A PARAPHRASE Upon Justice, Or the powerful Operation of GOLD: WITH some Resentments against the Proceed of the CATHOLICK-CAUSE.  
THat Gold more powerful should than Justice sway,  
or Indian dust, should England's Trust betray!  
What boarding Omens of Approaching Fate,  
With dusky Wings attends that falling State?  
Where Justice staggers, and the splendid Laws,  
Suffer Eclipses, in a Roman Cause.  
What can we think, when Astrea thus ascend;  
And Cloud, invading Magna Charta bends?  
Pressed with the weight of too too ponderous O'er,  
Which Scarlet Robes, Ah me, too oft Adore.  
If 'tis a Sin to injure Innocence,  
'Tis worse indulging him who gave Offence:  
For what should Men to Justice have regard,  
When hated Treason escapes its just reward?  
The trembling Universemust surely groan,  
When such pass by who undermine a Throan.  
Wracked Orbs must shiver in a Storm like this,  
No Nation can hereafter hope for Peace;  
When swelled with such success, the Murdering Rout,  
Like swarms of Locusts, are dispersed about.  
Unsafe are Crowns, and sacred Monarches too;  
If Traitors are upheld in what they do.  
When Laws, alas, like Spider's Webs are made,  
The Great escape, the less by Death are stayed.  
But Justice in itself does Splendid prove,  
It owns no Passion, made of Fear, or Love.  
In equal Scales she weighs the Cause, and then,  
Destructive Mammon, dares not thrust between.  
That Conscience sure, is a continual Feast,  
Where neither Love, Revenge, nor Interest  
Can bribe; to preverecate, 'twas happy sure,  
If Monarches in all Ages could procure  
Such faithful Props, whose Candid Souls ne'er knew,  
That Gold had power to render Man untrue:  
Or over-lavish Mines, could baffle Death,  
Pronouncing Guilty, Guiltless, with one Breath.  
That like the Orbs, an Art there could be found,  
Or powerful Charms, to hurry Conscience round.  
'Tis sure, if we such Virtues could possess,  
They'd much augment our Nation's Happiness.  
Then England would the Land of Promise prove,  
Founded on Basis made of perfect Love.  
No Evening Wolves, nor lurking Serpents Power,  
Can hiss at Kings, nor Subjects Wealths devour.  
No Roman Basilicks could e'er prevail,  
With Golden Heads, their poisoning Art would fail.  
The best of Princes might repose secure,  
Whom wise Omaipotence does still immure.  
Whll'st Guards of Angels, an Eternal Choir;  
Inclose him round, in vain does Hell conspire.  
And his first born, with Floods of Rage incense;  
His Virtue's Adamant for his Defence.  
With flaming Swords, the bright Saeraphick Band,  
(Against whose Arms, not Earth nor Hell can stand)  
Have strict Command to save him from his Foes,  
Who Vipers like, his Royal Self enclose:  
Whilst Gownmen wink at Treason, and pass by;  
The black Designers, of all Villainy.  
Can it be thought, a Traitors Golden Hook  
Tho Baits of Angels dangled, could have took  
So soon; and from its primal Element,  
A Soul professing Loyalty have bend?  
Or to have freed a Wretch, whose horrid Hand;  
Pan Poison mixed, to ruin all the Land!  
Strengthened with Fictions Blessings from that Train;  
Whose Scarlet Mistress does o'er Nation's Reign.  
By Tyranny, makes Kingdoms blush with Blood;  
None dares converse with her, that dares be good.  
Witness her Agents, blast ye powers above,  
Their Thoughts for ever, let no Peace nor Love,  
In her dire Habitations to abide,  
No more let Empire in her Smiles Conside  
●or why, her Shapes beyond Proteus are,  
If she wants power to manage her affair.  
She like a Scorpion, in sweet Verdure lies;  
From thence the heedless doth with Death surprise.  
Mercies a Stranger, and is seldom known;  
If She by Sword, or Treason Grasps a Throne.  
For oh the Horrors that attend her Will;  
To Burn, to Torture Ravish, Poison, Kill.  
But that our Law, she should insect, is strange!  
'Tis the Praeludium sure, of fatal Change.  
That She like Jove, by Raining Showers of Gold;  
Should our Chaste Dane Ravish from her hold:  
Where She for many Ages did reside,  
A spotless Virgin, England's chiefest Pride.  
But now Desil'd, her Guardians have betrayed;  
Those Gates of Adamant, and thence conveyed  
The glittering Sword, with which She quelled her Foes:  
And maugured all, that durst presume to close.  
But now with Shame, She hides her Angel-head,  
With sable Vails her bashful face is spread.  
Conquered by Dust is She, that did Command,  
A thousand thousand, and supports the Land.  
Rome feared her Frowns, and trembled too, but now:  
No longer dwells that Terror on her Brow.  
That Auful Luster is obscured and gone,  
A dark Eclipse of Midnight hurries on.  
Her sacred Scales that were from Heaven sent,  
With ponderous Interest are to Atoms rend  
If e'er repaired their far too weak to hold,  
Against a Storm that's intermixed with Gold.  
The feeble she may Crush, but surely know,  
Her first design was nevor ordered ' so:  
For she her strength against the mighty bent,  
And oft in pity spared the Impotent.  
But since her last Affront, she dares not own,  
That Roman Treasons are in England known.  
Or that to Murder Princes, was a Crime  
The blackest Monster Ere was hatched by Time.  
This to the height, promotes Conspiracy,  
By this they prove no Plot, and all was free.  
Had Angels spoken but in the it behalf,  
Or had their Priests but placed a Golden-Calf;  
The Simptoms of their Cruel Thoughts had been,  
Quite banished from the Stage and never seen.  
Nay, now so boldly dictates haughty Rome,  
Their Grief is past, and ours is yet to come.  
That their insulting Heroes never fled;  
But that's untrue, some have unpunished.  
Nay, and already, as if all was done;  
To make Deponents odious, 've begun.  
With Romish quirks, they scandalise the State;  
Reflect on Justice, which they could Translate  
To their Advantage, as for Plebeian Eyes;  
They strive to cloud'm with a false disguise.  
And to perswade'm with a fond conceit;  
The Plot's now vanished, 'twas a Counterfeit.  
But Protestants beware, whilst Crimes they Shrowded;  
The Tempest gathers in a louring Cloud.  
All black it hangs, it bailful Drops will shed;  
Like Paris Murders, on the Churches Head.  
When least suspected sullen Fate will come,  
Justice disarmed, the next we look for's Room.  
Sure Hell produced that Villain he inherits,  
The Land of Darkness, with Tempestuous Spirits.  
Still may he groan in that infernal Shade:  
Where Harpies dwell, eternal Thunder's Aid.  
To make his Torments full, that durst extend  
His cursed Arm, or impious Thoughts could bend  
Against the Viceroy of that mighty God,  
Who made the World, and with an auful nod,  
He Heaven, Earth and Hell's Foundations shakes;  
And in Protection sacred Princes takes.  
Tho Men ungrateful wink at Crimes below,  
His Vengeance sure will never be baffled so.  
But pay the Traitor's home, when all the Gold,  
Can ne'er relieve, that Indian-Mines enfold.  
FINIS.