'tis a Sin to injure Innocence,
'Tis worse indulging him who gave Offence:
For what should Men to Justice have regard,
When hated Treason scapes its just reward?
The trembling Universemust surely groan,
When such pass by who undermine a Throan.
Wrack'd Orbs must shiver in a Storm like this,
No Nation can hereafter hope for Peace;
When swell'd with such success, the Murdering Rout,
Like swarms of Locusts, are dispers'd about.
Unsafe are Crowns, and sacred Monarchs too;
If Traitors are upheld in what they do.
When Laws, alas, like Spiders Webs are made,
The Great escape, the less by Death are stay'd.
But Justice in it self does Splendid prove,
It owns no Passion, made of Fear, or Love.
In equal Scales she weighs the Cause, and then,
Destructive Mammon, dares not thrust between.
That Conscience sure, is a continual Feast,
Where neither Love, Revenge, nor Interest
Can bribe; to preverecate, 'twas happy sure,
If Monarchs in all Ages could procure
Such faithful Props, whose Candid Souls ne'r knew,
That Gold had power to render Man untrue:
Or over-lavish Mines, could baffle Death,
Pronouncing Guilty, Guiltless, with one Breath.
That like the Orbs, an Art there could be found,
Or pow'rful Charms, to hurry Conscience round.
'Tis sure, if we such Virtues could possess,
They'd much augment our Nations Happiness.
Then England would the Land of Promise prove,
Founded on Basis made of perfect Love.
No Evening Wolves, nor lurking Serpents Power,
Could hiss at Kings, nor Subjects Wealths devour.
No Roman Basilicks could e're prevail,
With Golden Heads, their poisoning Art would fail.
The best of Princes might repose secure,
Whom wise Omaipotence does still immure.
Whll'st Guards of Angels, an Eternal Quire;
Inclose him round, in vain does Hell conspire.
And his first born, with Flouds of Rage incence;
His Virtue's Addamant for his Defence.
With flaming Swords, the bright Saeraphick Band,
(Against whose Arms, not Earth nor Hell can stand)
Have strict Command to save him from his Foes,
Who Vipers like, his Royal Self inclose:
Whilst Gownmen wink at Treason, and pass by;
The black Designers, of all Villany.
Could it be thought, a Traitors Golden Hook
Tho Baits of Angels dangl'd, could have took
So soon; and from its primal Element,
A Soul professing Loyalty have bent?
Or to have freed a Wretch, whose horrid Hand;
Pan Poison mix'd, to ruine all the Land!
Strengthen'd with Fictions Blessings from that Train;
Whose Scarlet Mistriss does or'e Nations Reign.
By Tyranny, makes Kingdoms blush with Blood;
None dares converse with her, that dares be good.
Witness her Agents, blast ye powers above,
Their Thoughts for ever, let no Peace nor Love,
In her dire Habitations to abide,
No more let Empire in her Smiles Conside
[...]or why, her Shapes beyond Proteus are,
If she wants power to manage her affair.
She like a Scorpion, in sweet Verdure lies;
From thence the heedless doth with Death surprise.
Mercies a Stranger, and is seldom known;
If She by Sword, or Treason Grasps a Throne.
For oh the Horrors that attend her Will;
To Burn, to Torture Ravish, Poison, Kill.
But that our Law, she should insect, is strange!
'Tis the Preludium sure, of fatal Change.
That She like Jove, by Raining Showers of Gold;
Should our Chaste Dane Ravish from her hold:
Where She for many Ages did reside,
A spotless Virgin, Englands chiefest Pride.
But now Desil'd, her Guardians have betray'd;
Those Gates of Addamant, and thence conveigh'd
The glittering Sword, with which She quel'd her Foes:
And maugur'd all, that durst presume to close.
But now with Shame, She hides her Angel-head,
With sable Vails her bashful face is spread.
Conquer'd by Dust is She, that did Command,
A thousand thousand, and supports the Land.
Rome fear'd her Frowns, and trembled too, but now:
No longer dwells that Terror on her Brow.
That Auful Luster is obscur'd and gone,
A dark Eclips of Midnight hurries on.
Her sacred Scales that were from Heaven sent,
With ponderous Interest are to Attoms rent
If E're repair'd their far too weak to hold,
Against a Storm that's intermix'd with Gold.
The feeble she may Crush, but surely know,
Her first design was nevor orderd' so:
For she her strength against the mighty bent,
And oft in pitty spar'd the Impotent.
But since her last Affront, she dares not own,
That Roman Treasons are in England known.
Or that to Murder Princes, was a Crime
The blackest Monster Ere was hatch'd by Time.
This to the height, promotes Conspiracie,
By this they prove no Plot, and all was free.
Had Angels spoken but in the ir behalf,
Or had their Priests but plac'd a Golden-Calf;
The Simptoms of their Cruel Thoughts had been,
Quite banished from the Stage and never seen.
Nay, now so boldly dictates haughty Rome,
Their Grief is past, and ours is yet to come.
That their insulting Heroes never fled;
But that's untrue, some have unpunished.
Nay, and already, as if all was done;
To make Deponents odious, they've begun.
With Romish querks, they scandalize the State;
Reflect on Justice, which they could Translate
To their Advantage, as for Plebean Eyes;
They strive to cloud'm with a false disguise.
And to perswade'm with a fond conceit;
The Plot's now vanished, twas a Counterfeit.
But Protestants beware, whil'st Crimes they Shroud;
The Tempest gathers in a louring Cloud.
All black it hangs, it bailful Drops will shed;
Like Paris Murders, on the Churches Head.
When least suspected sullen Fate will come,
Justice disarm'd, the next we look for's Rome.
Sure Hell produc'd that Villain he inherits,
The Land of Darkness, with Tempestuous Spirits.
Still may he groan in that infernal Shade:
Where Harpies dwell, eternal Thunders Aid.
To make his Torments full, that durst extend
His cursed Arm, or impious Thoughts could bend
Against the Viceroy of that mighty God,
Who made the World, and with an auful nod,
He Heaven, Eearth and Hells Foundations shakes;
And in Protection sacred Princes takes.
Tho Men ungrateful wink at Crimes below,
His Vengeance sure will ne'-re be bafled so.
But pay the Traitors home, when all the Gold,
Can ne'r relieve, that Indian-Mines infold.
FINIS.