Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/98

Unlike the soul, with which proud I was born,
Who could that sneaking thing a monarch scorn,
Spurn off a crown, and set my foot in sport
Upon the head that wore it, trod in dirt.
But say, what is't that binds your hands? does fear
From such a glorious action you deter?
Or is't religion? but you sure disclaim
That frivolous pretence, that empty name—
Mere bugbear word, devised by us to scare
The senseless rout to slavishness and fear,
Ne'er known to awe the brave, and those that dare.
Such weak and feeble things may serve for checks
To rein and curb base mettled heretics;
Dull creatures, whose nice boggling consciences
Startle, or strain at such slight crimes as these;
Such, whom fond inbred honesty befools,
Or that old musty piece the Bible gulls:
That hated book, the bulwark of our foes,
Whereby they still uphold their tottering cause.
Let no such toys mislead you from the road
Of glory, nor infect your souls with good;
Let never bold encroaching virtue dare
With her grim holy face to enter there,
No, not in very dream: have only will
Like fiends and me to covet, and act ill;
Let true substantial wickedness take place,
Usurp, and reign; let it the very trace
(If any yet be left) of good deface.
If ever qualms of inward cowardice
(The thing which some dull sots call conscience) rise,
Let them in streams of blood and slaughter drown,
Or with new weights of guilt still press them down.
Shame, faith, religion, honour, loyalty,
Nature itself, whatever checks there be
To loose and uncontrolled impiety,
Be all extinct in you; own no remorse
But that you’ve balked a sin, have been no worse,
Or too much pity shown,——