On the slain corpse contending nations fall—
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring;
And next, for fashion, cry, "God save the king!"
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
}
But after he's once saved, to make amends, }
In each succeeding health they damn his friends: }
So God begins, but still the devil ends. }