essor of the crown, 110
Whose virtue with such wrongs they had pursued,
As seem'd all hope of pardon to exclude.
Thus, while on private ends their zeal is built,
The cheated crowd applaud, and share their guilt.

Such practices as these, too gross to lie
Long unobserved by each discerning eye,
The more judicious Israelites unspell'd,
Though still the charm the giddy rabble held.
Even Absalom, amidst the dazzling beams
Of empire, and ambition's flattering dreams, 120
Perceives the plot, too foul to be excused,
To aid designs, no less pernicious, used.
And, filial sense yet striving in his breast,
Thus to Achitophel his doubts express'd:

Why are my thoughts upon a crown employ'd.
Which, once obtain'd, can be but half enjoy'd?
Not so when virtue did my arms require,
And to my father's wars I flew entire.
My regal power how will my foes resent,
When I myself have scarce my own consent! 130
Give me a son's unblemish'd truth again,
Or quench the sparks of duty that remain.
How slight to force a throne that legions guard
The task to me! to prove unjust, how hard!
And if the imagined guilt thus wound my thought,
What will it when the tragic scene is wrought!
Dire war must first be conjured from below,
The realm we rule we first must overthrow;
And, when the civil furies are on wing,
That blind and undistinguish'd slaughters fling, 140
Who knows what impious chance may reach the king?
Oh, rather let me perish in the strife,
Than have my crown the price of David's life!
Or if the tempest of the war he stand,
In peace, some vile officious villain's hand
His soul's anointed temple may invade;
Or, press'd by clamorous crowds, myself be made
His murderer; rebellious crowds, whose guilt
Shall dread his vengeance till his blood be spilt.
Which, if my filial tenderness oppose, 150
Since to the empire by their arms I rose,
Those very arms on me shall be employ'd,
A new usurper crown'd, and I destroy'd:
The same pretence of public good will hold,
And new Achitophels be found as bold
To urge the needful change--perhaps the old.

He said. The statesman with a smile replies,
A smile that did his rising spleen disguise:
My thoughts presumed our labours at an end;
And are we still with conscience to contend?