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Paint all the noblest Trophies of your Guilt,65
The Oaths you perjur'd and the Blood you spilt;
Yet must you one untempted Vileness own,
One dreadful Palm reserv'd for him alone;
With studied Arts his Country's Praise to spurn,
To beg the Infamy he did not earn,70
To challenge Hate when Honour was his Due,
And plead his Crimes where all his Virtue knew.
Do Robes of State the guarded Heart inclose
From each fair Feeling human Nature knows?
Can pompous Titles stun th' inchanted Ear75
To all that Reason, all that Sense would hear?
Else could'st thou e'er desert thy sacred Post,
In such unthankful Baseness to be lost?
Else could'st thou wed the Emptiness of Vice,
And yield thy Glories at an Idiot's Price?80
B 2
When
