Methinks such terms of proffer’d peace you bring,
  As once AEneas to the Italian king: 
  By long possession all the land is mine;
  You strangers come with your intruding line,
  To share my sceptre, which you call to join. 770
  You plead, like him, an ancient pedigree,
  And claim a peaceful seat by fate’s decree. 
  In ready pomp your sacrificer stands,
  To unite the Trojan and the Latin bands,
  And, that the league more firmly may be tied,
  Demand the fair Lavinia for your bride. 
  Thus plausibly you veil the intended wrong,
  But still you bring your exiled gods along;
  And will endeavour, in succeeding space,
  Those household puppets on our hearths to place. 780
  Perhaps some barbarous laws have been preferr’d;
  I spake against the Test, but was not heard;
  These to rescind, and peerage to restore,
  My gracious Sovereign would my vote implore: 
  I owe him much, but owe my conscience more.

   Conscience is then your plea, replied the dame,
  Which, well inform’d, will ever be the same. 
  But yours is much of the chameleon hue,
  To change the dye with every distant view. 
  When first the Lion sat with awful sway, 790
  Your conscience taught your duty to obey: 
  He might have had your Statutes and your Test;
  No conscience but of subjects was profess’d. 
  He found your temper, and no farther tried,
  But on that broken reed, your Church, relied. 
  In vain the sects assay’d their utmost art,
  With offer’d treasure to espouse their part;
  Their treasures were a bribe too mean to move his heart. 
  But when, by long experience, you had proved,
  How far he could forgive, how well he loved; 800
  A goodness that excell’d his godlike race,
  And only short of Heaven’s unbounded grace;
  A flood of mercy that o’erflow’d our isle,
  Calm in the rise, and fruitful as the Nile;
  Forgetting whence our Egypt was supplied,
  You thought your sovereign bound to send the tide: 
  Nor upward look’d on that immortal spring,
  But vainly deem’d, he durst not be a king: 
  Then Conscience, unrestrain’d by fear, began
  To stretch her limits, and extend the span; 810
  Did his indulgence as her gift dispose,
  And made a wise alliance with her foes. 
  Can Conscience own the associating name,
  And raise no blushes to conceal her shame? 
  For sure she has been thought a bashful dame. 
  But if the cause by battle should be tried,
  You grant she must espouse the regal side: 
  O Proteous Conscience, never to be tied! 
  What Phoebus from the Tripod shall disclose,
  Which are, in last resort, your friends or foes? 820
  Homer, who learn’d the language of the sky,
  The seeming Gordian knot would soon untie;
  Immortal powers the term of Conscience know,
  But Interest is her name with men below.