Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/98

88 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,