On A Very Profane Compliment In

Ah! Cease, vain Muse, forbear thy hardy Lays, Nor urge the Thunder on thy guilty Bays, How durst thou thus debase the Saviour's Blood, And raise a Mortal o'er the Throne of GOD: Melodiously-Profane, prefer his Name, And, gay in Eloquence, thy Judge blaspheme? O'er the black Lines remain perpetual Gloom, And Flames, and deep Oblivion be the Doom. Round the dire Rant shall sudden Lightnings rage, And kindling Vengeance blast the impious Page. So when th' Arch-Angel left his heav'nly Song, And mock'd his Maker with a Seraph's Tongue, Messiah, terrible in Wrath! arose, And hurl'd him down to Hell's tremendous Woes, Where Seas of fire with roaring Storms refound, And endless Darkness spreads its brooding Horrors round.