A LASH AT ATHEISTS : The POET speaking , as the Ghost of a Quondam Libertine , suppos'd to be the late E. of R. Reflects on that part of Seneca's Troas , beginning at Post Mortem nihil est , Ipsaq ; Mors nihil Velocis spatii meta Novissima : Spem ponant avidi seliciti metum . Quaeris quo Iaceas post Obitum loco Quo non Nata Iacent . INcumbred with vile Flesh , to Earth inclin'd , Prophane Tragaedian , once I wore thy Mind , Born on the Wings of soaring Wit so high , I thought my Soul no farther pitch could fly Than the gay Regions of Philosophy . The hot-brain'd Stag'rite in my Breast did reign , And Sacred Prophets preach'd the Truth in vain , Nourish'd by Logick Arts so well I knew To vent false Reason and disguise the true : Around my Beams the Athiests of the Times , Like Attoms , danc'd and wanton'd in my Crimes , Strong Vice Opinion of my Wisdom bred , Which round the World , those false Apostles led , Whilst scandal hourly I on Vertue threw , Nor would be witty , unless wicked too ; All thy pernicious Tenets then I own'd , And Wit prophane with circling Bays I crown'd , Proud of short-sighted Reason , my design Was still to blast the Mysteries Divine ; Defame Religion with unhallow'd wit , And ridicule the Laws of Sacred Writ : But Oh , you foolish , fond , and apish Crew , Ye Learned Idiots that my Tracts pursue , Ye crawling Worms that bask in the Suns Ray , And yet the Suns great Maker disobey . Pernicious Snakes that by Celestial Fire , Reliev'd from frozen Ignorance , conspire Against your God , and think frail Eyes can see Through the Arcana of the Trinity , Reflect how false your Notions are , by me . And thou , poor Heathen , that hadst wit to write , Yet not the Truth , hadst Eyes , and yet no sight , That wert in th' dawn of our Redemption driven Through moral Mists to grope the way to Heaven , Thou that with one poor glimpse of Reason blest , Given only as distinction from the Beast ; Prophanely dar'st affirm there nothing is Beyond the Grave , of Misery or Bliss : But that the Soul and Body , like a Tree , Rest undisturb'd in Earth's Obscurity . With me art now severely undeceiv'd In those dam'd Tenets which we once believ'd , Yet not believ'd , for in each vile Harrangue The Atheist speaks he feels a secret Pang : Poor tortur'd Conscience peeps through his disguise , And tells the noisie hot brain'd Fool he lyes ; Thus Man more sordid than a Brute must be , That plagu'd with the Salt Itch of Sophistry , Forfeits his Soul , prophanes all Sacred Laws , For the vain blast of Popular Applause . Had Reverend Hobbs this Revelation mark'd Before his dubious leap into the dark ; Had he sound Faith , before false Sence approv'd , Moses , instead of Aristotle lov'd , Eternal Vengeance had not found him then , Nor gorg'd him with his own Leviathan ; Like him , or worse , once madly did I Rave Till I had got on . Foot into the Grave : But there , as if Eternal Power had pleas'd To shew in me that Wonders were not ceas'd ; My Guardian Angel snatch'd my Soul from Night To the clear Paths of Everlasting Light : Then banish'd Wisdom reassum'd my Brain , Religious Reason took her Seat agen ; I sigh'd , and trembled at the horrid view Of my past Crimes , and scarcely could renew Forgotten Prayer , so little good I knew , Till heavenly Mercy down like Manna fell , And true Repentance lifted me from Hell : Thus Sickness which my Mourning Friends condole When Art could not restore my Body whole , Prov'd the Divine Physitian of my Soul . How deeply then my long lost Reason pris'd The Balmy Scriptures I so late despis'd ! How poorly Tinsel-rob'd Philosophy Appear'd when Rich Divinity was by ! And how th' Evangelists and Prophets shone 'Mongst Heathen Poets , that my Heart had won Gone was my doubt , the Resurrection plain , And if there be a Fool , so vile , so vain , That in his Head that Scruple does retain : Let him but think what first Created Man , Then let him be an Athiest if he can .