Why are my thoughts upon a crown employ’d. 
  Which, once obtain’d, can be but half enjoy’d? 
  Not so when virtue did my arms require,
  And to my father’s wars I flew entire. 
  My regal power how will my foes resent,
  When I myself have scarce my own consent! 130
  Give me a son’s unblemish’d truth again,
  Or quench the sparks of duty that remain. 
  How slight to force a throne that legions guard
  The task to me! to prove unjust, how hard! 
  And if the imagined guilt thus wound my thought,
  What will it when the tragic scene is wrought! 
  Dire war must first be conjured from below,
  The realm we rule we first must overthrow;
  And, when the civil furies are on wing,
  That blind and undistinguish’d slaughters fling, 140
  Who knows what impious chance may reach the king? 
  Oh, rather let me perish in the strife,
  Than have my crown the price of David’s life! 
  Or if the tempest of the war he stand,
  In peace, some vile officious villain’s hand
  His soul’s anointed temple may invade;
  Or, press’d by clamorous crowds, myself be made
  His murderer; rebellious crowds, whose guilt
  Shall dread his vengeance till his blood be spilt. 
  Which, if my filial tenderness oppose, 150
  Since to the empire by their arms I rose,
  Those very arms on me shall be employ’d,
  A new usurper crown’d, and I destroy’d: 
  The same pretence of public good will hold,
  And new Achitophels be found as bold
  To urge the needful change—­perhaps the old.

   He said.  The statesman with a smile replies,
  A smile that did his rising spleen disguise: 
  My thoughts presumed our labours at an end;
  And are we still with conscience to contend? 160
  Whose want in kings as needful is allow’d,
  As ’tis for them to find it in the crowd. 
  Far in the doubtful passage you are gone,
  And only can be safe by pressing on. 
  The crown’s true heir, a prince severe and wise,
  Has view’d your motions long with jealous eyes,
  Your person’s charms, your more prevailing arts,
  And mark’d your progress in the people’s hearts,
  Whose patience is the effect of stinted power,
  But treasures vengeance for the fatal hour; 170
  And if remote the peril he can bring,
  Your present danger’s greater from the king. 
  Let not a parent’s name deceive your sense,
  Nor trust the father in a jealous prince! 
  Your trivial faults if he could so resent,
  To doom you little less than banishment,
  What rage must your presumption since inspire! 
  Against his orders you return from Tyre. 
  Nor only so, but with a pomp more high,
  And open court of popularity, 180
  The factious tribes.—­And this reproof from thee! 
  The prince replies; Oh, statesman’s winding skill,
  They first condemn that first advised the ill!