the Throne,
  Were raised in Pow’r and publick Office high: 
  Strong Bands, if Bands ungrateful men coud tie. 
  Of these the false Achitophel was first: 
  A Name to all succeeding Ages curst. 
  For close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit;
  Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit: 
  Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place;
  In Pow’r unpleas’d, impatient of Disgrace. 
  A fiery Soul, which working out its way,
  Fretted the Pigmy-Body to decay: 
  And o’r inform’d the Tenement of Clay,
  A daring Pilot in extremity;
  Pleas’d with the Danger, when the Waves went high
  He sought the Storms; but for a Calm unfit,
  Would Steer too nigh the Sands, to boast his Wit. 
  Great Wits are sure to Madness near alli’d;
  And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide: 
  Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest,
  Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest? 
  Punish a Body which he coud not please;
  Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of Ease? 
  And all to leave, what with his Toil he won,
  To that unfeather’d, two-legg’d thing, a Son: 
  Got, while his Soul did huddled Notions trie;
  And born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy. 
  In Friendship false, implacable in Hate: 
  Resolv’d to Ruine or to Rule the State. 
  To Compass this, the Triple Bond he broke;
  The Pillars of the Publick Safety shook: 
  And fitted Israel for a Foreign Yoke. 
  Then, seiz’d with Fear, yet still affecting Fame,
  Usurp’d a Patriot’s All-attoning Name. 
  So easie still it proves in Factious Times,
  With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes: 
  How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill,
  here none can sin against the Peoples Will: 
  Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known,
  Since in anothers guilt they find their own. 
  Yet, Fame deserv’d, no Enemy can grudge;
  The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge. 
  In Israels Courts ne’r sat an Abbetbdin
  With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean: 
  Unbrib’d, unsought, the Wretched to redress;
  Swift of Dispatch, and easie of Access. 
  Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown,
  With Vertues onely proper to the Gown;
  Or, had the rankness of the Soil been freed
  From Cockle, that opprest the Noble Seed: 
  David, for him his tuneful Harp had strung,
  And Heav’n had wanted one Immortal Song. 
  But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand;
  And Fortunes Ice prefers to Vertues Land: 
  Achitophel, grown weary to possess
  A lawful Fame, and lazie Happiness,
  Disdain’d the Golden Fruit to gather free,
  And lent the Croud his Arm to shake the Tree. 
  Now, manifest of Crimes, contriv’d long since,
  He stood at bold Defiance with his Prince: 
  Held up the Buckler of the Peoples Cause,
  Against the Crown; and sculk’d behind the Laws,