World expos'd.
Nay, what's more wondrous, this wast-paper Tool,
A nameless, unsubscrib'd, and useless scrowl,
Was, by a Politician great in Fame,
(His Chains foreseen a Month before they came)
Preserv'd on purpose, by his prudent care,
To brand his Soul, and ev'n his Life ensnare.
But then the Geshuritish Troop, well-Oath'd,
And for the sprucer Face, well-fed, and Cloath'd.
These to the Bar Obedient Swearers go,
With all the Wind their manag'd Lungs can blow.
So have I seen from Bellows brazen Snout,
The Breath drawn in, and by th'same Hand squeez'd out.
But helping Oaths may innocently fly,
When in a Faith where dying Vows can lye.
Were Treason and Democracie his Ends,
Why was't not prov'd by his Revolting Friends?
Why did not th'Oaths of his once-great Colleagues,
_Achitophel_ and the rest prove his Intreagues?
Why at the Bar appear'd such sordid scum,
And all those Nobler Tongues of Honour dumb?
Could he his Plots t'his great Allies conceal,
He durst to leaky Starving Wretches tell;
Such Ignorant Princes, and such knowing Slaves;
His _Babel_ building Tools from such poor Knaves.
Were he that Monster his new Foes would make
Th'unreasoning World beleive, his Soul so black,
That they in Conscience did his Side forego,
Knowing him guilty they could prove him so.
Then 'twas not Conscience made 'em change their side.
Or if they knew, yet did his Treasons hide;
In not exposing his detested Crime,
They're greater Monsters than they dare think Him.
Are these the Proselites renown'd so high,
Converts to Duty, Honour, Loyalty?
Poorly they change, who in their change stand mute:
Converts to Truth ought Falsehood to confute.
To conquering Truth, they but small glory give,
Who turn to God, yet let the Dagon live.

But who can _Amiels_ charming Wit withstand,
The great State-pillar of the Muses Land.
For lawless and ungovern'd, had the Age
The Nine wild Sisters seen run mad with Rage,
Debaucht to Savages, till his keen Pen
Brought their long banisht Reason back again,
Driven by his Satyres into Natures Fence,
And lasht the idle Rovers into Sense.
Nay, his sly Muse, in Style Prophetick, wrot
The whole Intrigue of _Israels_ Ethnick Plot;
Form'd strange Battalions, in stupendious-wise,
Whole Camps in Masquerade, and Armies in disguise.
_Amiel_, whose generous Gallantry, whilst Fame
Shall have a Tongue, shall never want a Name.
Who, whilst his Pomp his lavish Gold consumes,
Moulted his Wings to lend a Throne his Plu