FIEND.
"By Hells Grim King's Command, on whom I wait,
I've brought your Saint his Story to relate;
Who from the black Tartarian-Fire below,
So long beg'd Absence as to let you know
His Torments, and the Horrid Cheat condole,
You fix'd on him to Rob him of his Soul."
POPE.
"O! spare my Ears, I'll no such Horrors hear;"
COLEMAN.
"You must, and know your own Damnation's near:
You must ere long be Plung'd in Grizly Flame,
Which I shall laugh to see, tho, rack'd with pain
Thou Grand Deceiver of the Nations All,
Contriver of my Wretched Fate and Fall:
Thou who didst push me on to Murther Kings
Persuading me for it on Angels Wings
I should Transcend the Clouds, be ever Blest, )
And be of Al that Heav'n cou'd yield, possest, )
But these I mist, got Torment without Rest: )
For whilst on Earth I stand, a Hell within
Distracts my Conscience, pale with horrid Sin:
Instead of Mortals Pardon, One on High,
I must your Everlasting Martyr Fry;
Whilst Name of Saint I bear on Earth, below
It stirs the flames, and much Augments my Woe."
POPE.
"Horrors! 'tis Dismal, I can hear no more,
O! Hell and Furies, how I have lost my Pow'r."
SIR E. GODFREY.
"See Sir this Crimson Stain, this baleful Wound
See Murther'd me, with Joys Eternal Crown'd;
Though by the Darkest Deed of Night I fell,
Which shook Three Kingdoms, and Astonish'd Hell:
Yet rap'd above the Skyes to Mansion bright,
There to Converse with Everlasting Light;
Thence got I leave to View thy Wretched Face,
And find my Death thy Hell-born Plots did race,
And next to the Almighty Arm did Save
Great Albion's Glory from its yawning Grave;
From Sacred Bliss my Swift-Wing'd Soul did glide,
Conducted Hither by my Angel-Guide,
To let thee know thy Sands were almost run,
And that thy Thread of Life is well-nigh Spun;
Repent you then, Wash off the Bloody Stain,
Or You'll be Doom'd to Everlasting Pain."