But here's his greatest Tug; could he but make Th'encluding Sanedrims Resolves once shake; Nay, make the smallest Breach, or clashing Jar, In their great Councel, push but home so far, And the great Point's secur'd.----And, lo! among The Princely Heads of that Illustrious Throng, He saw rich Veins with Noble Blood new fill'd; Others who Honour from Dependance held. Some with exhausted Fortunes, to support Their Greatness, propt with Crutches from a Court. These for their Countries Right their Votes still pass, Mov'd like the Water in a Weather-glass, Higher or lower, as the powerful Charm O'th' Soveraign Hand is either cool or warm. Here must th'Attacque be made: for well we know, Reason and Titles from one Fountain flow: Whilst Favour Men no less than Fortunes builds, And Honour ever Moulds as well as Guilds. Honour that still does even new Souls inspire; Honour more powerful than the Heav'n-stoln Fire. These must be wrought to _Absolons_ Defence. For though to baffle the whole Sanedrims Sence, T'attempt Impossibles would be in vain, Yet 'tis enough but to _Divide_ and _Raign_.
Here though small Force such easie Converts draws, Yet 'tis thought fit in glory to their Cause, Some learned Champion of prodigious Sense, With Mighty and long studyed Eloquence, Should with a kind of Inspiration rise, And the unguarded Sanedrim surprize, And such resistless conquering Reasons press, } To charm their vanquisht Souls, that the Success } Might look like Conscience, though 'tis nothing less. }
For this Design no Head nor Tongue so well, As that of the profound _Achitophel_. How, great _Achitophel_! his Hand, his Tongue! _Babylons_ Mortal Foe; he who so long With haughty Sullenness, and scornful Lowr, Had loath'd false Gods, and Arbitrary pow'r. 'Gainst _Baal_ no Combatant more fierce than he; For _Israels_ asserted Liberty, No Man more bold; with generous Rage enflam'd, Against the old ensnaring Test declaim'd. Beside, he bore a most peculiar Hate To sleeping Pilots, all Earth-clods of State. None more abhorr'd the Sycophant Buffoon, And Parasite, th'excrescence of a Throne; Creatures who their creating Sun disgrace, A Brood more abject than _Niles_ Slime-born Race. Such was the Brave _Achitophel_; a Mind, (If but the Heart and Face were of a kind) So far from being by one base Thought deprav'd, That sure half ten such Souls had _Sodom_ sav'd. Here _Baals_ Cabal _Achitophel_ survey'd, And dasht with wonder, half despairing said, Is this the Hand that _Absolon_ must Crown, The Founder of his Temples, Palace, Throne? This, This the mighty Convert we must make? Gods, h'has a Soul not all our Arts can shake.