34
LE LUTRIN
Canto 4.
His belly swell'd like Sybils raptur'd Priest,
With hollow sounding noise like Pythonist,
Strugling he stood under this inward load,
Releas'd at last he thus shook off the God!
See! Girot see! the True Interpretation
Of my late Phantasme, which thy foolish Passion
Call'd a Delusion! thus the Dream I conster,
This Pulpit is the Hideous Hell-born Monster!
This! this the fatal, the Malignant skreen
Will never more let me, poor me, be seen!
Ah Prelate! trebble Vengance now indeed
Thy plotting pate has heap'd upon my Head!
Could not thy Malice hugg it self in bed,
Between two Nappy blanckets covered?
To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign?
Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine?
O Heavens! O Hell! see how this Hateful Mass
Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place?
Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard,
Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard!
Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace,
A thousand times I'le quit this loathed Place:
Ne're sing Te Deum more! Renounce the Alter!
And end my dayes at Tyburn in a Halter!
I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute
I' th' Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it;
Come Girot! lend thy friendly helping hand,
If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand!
He spoke! his Arm waited upon his words,
Strength fill'd his Arm, and Fury strength affords:
Arrests the Pulpit; and with haughty frown,
Come down thou Idol! or I'le pluck thee down!
Just in the juncture of this flaming hate,
As the wise Destinies ordain'd, and Fate,
With hollow sounding noise like Pythonist,
Strugling he stood under this inward load,
Releas'd at last he thus shook off the God!
See! Girot see! the True Interpretation
Of my late Phantasme, which thy foolish Passion
Call'd a Delusion! thus the Dream I conster,
This Pulpit is the Hideous Hell-born Monster!
This! this the fatal, the Malignant skreen
Will never more let me, poor me, be seen!
Ah Prelate! trebble Vengance now indeed
Thy plotting pate has heap'd upon my Head!
Could not thy Malice hugg it self in bed,
Between two Nappy blanckets covered?
To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign?
Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine?
O Heavens! O Hell! see how this Hateful Mass
Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place?
Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard,
Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard!
Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace,
A thousand times I'le quit this loathed Place:
Ne're sing Te Deum more! Renounce the Alter!
And end my dayes at Tyburn in a Halter!
I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute
I' th' Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it;
Come Girot! lend thy friendly helping hand,
If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand!
He spoke! his Arm waited upon his words,
Strength fill'd his Arm, and Fury strength affords:
Arrests the Pulpit; and with haughty frown,
Come down thou Idol! or I'le pluck thee down!
Just in the juncture of this flaming hate,
As the wise Destinies ordain'd, and Fate,
Who
