Absolon's IX Worthies: OR, A KEY to a late BOOK or POEM, Entitled A. B. & A. C.  

I.  
A Chitophel led on the black Forlorn,  
Villain, that only was for mischief born.  
Who happy might have been before his Tomb,  
If's Sire had never Tapped his Mother's Womb.   

II.  
Next Zimri, Bankrupt of Wit, and Pence,  
Proved Jew by's Circumcised Evidence.  
T' enjoy his Cosbi, He her Husband killed;  
The rest o'th' story waits to be fulfilled.   

III.  
Then kind Uriah Junior whose distressed  
Lady the beauteous Absalon caressed.  
So like in Head, in Heart, in Mind and Will,  
'Twas thought by some, they both had pissed in a Quill.   

IV.  
The next Priapus-Balaam, of whom 'tis said,  
His Brains did lie more in his Tail than's Head;  
Sprouted of Royal Stem in ancient days,  
'Tis an ill Bird that his own Nest betrays.   

V.  
chaste Caleb next whose i'll embraces charm  
Women to Ice, was yet in Treason warm;  
O'th' ancient Race of Jewish Nobles come,  
Whose Title never lay in Christendom.   

VI  
Then Profane Nadab, that hates all Sacred things  
And on that score abominateth Kings.  
With Mahomet Wine he damneth; with intent  
T'erect his Paschal-Lambs-Wool-Sacrament.   

VII.  
Ungrateful Ionas next to Nineveh  
Pleads Treason gratis, that's without his Fee;  
Which he n'eer did before for King or Clown:  
That got most by't, yet most disgraced the Crown.   

VIII.  
Shimei that Curses all that he should love,  
That hates all Kings, and Gods because above.  
Whose kinder Fasces spares Dissenters Backs,  
Though he long since would fain have used the Axe.   

Last Corah, unexhausted mine of Plots,  
Incredible to all but Knaves and Sots.  
He surely may for a new Samson pass,  
That kills so sure with Jawbone of an Ass.    

To the Author of that incomparable POEM above mentioned.  

Homer amazed resigns the Hill to you,  
And stands i'th' Crowd amidst the panting Crew.  
Virgil and Horace dare not show their Face,  
And long admired Juv'nal quits his place;  
For this one mighty Poem hath done more  
Than all those Poets could have done before.  
satire or Statesman, Poet or Divine,  
Thou any thing, Thou every thing that's fine.  
Thy Lines will make young Absalon relent,  
And though 'tis hard Achitophel repent.  
And stop— as thou has done.—  
Thus once thy Rival muse on Cooper's Hill,  
With the true story would not Fatina Kill.  
No Politics exclude repentance quite,  
Despair makes Rebels obstinately fight.  
'Tis well when Errors do for Mercy call,  
Unbloody Conquests are the best of all.   

Methinks I see a numerous mixed Crowd  
Of seduced Patriots crying out aloud  
For Grace to Godlike David. He with Tears  
Holds forth his Sceptre to prevent their Fears.  
And bids them welcome to his tender Breast:  
Thus may the People, thus the King be blest.  
Then tunes his Harp, thy Praises to rehearse,  
Who owes his Son and Subjects to thy Verse.   
FINIS.