The casual cracking of a cloud, but sent
By angry Heaven for their punishment;
And if unhurt they 'scape the tempest now,
Still dread the greater vengeance to ensue.
These the least symptoms of a fever fright,
Water high-coloured, want of rest at night,
Or a disordered pulse straight makes them shrink,
And presently for fear they're ready to sink
Into their graves; their time, they think, is come,
And Heaven in judgment now has sent their doom.
Nor dare they, though in whisper, waft a prayer,
Lest it by chance should reach the Almighty's ear,
And wake his sleeping vengeance, which before
So long has their impieties forbore.
These are the thoughts which guilty wretches haunt,
Yet entered, they still grow more impudent;
After a crime, perhaps, they now and then
Feel pangs and strugglings of remorse within,
But straight return to their old course again;
They who have once thrown shame and conscience by,
Ne'er after make a stop in villany;
Hurried along, down the vast steep they go,
And find 'tis all a precipice below.
Even this perfidious friend of yours, no doubt,
Will not with single wickedness give out;
Have patience but a while, you'll shortly see
His hand held up at bar for felony;
You'll see the sentenced wretch for punishment
To Scilly Isles, or the Caribbees sent;
Or, if I may his surer fate divine,
Hung like Boroski,[1] for a gibbet-sign;
Then may you glut revenge, and feast your eyes
With the dear object of his miseries;
And then, at length convinced, with joy you'll find
That the just God is neither deaf nor blind.
- ↑ Executed for the murder of Mr. Thynne.
