From cockle that oppressed the noble seed,
David[15] for him his tuneful harp had strung
And Heaven had wanted one immortal song.
But, wild ambition loves to slide, not stand,
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.
Achitophel, grown weary to possess
A lawful fame and lazy happiness,
Disdained the golden fruit to gather free
And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.
Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since,