BABEL'S BALM: OR THE HONEYCOMB OF ROME'S RELIGION. WITH A neat draining and straining-out of the rammish HONEY thereof.  
Sung in ten most elegant ELEGIES in Latin, by that most worthy Christian SATIRIST, Master GEORGE GOODWINNE. AND Translated into ten English SATYRS, by the Muses most unworthy Echo, JOHN VICARS.  AUGUSTINE, Pride hath an appetite of Unity and Omnipotency. 
Imprinted at London by George Purslowe for nathanael Browne, and are to be sold at his Shop, at the upper end of the long Walk near Little S. Bartholomews'. 1624.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, WILLIAM LORD HERBERT, of Cardiff, Marmion St. Quintin, and Parr of Kendal; EARL of Pembroke, Chamberlain of his MAJESTY'S Household, chancellor of OXEFORD, Knight of the Noble Order of the GARTER; and one of his MAJESTY'S most Honourable PRIVIE-COUNCELL.  

WIse Counselors (great Lord) as Sages say,  
Have three fair Marks to make their best blessed aim;  
First, God's due glory; next, their Prince's Fame;  
Lastly, to be their Country's Staff and Stay.   

God His exacts; by whom, they're first elected:  
Kings, Theirs expect; under whom they have Grace:  
States, Hence their Fates extract; for whom that Place  
They exercise, to see them safe protected.   

How well your Lordship hits this triple- White,  
How well your Worth's approved to God and Man,  
Your God, your King, your Country witness can,  
Whose Goodness, Gravenesse, Greatness, All delight.   

Your Goodness to your God, your Faith makes known,  
Your Gravenesse to your King, your Wisdom shows;  
Your Greatness to the State, in Virtue flows;  
Faith, Wisdom, Worth, combined, conjoined in One.   

A fair Paire-Royall in a Loyal Peer,  
Whom Heaven hath happified for's Piety,  
Whom his great King loves for his Loyalty▪  
Whom all his Country, justly, holds most dear.   

O, may this threefold Twist be ne'er untwined;  
May Piety your Pilot ever be:  
O, may your Prince your Prudence ever see;  
Long may your Country your good Counsel find.   

That as you GOD, GOD may you ever honour;  
That as you grace your King, your King may grace you;  
That as you fight under Faith's blessed Banner;  
Your God, your King, your Country may embrace you:  
His humble Heart and Voice, this says, thus prays;  
Who in his Prayers, his Best, doth rest always.   
Your Honour's most humble Votary to be commanded, JOHN VICARS.   

TO THE JUDICIOUS AND COURTEOUS READER.  
THou hast here (courteous Reader) my Authors Epistle Dedicatory: which both for the Elegancy thereof, and propriety to this present Discourse, I have translated into English, the rather for that the Author hath learnedly laid-downe his Motives both to the Matter and metrical Method thereof. Which as they most justly may and do protect him from the Pravitie of detracting Malignity: So I hope they will with no less indifferency (my Cause and Case being the same in the Matter, though far inferior in the Manner) Patronise me, and Apologise for me against the Malice of muttering Momus. Thus hoping the best in the generous and judicious, disdaining the worst in the degenerous and inscitious. I rest  
Thine Io. VICARS.   

The Authors Epistle Dedicatory to the right Honourable Sir ROBERT NANTON, Knight, Principal Secretary to the State, and one of his Majesty's most Honourable privy Council.  
MAny things there be (right Honourable) which vilify and diminish the faith of Rome's Religion, which fortify and garnish ours. And yet indeed it is a very miserable and deplorable thing, that in matter of Religion, men's minds and judgements should still hang wavering and anxiously tottering as a Wedge of Steel between two attractive Loadestones; and not to be maturely and firmly confirmed in the indubitable orthodox Faith and Religion. When therefore I had adapted and addicted my mind to the study of Divinity, and afterward settled my serious inquisition upon Controversies of Faith: Popery most perspicuously seemed to me, to be nothing else, but a certain pompous & Majestic Monarchy, begotten by Ambition, bred and fed up by Superstition, blocked-up and fortified by Tyranny, enlarged and propagated both by the Mammon of the World, and fraudulent Fabrication of the Pseudo-Clergie.  
Many most learned Authors have by their worthy Writings notably shaken this (I say not Religion, but) Relegation or Banishment of true Religion: and may It now (with your Honour's good liking) put on a versified Vesture, and by this my Edition and Dedication to your Honour, come forth, yet more grossly guilty from me.  
Theodorite writes of one Ephres of Syrus an Island in Asia, who long since composed in diverse kinds of Verses, whatsoever appertained to Piety and Religion: That so they might the more fervently be affected and earnestly desired. The same doth Socrates and Sozomen affirm of Apollinarius; And Gregory Nyssen of Basil and of Nazianzen. Of more proximious and modern times also Eobanus of Hesse, Beza, Bucanan, and very many more did accommodate themselves (as it were, with a certain kind of delightful Sauce and Seasoning of the Truth) to the illustration and setting forth of the Book of Psalms in Verse.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 (as Pindarus) Let not then the stormy Stones of dire Detraction be thrown at me, if I in imitation of those worthy imitable Authors have in verse composed Hoc 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Religionis argumentum, This often controverted Subject of Religion.  
The most exquisitely learned Interpreters do call the Book of Psalms, the most sacred sugared Poem of God's blessed Spirit; And they give the reason why Almighty God would have so excellent a Treasure of his Church to be contrived and contained in verse, viz. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, that it might be as a Bait to allure and entice men to facile obedience thereunto. The same also is most manifest that Satan (as he is Operum Dei 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 the Ape of God's Actions) was wont to enfold, wreath and winde-up in Verse, all his Oracles which in former ages he used to deliver by his Python's or Sibyls, that by this means they might be the more pleasant and acceptable to those which enquired after them. I omit, that Saint Paul out of certain Poets, as Aratus, Menander and Epimenedes, quoted diverse Testimonies or amplifications, and not out of any other Heathenish Authors, as near as I can observe in his Epistles.  
Once also heretofore I myself composed a Module in Latine-Verse, under the Title of A Combat between the Flesh and the Spirit; or, The Warfare of a Christian Soldier. Of our holy Martyrs; And of The miseries of this miserable Life; Since which time, I with Nazianzen 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉: have cast and prostrated this my Muse at my Saviour's feet, submitting and addicting it wholly to his service, and to the setting forth of his pure Doctrine. And whilst I read the elaborate Labours and Diatribae of Divines, and at intermissive hours ruminated what I had read; with most fervent desire and full delight, I forthwith put myself upon a versifying Vein, thereby (as well as I might) to strengthen and assist my weak and untrusty memory.  
The Fruit of this my Labour I humbly Devote, Dedicate and Consecrate to you (Right Honourable) whom I ever knew (since I ever knew any thing) most exquisitely endued, and adorned, furnished and accomplished with all generous and ingenious Virtues and Discipline. Whence, th● reason why his Majesty made you his worthy Principal Secretary, cannot be Secretly hidden, but most conspicuously evident, to me, to all others: But by this Poem, the Proem of my principal intention is, sincerely to lay down a perpetual Pledge, and merited Memory of my obsequious observance of that great Favour and Courtesy, wherewith your Honour hath ever graced and embraced me: And of that firm Faith, which I here endeavour to defend, and wherein I am most certainly assured, you are most confidently and immoveably settled.  
But I trust your Honourable Courtesy will connive at and excuse me, if (as I am Acrior paulò 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, a somewhat sharp and tart Opposite to the Antichristian-Crew) the syllables and sentences in diverse places being transposed and alternated, I seem to say & reiterate one and the same thing: Since that even from my first undertaking of this Work thus once undertaken, I undertook to display and disperse the fragrant and odoriferous Flowers of various Authors, and not only to write diverse things, but to write them diverse ways, and truly to depaint the power of Popery to be no less sumptuously spacious, than avariciously Capacious.  
But above all, my heart hath eagerly exasperated my Hand and ready Pen (to the utmost of my power) to pull down the intolerable and abominable Pride of Rome: whereby her babylonical Bishops have with the Horns of their Insolency, butted at the Princes of the Earth, showing themselves to be nothing else, indeed, than the sirely Sons of Saturn, and an aspiring Offspring of robustious combustious Phaetontine haughty Spirits.  
Neither shall the Reader find here any flourishing veins or strains of painted Poetry and fabulous Fictions: My prime purpose, in the fashioning and framing of this Honeycomb, being, to furnish it with a more beautiful Cluster of Theology, than a bountiful Crop of Poesy.  
Nor have I been ambitiously busy, to cite my Author's Names on the Margins: For, what I write, I write to those, who (as Saint Augustine says, are willing to read, and wise to understand; and who together with me, do either already know, or easily may know, whatsoever I have writ.  
Finally, here, you ha●e neither a few, nor all matters touching the Romish Religion; Let whoso will, give my Book a Bill of Divorce: But from your right Honourable Humanity, and Customary Courtesy, I undoubtedly expect, and hope to find, Favour for what I have done, and Pardon for what I have pretermitted and left undone.  
Your Honour's most duly devoted, GEORGE GOODWINNE.   

THE TRANSLATOR TO HIS TRVELY INGENVOUS and most ingenious Author.  
Mr.  

Gall'd-backed Babel, dost thou kick and winch,  
Enraged with smart of Goodwinnes tart Balme-Plaster?  
O may it sting thee still, and prick and pinch  
Rome's corrupt crew, and her most leprous Master!  
God (yet) give grace, that Some may some Good-win,  
Enlightened by God's guide, to see Rome's sin.   

Goodwinne did This, One special end propound  
Of his sweet Satyrs: And even so do I,  
Of my mere Oaten-Pipes plain rustic sound,  
Derived (rare Goodwinne) from thy Melody:  
Wherein poor Pan hath curious Orpheus found,  
Inimitable in his Harmony.  
Needs then (I say) must Mine be all the blame,  
Not Thine, if Rome's Wilde-beasts be not made tame:  
Excuse, therefore (kind Sir) what's mis-committed;  
Pardon, I pray (if ought be ill-omitted)   
Your most truly loving friend, I. V.   

To the most Dis-courteous Momish Catholic, whose greatest Grace is a graceless gracious Kiss at his Unholy Father's Great-Toe, Greeting.  
ROmish Catholic, to Thee  
This I send, if Be thou be,  
Or if Wasp or stingless Drone,  
Or if humming Hornet known;  
Herein, Thou shalt Flowers find,  
Various for thy curious mind:  
Whereon thou mayst suck thy fill,  
And with Romish Momish skill,  
(By thy Honey-thighs, to thrive)  
Garnish, furnish Rome's Beehive.  
here, the Pope, thy Master-Bee,  
Christ's Vicegerent, thou mayst see,  
Peter's Heyre-apparent true,  
Claiming as his proper due,  
Heaven, Earth, Hell and Purgatory,  
far transcending Them in glory:  
To whose Keys and Crosier-staves  
Kings and Kaiser's must be Slaves:  
And, all this, for right and good  
Is, seen here, as clear as mud.  
here is shown, how Thy great Father  
Planted hath for Thee to gather,  
Plants which do Christ's Plants excel,  
Flowers which have more fragrant smell  
Than the Scriptures Killing-Letter,  
Therefore making Honey better▪  
Whereby Rome's most sacred Hive,  
And sweet Swarms full fatly thrive:  
here, Thou Henbane-Merit hast,  
Broad-way Flowers, here, are placed:  
Asse-Cucombers, Cats-tayle tall,  
Wolues-claw, Goose-grasse, great & small.  
Goat-Beard, Bucke-Beanes, Dragons-Blood,  
Mad-hearbe, Cog-wort, and Popes-wood.  
Penny-male, and Female fair,  
Virgin-marke, and Maidenshaire.  
As for Scriptures Herb of Grace.  
Patience, Hearts-ease, These, as base,  
He hath for thy sake displaced,  
Lest they should offend thy taste:  
Or, if tasted, Him displease,  
And his total Swarm disease.  
Therefore, those that most delight Thee,  
Stand here ready to invite Thee.  
Then, seek, suck, what Thou thinkst best,  
And, to Honeycombs digest,  
What thou hast so well collected,  
And Fellifluously confected:  
That, so, Thou, and all the Swarm  
In your Hive may chant and charm.  
As for Me, the only gains  
I could wish for all my pains,  
Is, that my best Help, pressed Power,  
Able were to tear the Tower  
Of proud Babel's Master-Bee,  
Master of much Villainy;  
Whose decay and downfall di●e,  
Truly, duly, he'll desire,  
Who is a hearty Ill-willer to the im-pure hollowness of his im-pious Holiness, JOHN VICARS.   

JUDGEMENT UPON HIS WIT.  
IF e'er Translator did deserve a Bays,  
It is thy full desert, nor full thy Praise.  
They changed sad-Inuention; you, brisk Wit  
Forms and Transforms, unto all forms of it;  
Rendering in most, the strain, in all, the sense:  
The Wits will fear thy sting, and get them hence.  
If any stay and pish; the cause is seen,  
The matter▪ not thy manner, moves their spleen.  
Bloud-rudilie Rome, thou hast drawn much Saint's blood:  
This hath drawn Thine; pray God it does thee good.  
If this fail with the rest, thouart desperate, sure,  
No Balm, for Babel, nought that Wh●re can cure.  
You have my Censure, had you Rome's Censures too,  
They could be but as I am,  
All for you. THOMAS SALISBURY Bach. in Divinity.   

The Argument of the Poem.  

ONce, Satan hatched an Egg, full of foul Hope,  
Whose Birth, by Fraud and Pride became a Pope:  
How fond men break Serpents Eggs? Rome's pride  
Dost to their hand, and gives a Pope beside.   

Another.  
The Pope's great Pride and Pomp Imperial,  
Did make him Head, will make him headlong fal●.   

Against Papal Supremacy.  
Rome's Highpriest, late, like Sol, aloft did shine,  
Like falling-S●arre▪ now, droops, drops, fears his fall;  
His patent Rule, by potent Wrath divine,  
Now, turns to Ashes; late a Cedar fall.   

Another.  
As increased, decreased is the Pope's great power:  
And Rome, which flourished, fades, now, like a flower.   

A Brief of the Romish Religion.  
Of all Sums, here's the Summary, chief Sum;  
That underneath the Pope's Rule, Faiths Rule come.    

The Satyrs of this Book.  

1 OF the Pope's Supremacy.  
2 Of the Authority of the Pope of Rome.  
3 Of the Interpretation of the Scriptures.  
4 Of the false Doctrine of the Church of Rome.  
5 Of the blasphemous fiction of Merits, and Works of Supererogation, etc.  
6 Of the fond fiction of Transubstantiation.  
7 Of the corrupt conditions and wicked living in the City of Rome.  
8 Of the covetous buying and selling of all things under the Pope's power and jurisdiction.  
9 Of the most formidable and abominable Powder-plot by Papists; with their horrible-authorized liberty to perpetrate any villainy.  
10 Of the holy Relics, Traditions, and other admirable Inventions of the Church of Rome.    

OF THE POPE'S SUPREMACY.  
THE FIRST SATYR.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Rome strives, contrives, how Popes may uncontrolled,  
Solely and wholly, Keys, Crowns, Sceptres hold.  
ROME, the World's wonder, Stage of Mitred Bands,  
Hath Papal Power of Empire in her Hands:  
For, here, the Pope succeeds in Peter's Right▪  
Which is as clear at Noon, as 'tis at Night.  
The High-Priests Chair, here, Peter placed hath;  
But, this, (me thinks) smells more of Fame than Faith.  
here, on a sevenfold Beast, the treble Beast,  
With triple-Crowne doth ride, each solemn Feast.  
Yea, here, the Babylonish Bawd most fine,  
A Scarlet Godhead, with rich gems doth shine.  
Fie, fie, poor Peter, and penurious Paul,  
Do ye not blush presumptuously to call  
Yourselves the Pope's great Grandsires'? y'are to blame,  
That you thus think his Holiness to shame.  
Alas, y'are Both deceived, his Papal Throne  
Buds, blows, and blossoms, big and broad is grown;  
Your Slave of Slaves, is now a Lord of Lords,  
The best of Men no equal Him affords.  
Logic lacks Phrases to define your Pope,  
He must have more than Categories' scope;  
he's yet not found, can find▪ or firmly say,  
What, How, How great's the Pope and Papal sway.  
Rome's power's distinct, from other powers all,  
Of all Powers else, Rome's hath no General.  
The Pope is peerless, Rome knows none more Royal;  
This, Realms, He Men, surmounts past all denial.  
See here God's Steward, Heaven's Controller great,  
Blown big with Badges, swelled with supreme Seat.  
Stately he stalks and walks; his Blasphemies  
Fill Heaven and Earth, and his mad Pride implies.  
This monstrous Monarch, Tetrarch terrible,  
Is his Flocks Wonder, Thunder horrible.  
Religion brought forth Riches, this rich Daughter,  
Repaies her Dam, with Death, not long time after.  
All Sacred things their Sacred Pope's above;  
To Him nought's Sacred, but Golds Sacred love.  
Peter, t' exceed, more than succeed, he joys:  
Tenths of his Honour, none (almost) enjoys.  
His Sea's a Sea of Wealth: But let me choose  
A Man to grace his place; This, Popes refuse.  
And why alone to Peter's this Charge given?  
Why are the Rest from State and Office driven?  
In Paul, not any, many spots in Peter  
We find; why then, for Paul was't not much meeter?  
At least, Saint john, whom Christ esteemed Best,  
Ought to be prized, preferred before the Rest.  
Yet Peter ne'er was decked with gems and Gold;  
Was no Key-keeper, no Sword-bearer bold,  
Road not with Strappes and Traps, in Scarlet Gowns;  
Not daubed with Pearls, or Princely golden Crowns.  
Peter, Colleague-ship with the Priests desires;  
The Pope, ●o be the Prince of Priests aspires.  
Peter was ne'er attired Centurion-like;  
Peter's Successor, oft times, Caesar-like.  
Meekness gave to Saint Peter Primacy;  
An humble mind was his Priority.  
Peter a Fisher, Peter's Imp a Fighter;  
A Stone was Peter's Throne, the Heavens his Mitre.  
And what was Paul, even equal to the best;  
Greater than he, not any of the rest.  
Yet he for Christ's sake, joys in bonds and blows:  
Ergô, the Pope is greater than Both Those.  
Christ of a Heavenly, not an earthly Throne,  
Had the Fee-simple; Peter, other, None.  
If Christ had here no Kingdom, how should He  
Place Peter, where Himself would never be?  
And is't not strange, Heaven's Kingdoms Key should open  
The doors of Earthly Kingdoms to the Pope?  
He which so grossly gulls, beguiles each Nation,  
Besots himself with Reason's deprivation.  
Alas, fond Flash, o earthly glory shallow!  
What wry-ways, byways tak'st thou, Christ to follow?  
Alas, they void not Christ's, but World's offence;  
Which use to choose such carnal sottish Sense.  
What Christ prescribes, That Antichrist proscribes;  
Is't like, that Christ this Function him ascribes?  
What Right of Title, Titles-Right is there,  
Where nought, but Show of Title doth appear?  
As Spendthrifts boast of Title, All being gone;  
So, insubstantiate Shades Popes build upon.  
He feigneth Christ, but follows Satan still;  
Serves God in Words, denies him in his Will.  
Th' Apostate Priest sits oft in Peter's Chair;  
Whom to call Pope, not Pius, we may dare.  
As Polypus sticks to each Rock of's shape;  
And by that craft, few fish his jaws do scape:  
So, forging, feigning, Peter, Christ, Faith's Rock,  
His Pseudo-founded Faith th'unwise doth mock.  
The Ground-worke's hid, the top is seen to all;  
To what end tend these wiles Pontifical?  
The reason's plain, and Pluto's paths lie open;  
What of this false Profession is the Scope?  
Now then behold the Pope's Monarchike might;  
Which, He, by Christ's allowance claims as Right.  
This Heavenly Viceroy, Peter's proper Heir:  
Christ's office holds, sits, shines in Peter's Chair.  
The supreme Bishop awelesse, lawless quite,  
An Earthly god, a two-legged monstrous Wight;  
Beyond all Being's, great beyond Relation;  
The Court, the Church, he rules by usurpation.  
whether Antichrist, Lesse-Christ, or Other-Christ;  
With Christ, his Rule, by right, must needs be highest.  
In, under, For Christ, all Power here, in Heaven;  
To this Key-keeper, Rockey Father's given.  
Thus writ that Faithless frantic 
* S●apleto●  Favourite,  
Unfit (great jewel) for thy opposite.  
And why may not the Pope, as worthy, claim  
The honour due to great jehovah's Name?  
Why mayst not call him jupiter, Earth's Thunder,  
Yea Elohim? the World's great God of Wonder?  
Unto the 
* The ●ope.  Mount (that Mountebank says plain)  
I lift mine Eyes which doth my state sustain.  
That all the World must bow to th' Pope of Rome,  
Who e'er believes not, he to hell doth doom.  
As at a beck, the Lord of heaven rules All:  
So, here, his Sheep, the Pope hath at a call.  
This Priestly Pilot, (for, the Church, 'tis known,  
Is like a Ship) Christ's Ship can rule alone.  
He which the Pope's pipe knows not perfectly,  
Is none of this great Shepherd's Sheep surely.  
Others Rule's finite; his is infinite:  
Theirs, but a Beam of his All-supreme Light.  
His patent Province both for Grace and Place,  
Specious and spacious, bows before his face.  
As with huge Waves, the Sea, small dews doth sup:  
So his great Power, less Powers devours, drinks up.  
Therefore He in submission, to him holds,  
Captains, Commanders, Shepherds, Sheep, Sheepe-folds.  
He's poor, can count his flocks: this Shepherd great, 
Pauperis es● numerary pecuspunc;   
Hath far more Sheep, than food for them to eat.  
Counsels and sacred Synods he excels;  
An hyperbolicke-Priest in God's house dwells.  
This Romish Briareus; Hydra fell,  
For Hands and Head, to rule, doth all excel.  
To th' Council, this Cosmopolite once came,  
A judge, a Party, Guilty, One, the Same.  
But what need Counsels, when their Pope Divine  
Can all Divine Decrees, finely define●  
O yes; by Counsels, is the right way known,  
To Him which hath sound judgements praise alone.  
Even He alone, which without Counsels aid,  
Removes Faith's Rubs, and Wracks, by doubts displayed.  
To Peter's chair Error can ne'er come near;  
Which, that ●he Pope enjoys, doth plain appear.  
He may doe-ill, not Err, in any case:  
If once He sit in that All-prying Place.  
If Baalam, Caiaphas, Right did Prophetize:  
Why may not wicked Popes do so likewise?  
Yea though they Pilate, judas base, transcend:  
Yet may a traitorous Pope, be Faiths good Friend.  
He swears to Lies, by Lying oft deceives:  
Yet, his loose tongue to Faith stickes-fast and cleaves.  
Let Alexander, julius, witness bear:  
Whose feigned Faith, firmed and infringed were;  
Who got the Popedom Foxlike, craftily;  
Reigned like a Lion, like a Dog did die.  
He that Christ's Court and Sheepe-cote thus doth gain,  
Is not a Friend, but Fiend; no Balm, but Bane.  
That Swines-snout, Sergius, Sergeant of the devil;  
Was to his Chair a Scoff, a Scurf most evil.  
Pius the fifth, Impius, within, without,  
How against Eliza, shot he darts, about?  
Vrbane the third, a Bane, A-bad-one, right;  
Strange Popish chaos caused by furious fight.  
That Brand of Hell, foul Heldebrand also:  
With what mad mischiefs did he overflow?  
Christ chained up Satan, but thy Potentate,  
O Rome, doth let him lose to devorate.  
That Christ Church then, may flourish, firmly stand,  
'Tis time the Pope were pulled down out of hand.  
O how this Prelate differs from that Prince,  
Which was both poor and pure in Innocence?  
Surely this World's Arch-Metropolitan,  
Seeks somewhat more than Christ, not known to man.  
For, Christ to be Faith's head, when was it read?  
Yet this Arch-father must be faith's Arch-head.  
And Tortu● with his Torture hath so framed;  
That Christ is great, the Pope is greatest, named.  
His Mastic and Stigmaticke-slaves do dare,  
To give the Pope, what ere be ne'er so rare.  
Most-holy, Greatest, Supreme, Superlatives,  
Are the Pope's due, and not plain Positives.  
Great Alexander, Pompey, Charles' the Great:  
But he's most-Mightie, h'as the Greatest seat.  
Christ prays to God, and says, O holy-Father:  
To th' Pope, his Shavelings say, Most-Holy, rather.  
We must not mint these terms, or use less phrases:  
Diminitives deduct from his high praises.  
Of Peter's Titles is not lost a tittle,  
Nor from the Pope's praise wanteth the least little.  
Rome's Monkish-mad-men crouch upon their knee,  
To kiss his Seat, his Feet, for so 't must be.  
Thus not the Prime, but Supreme Power is sought,  
And unto God he's almost equal thought.  
For he tha● Pope's rare Titles rightly prizeth.  
Holds him Almighty, when to th' chair he riseth.  
This lofty Levite holds, injuriously,  
The pillar, prop, of Princely Sovereignty.  
judge of all judges, is this Drudge of Drudges:  
Which, who denies, to fire, away he trudges.  
So vile, so servile is the yoke, alas,  
Which this jolt-head makes over King's heads to pass.  
And why? the Pope is Pastor, Kings are Sheep;  
Is't not He then, must them in order keep?  
But when Christ left his Sheep to Peter, pray,  
Tell me, Feed thine, or my sheep, did he say?  
But, Kings are said to feed; which, being so,  
How then the Pope is not a 
* No, for he is a Wolf in ● Sheep's c●at.  Sheep, I'd know?  
And did Christ's coming Kings right●erminate ●erminate?  
Used he his power King's power to lacerate?  
Alas, if Rome's Highpriest so potent were:  
On a small thread Kings Hopes would hang, I fear.  
If Crowns to Crosier-staves should subject be,  
By fatal date their falls we soon might see.  
What have Kings done, what angry God displeased,  
To be of Power, by Papal power eased?  
But what's the Pope to th' Prince? Crosse-Caps to Crowns?  
Are Swords for Peter? Sceptres fit for Clowns?  
Have Popes a Ladder, than King's Thrones more high?  
Or rather, reaching Hell's profundity?  
Not pooremens' gain, but Princely Reign he scrapes:  
And, 
* Aquila non capit Muscas.  Eaglelike, at Flies he never gapes.  
Kings from their Crowns, for Heresy he drives:  
Peasants may scape in body, goods, and lives.  
This Mitred Molech, Priestly Dagon stout,  
Satan for's Basshaw, Champion, hath picked out.  
Wearing by's side a gallant Bilbo-blade;  
And not with Words, but Swords, doth soon persuade.  
Is this to preach, and people poor to teach▪  
O, no, in's head He hath a further reach;  
Namely, to cut down Leban Cedar's tall:  
To fell high Oaks, and cause bright Stars to fall.  
Not jupiter-capitoline, alone,  
But Mars Capitolin● He must be known.  
When this great Pedagogue of Princes, shakes  
His scourging Rod, Kingdoms to quake he makes.  
Who, if he forge, Paul, Peter, Tyrant's vild:  
His Brow is Brass, he hath his Faith defiled.  
Thy Substitute (O Christ) which Thine exceeds,  
Them often with much dread, no doctrine feeds.  
His Power's a Pasture to men's souls most bitter:  
His flocks to kill, than well to fill, much fitter.  
Christ had his Unction: he combustion fire:  
Christ mildly heals: he heals men's wounds most dire.  
O Spouse of God, thy Corn, is Cockle grown:  
When thy Housekeeper will be Keisar known.  
He sits not idle which i'th' chair doth sit:  
Yet hath for's flock no food, affection fit.  
The scope of's hope is still to keep down Kings:  
Save this, impertinent he holds all things.  
Thus all his vassals from aloft he spies:  
His Myrmidons, his Wasps, his Butterflies.  
He overlooks all wheresoever, from top to toe:  
Pulls down the tallest Mounts, and lays them low.  
And that all this is good, the reason's plain:  
Drawn from example, with all might and main.  
Bees, Masters have: Cranes Guides: Bell-wether, Sheep:  
These prove that Popes may all men under-keepe.  
And by this Art, this World's Arch-Primate may  
Typhaeus-like, o'er Kings and Clergy sway.  
But fain I would the Pope's great Myrer doff:  
And with's own Sword Goliahs' head smite-off.  
Why should not one King over all King's reign▪  
A Head of heads, a Guide of guides most plain.  
Why is thy head (Christ) spectable to all?  
When as thy Kingdom is Spiritual.  
Alas, the Clergies swelling Tympany  
Of Pride, gave God this monstrous Empery,  
That two crosse-heads of one set kingdom be,  
This set in Heaven, that (Earth) set over thee.  
A Gulfe's between these Heads, agree ne'er shall:  
God's spiritual head, the Pope's material.  
Christ's Kingdom is i'th' world invisible:  
Admits no head, official, sensible:  
Never did Christ's Spouse, two heads, two husbands know:  
Christ only her dear fere, the Church doth owe.  
If Antichrist (pray tell me) should be mad,  
Could Christ be joined to such a head, so bad?  
Again, Christ left his Church much Goods, most good:  
(Th' are so indeed, since purchased with his blood)  
If Christ, his Church so rich a dowry gave;  
From thee (proud Pope) what newfound wealth may't have?  
Art thou the Church's Head? Heart, Corpse, and all,  
(Which were blasphemous) than we might thee call.  
And if the Pope were Head, the Church would be  
Headless, like Dagon, in Pope's Vacancy.  
Now, as the Body, with the Head doth die:  
The Pope once dead, the Flock must liveless lie.  
Which is not so in Christ, who though once dead;  
Yet then did live, as our spiritual head.  
See then ambitious vilely vicious Pope:  
The ruin of thy jars, thy wars, thy hope.  
And yet this great Anteus of proud Rome,  
Doth stoutly from his falls newforce resume.  
With Wit argute, will quick dispute, and spit,  
At Right, and Reason, and all Rules of it.  
Thus Rome; Are Priests held Heads? the Pope Priests Head?  
May not then Popes the Heads of Heads be said?  
This shallow Reason reasonless and wrong,  
Proves not chief Power to Popes, for to belong.  
Can any Pastor be all Pastor's chief?  
(But Christ alone) to give his Church relief?  
On whom so great doth Rome's great Head subsist?  
What one head can so many heads assist?  
O fond befooling of men's fantasy:  
To shape, to set up such a prodigy.  
For, 'tis above, beyond, against, deep conceit,  
Of all men's heads to make one head so great.  
And it may be (nor is this may be vain)  
This grosse-head doth much swelling sores contain.  
That part's enorm doth not conform to th'rest:  
And can the sound the sick part well digest?  
So when weak frames by rotten props are stayed,  
These being cracked, the work is wracked, decayed.  
O work unworthy, worthy hatred still!  
Than which there's nought more cross to Gods blest will.  
O Peter's lawless heir, Christ's counterfeit!  
Full of Satanicke juggling, sly deceit.  
O hideous, heinous Monster, blind, mishapen;  
In God's Church, as God, for God, oft mistaken.  
What help can this base helpless Man of Sin,  
Thy deadly foe (O Christ) to thee bring in?  
What is a Wave to th' Sea; to th' Wood, one Tree?  
A Torch, to th' Sun, Man's help, O God to thee?  
He which would thus Christ's love and labour minish:  
Doth but a Work of scoff and laughter finish.  
This botching Bishop, Romish prodigal;  
Makes either Toys, or naught, or nought at all.  
And I much marvel, all the World throughout,  
Bring not their aid, to bring this work about.  
A useless Key, on's Head a treble Twist;  
A formal Crook, fatal, officious Fist:  
These are Rome's high Priests most peculiar Signs;  
To these rare Works himself he most inclines.  
Alas, his Brow is Brass, Marble his Mind;  
Which, to Christ's Body, thinks this head's not joined.  
For to this high-topt Tower of Babel's throne,  
The Church's Guide, God's Guard, are linked in one.  

Apocal. 5.6.  Great Lamb of God, enlightening seven Lamps bright:  
What need hast thou of any newfound light?  
O Christ, thy Kingdom of this world is not;  
Satan, this World's great Sovereignty hath got:  
Which, being so, this Romish Ghostly Father,  
May be the devils, than Christ's head, much the rather.  
Is Pluto prince, doth he a Vicar need?  
Thou then, proud Pope, mayst fitly him succeed.  
How oft (O Rome) hast thou thy Head expelled?  
How many Heads, at once, hath thy chair held?  
How oft with broils hath thy false Church been rend?  
By double, treble Heads most turbulent.  
Oft had thy Church, in Womb, seditious Seed:  
Which Anti-popes' and Pseudo-popes' did breed.  
Oft hath Ambition's Horse his Rider cast:  
And broke his neck, riding to th' chair too fast.  
And their Succession, whereof they so glory,  
Quite worn, quite torn, witness authentic Story.  
So many mighty Battles have been bred,  
'Bout Supreme Seat and Titles of chiefe-Head.  
Madbrained Ambition, Titius' envious heart:  
Being cause of much deceit and deadly smart.  
The Prelate's pomp, by too great growth decayed:  
And Pride and Plenty their own graves have made.  
Christ then, our great chief Pastor, holds both these:  
Contention theirs, ●eares not Christ's Coat of Peace.  
here Concord hath h●r Temples fixed station;  
One Heart, one Faith, one Path, and one Salvation.  
O! What a Head did then Christ's Temple guide?  
When a fair Popesse did i'th' Chair reside?  
When falsely termed john, indeed, Pope joan,  
By her foul Birth, true Whore of Rome was known?  
She was indeed Rome's Bishoppesse, not Head:  
And, of her Plocke, the Tail, the shame, and dread.  
Thus Romes●are ●are Prelates were not Fathers, all:  
This one, w● may their Ghostly M●ther call.  
O ominous portent, o horrid Sign!  
Surely, that day uncloudy did not shine.  
What? could a Woman, Where, the Chair inherit?  

* Androgini, populi, utrisque Naturae.  Androginus might it more justly merit.  
But (first it may be) She a Man was known  
But changed her Sex, and was a Woman grown:  
For, thus writ 
* Dialogo 10. pag. 47.  Cope, scarce copious in capacity,  
Whose wit herein, savoured of much Fooleacity.  
This, this was that Ecliptic Line, once gliding,  
Between Rome's Sky, and Popish Zodiac biding.  
But yet a Whore (the Salic Law well held)  
Should from the Chair, at least, have been expelled.  
I know, Rome holds this fact, a feigned Lie:  
Though faithful Authors do it justify.  
But, now, that never Female Popes may reign,  
Their Manhood, first, by fruitful Signs is plain.  
But tell me this, Ghostly Gargantua;  
Is Christ thy Head? He is (no doubt) thou'lt say:  
Sufficeth th●●e, this Head? Yes: Well, why then,  
As well as thee, not Me, and other Men?  
If any roving Reason favours Thee,  
Or fits thy Foe; why may't not stand for me?  
Silenus and his drunken Droves here stagger:  
This cunning Crafts-man must with Reason swagger.  
Wherefore, henceforth this triple-crowned Deity,  
Shall ere, be held a Pseudo-Popish Monarchy.  
The Capital great Loggerhead of all;  
Trascendent Head, huge, right Pontifical;  
Or else a Heap of Heads, a Chaos rude:  
Such Head, such heap, nor wit, nor writ, ere showed.  
The Rule that May-tide Lords of Misrule find,  
Such Lord, such Laws let be to Rome assigned.  
If of Christ's Body Popes be Head; by right,  
They may, as well, be Health, Heart, Life, Light, Sight.  
But if no other Basis can be laid:  
No other Head may here on Earth be made.  
Well, purblind Bayard, one day thou shalt reign:  
And headless, Dagon-like, thy Blind maintain.  
When all Sun-shunning Owls, one huge Head have;  
Thou shalt be then, the World's Blockhead most brave.  
But, in all ancient Fathers, ne'er was read,  
That of Christ's Body any Priest was Head:  
Christ left his Church, true Treasure to enjoy:  
What wealth did Christ to the Pope's use employ?  
Three Creeds the pristine Fathers left behind:  
In none of them, Pope's supreme power we find.  
Nor ere did they which did our Creeds indite,  
Of Apostolic Proto-popes' ought write.  
Surely, the Pope's Prerogatives most high,  
They never saw, or seen, shamed to descry.  
He, then; which hath been Head, of's jay-like pride,  
Shall be made bare, the world shall him deride.  
Prise not, fond Fool, thy Torch above Sols light:  
there's no such need of Pope's Vicegerent might.  
What ere is Chief, is Head, Heads Rivals hate:  
One Head, cannot Another tolerate.  
This Fable then of Peter's Power, thus fails;  
Which, with Saint Peter's Chair, are old-Wines, tales.   

OF THE AUTHORITY OF THE POPE OF ROME.  
THE SECOND SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Heaven is hemmed in; Seas Waves have Walls, a Bound;  
But, the Pope's Power hath no Enclosure found.  
OF all the World Rome's Pope is Precedent:  
He rules the Reins of roving Regiment.  
All Power to Popes (witness a Pope) is given;  
Of right, of wrong, on Earth, in Hell, in Heaven.  
He gives, he takes, makes rich, makes poor, high, low:  
Makes vows, breaks vows, makes bloody battles grow.  
he's Frantic, frets, Mars-like molesteth all:  
With two two-edged Swords, doth fight and brawl.  
Yet, this prodigious Priest does all by Law:  
All well, for why? he Error never saw.  
he'll topsy-turvy quite;  
And yet can ne'er do aught but just and right.  
And this high-Priest may, with due Worthiness,  
Call the whole world his proper Diocese.  

* Faso●rum lib. 2.  Ovid hath this Dogmatically shown;  
The World, and Rome's large Reach are both but one.  
he's out of Nature's Fold, he's Hee-Alone:  
Colleague or Legall-Rites, the Pope knows none.  
He, he's the World's Prince, Prelate, high 'boue all:  
Rapt up i'th' Clouds, of Stars the principal.  
This Priestly Turret, Apostolic Head,  
Can (under Christ) by none be equalled.  
Thus Rome's proud Chair or takes, or makes Elated:  
With such strange pride Rome's Titan is sufflated.  
Pleasing things, pious; impious must be,  
What ere displease; this is the Pope's Decree.  
His Thunder, Earth; His Furies fright even Hell:  
Except whatever he doth, you deem done well.  
His Lawless Kings under his Laws to thrall,  
Is his Great, greater, greatest work of all.  
This large Law- Giver, Guider, Rights Umpire;  
But what is just, can nought affect, desire.  
If Land to Sea he join, and Sea to Land:  
What Ca●aphas calls Right, for right must stand.  
He builds, unbuilds, plays fast and loose with Law:  
And who complains, he soon restrains with Awe.  
Lo, to the World the Pope (World's Sol, most bright)  
Is come; yet nien love Darkness more than Light.  
Surely, not he, to Peter's pomp which hies,  
Creates a Pope; but which Popes Deifies.  
he's th'only Man, which nobly, notably,  
Himself before All Men can magnify.  
He may be said, and with the finger shown,  
Conspicuous Christ, Visible God alone.  
He hath, and must have, wealth, far more than Kings:  
For why? Rome's Chair must want no needful things.  
He must have Kings their Sceptres to lay down;  
And from his Feet to fetch their regal Crown.  
And reason good, to Mitres, Crowns should creep:  
The Mitre, not the Crown, makes Priests for Sheep.  
He hath those firm Foundations of Rome's See:  
Which Peter held, and by God settled be.  
He of all Kingdoms hath the supreme Grace:  
And he (O Christ) holds, here, thy stead and Place.  
He must not only be, of Counsels, Head;  
But he alone would be in Counsels stead.  
He can of Scriptures rain down showers thick:  
That at his words Heretics perish quick.  
'Tis no great fault if he false Latin speak.  
And with 
* For Fiat. julius' the 2.  Fiatur, Priscian's head do break.  
He which dares say, this Lawier's not best able  
To clear all doubts; must be held execrable.  
Though he (most blockish) fail i'th' Premises,  
Yet justly he concludes all businesses.  
If he the right-hand call the left; Night, Day;  
Thou must not dare his Holiness gainsay:  
This is that great Ringleader to the Rest;  
Whose Steps to tread, his Bishops must be pressed.  
Thy guilt, is grievous, gross, abominable,  
If what he doth, thou deem not warrantable.  
He can, as easily, from his thundering Throne,  
Spoil Heretics, as Nutshells with a Stone:  
Hark, Heretic, which scornest Rome's Sacrifices:  
Burn, Heretic, which stoppest Popes Enterprises.  
He scorns a judge to plead in his Defence:  
he's Holier, Higher, than the highst offence.  
All must to him be bare, and bend the knee;  
But he to none, of ne'er so high degree.  
Since he hath power All to proscribe, indite:  
Spare the Pope's Crimes; you which of Times do write.  
To th' Buyer nought's more dear, more dear Relief:  
Than His in Wax, in Lead, i'th' Bull and Brief.  
Fit Fellows for him, are th' Arch-Angels bright:  
Namely, good Michael, sovereign Gabriels' might.  
His only Lust is Law most just and pure;  
All right made 'gainst him, he'll by right abjure.  
Without, above, clean contrary to Right:  
His Canons hold, all things are in his might.  
Others may plead, He Laws prescribes, alone;  
Even he which hath the prime Pontifick Throne.  
Within a Shell thou mayst the Sea contain:  
As soon as Pope's rights within Bounds restrain.  
If (as a wildbeast) He the Hunter fear:  
He can most nimbly skip and scape his Spear.  
Power, makes his passage, Law's brass bars he breaks.  
And who is he that against Pope's pleasure speaks?  
Hearest thou, 
* Superbor● Principum Typus.  Salmonean Tarpey's thunder crack?  
Be still, quick do Rome's Will, or fear thy wrack.  
Doth weak wrath slow from Encelade alone?  
Are Leaden Bulls as flying Gulls now known?  
Devil's Dish, Wraths Child, Hell's fuel, thou art strait,  
If thou once dare the Pope to irritate.  
This halfe-God-Priest, Corporeal Deity:  
Steward, Sub-Iustice of jehovah high:  
Earth's Mitred Atlas, passing man's condition;  
Indocible in Limits of his Dition.  
Symbolick-Christ, Bar-Iona's Son notorious;  
Christ's God head hath; with Peter's pomp is glorious.  
Nay more; this Lesse-Christ, more than Christ will have;  
Than Peter, Petty-Peter's far more brave.  
Christ hid himself, when Men, Him King would make:  
The Pope by fraud and force doth Kingdoms take.  
Christ, on a Colt, road; but Vice-Christ must be  
On great-man's shoulders borne, that All may see.  
The 
* Satan.  Prince o'th' World, World's pomp, showed thee (O Christ)  
Which thou didst shun; So doth not Antichrist.  
O Christ, thy Kingdom of this World is not:  
But thy Householder holds this World, his Lot.  
Christ gives Gifts, gratis; gratis, so, gives He:  
But 'tis to Grateful, greater gifts to see.  
Christ, Harlot's gifts i'th' Temple would not have:  
The Pope with such, fills up his Bags most brave.  
Christ purged his Temple of all things, there sold:  
The Pope, i'th' Temple, buys and sells for Gold.  
And who now doubts, (but the whole world perchance)  
That Christ did this great Chapman thus advance?  
This Slave of Slaves, glistering in Gold most bright;  
With's thick, quick Lightnings, doth God's Flock affright;  
This Priests Goliath; Nubuchadnezzers'  
Fulmineous Flame, his shiu'ring Sheep much fears.  
Christ, sure, hi● Sheep with such Horns did not arm;  
But made them ●ilde, ●o bear; not Strong, to harm.  
Say; Is the Pope a Prince of Peace? nay rather,  
He is Warres-Worker, mover, only Father.  
World's Floods He Muds, in Muddy Waters, best,  
Rome's wily Weeles catch Fish; too manifest.  
Thus, this Great Bishop Kingdoms doth annoy:  
Thus supreme Rule he holds fast, doth enjoy.  
Holds, and ●nioyes (I say) but All thus got;  
This Priestly Meteor holds by thievish Lot.  
Kings he depose●h, Kingdoms doth dispose;  
And on all Monarches doth his Yoke impose.  
Satan being Guide in Martial pride, These same,  
With Victor's voice, his Vassals, he doth name.  
For, the Pope's parlour keeps a Key in store;  
Which, unto King's Thrones locks, unlocks the door.  
To th' Laity, Laws against their King he gives;  
And from their King, his Clergy lawless lives:  
For, they are Subjects, not by Law, but Lust;  
And only as their Reason holds it just.  
If he o'er King's Dictator cannot be;  
The Plebeians Tribune, soon you shall him see.  
For he doth Monarches, Commons-creatures, call;  
That so at's Will their Thrones may stand and fall.  
If Peter's Key, to Peter cannot frame  
King's Sceptres; then, Paul's Sword shall do the same.  
Fevers to Plagues. Scabs turn to Leprosy,  
If Rome's Physician bring not Remedy.  
This ramping Lion fills all parts with horror;  
His Flocks in Field he frights with fear and terror.  
Peers wait at's Board, Monarches his Bridle hold  
His very Feet are kissed by Champions bold.  
'Twas the Pope's voice; an Emp'rours' neck, alone,  
Was th' Asp and Basilishe he'd trample on.  
To hold his Stirrup Kings must crouch and bend;  
Whiles this great Priest on horseback doth ascend.  
An Emperor kneels, whilst he with high renown,  
With hand and f●●t, puts on, puts off his Crown.  
This Popish Latro-Monarch th' Eagles plumes  
Plucks off; yea Emp'rours Crowns and gems assumes.  
See; do not Popes succeed in Peter's place?  
Does not Christ, Them, his Substitutes embrace?  
A Scarlet Stole, gold Stool, with Garland crowned,  
With worldly wealth, pomp, glory, thus renowned;  
With Starlike gems, and sparkling Stones most precious,  
Voluptuous Life, much Ease, Riot, pernicious;  
Persian apparel, stiff Neck, glistering Head;  
A shining Crest, gay Shape, Front garnished:  
Wagging his Diamond-sparkling fingers fine,  
Proffering to kiss his Hand and Feet divine;  
Gazing on's Troop and Train, while each one sings,  
Hail the World's Father, our great King of Kings,  
Borne on Mens-backes, while mighty Monarches must  
Prop-up his Pride; and from their Thrones be thrust.  
Bearing in's hand the sacred Keys of Rome,  
Earth's high Tribunal, under Christ t'assume;  
Forcing hell's Fiends (his Friends) to do his will;  
And heavens Angelic Host his Hest fulfil:  
Taken for God, and taking clean away  
Sins Gild: yea opening all Heaven- Gates, for pay;  
Drowned in delights of all sorts; with mad pride,  
He celebrates each Gourmandizing-Tyde.  
These, truly, these are holy Pope's best Signs:  
These, Peter had, these God to them assigns.  
Who'll then deny (but he that's well in's wits)  
But Popes to be God's Stewards, well befits?  
He can give Heaven to th' Heinous, and bestow  
Faith's Crown on those, in treason that o'erflow.  
Falshood is Faith; true Worship, Conjuration:  
(So please the Pope) and Truth, Equivocation.  
If by one-Plot the Publike-weale had perished:  
So please the Pope; that-Plot must needs be cherished.  
If Parricides in Parent's sides, their sword  
Should sheathe; the Pope quick pardon could afford.  
Yea, all, Law-breakers shall be faultless held:  
So please the Pope; who Laws doth rule and wield.  
Rule's, out of Rule; Law, Lawless, guideless, all:  
When pleaseth this Highpriest Pontifical.  
And though against Christ, blaspemous words be spoke;  
(If from his holy-Mouth) they turn to smoke:  
That poorely-pure Leo the tenth durst say:  
What talk we of that Tale of Christ, I pray?  
O holy Speech; and for Faiths Fostrer fit:  
For him which in the High-Priests Chair doth sit.  
It shows indeed (Monarchicke-Pope) most plain;  
Of Christ, thou, nought but Title dost retain.  
Thus hast thou (Thou all-daring impious wight)  
Thy ghastly Gorgon's, sottish Sects, to fright;  
Thou Kingdoms, Kings, dost thus, tame, terrify:  
Thus mak'st thou foes yield most submissively.  
Thus unto thee (witness thyself) was given  
Power of the double-slicing Sword, from heaven.  
If, in one-hand, that twofold brandished Blade  
Thou shake, day, night, light, darkness; strait is made.  
All's become comely, which uncomely seemed,  
If Crowns be thine, if th' Ephod such be deemed.  
But here, the Moralists, facetious Fable  
Seems, thee, to paint, a juggler admirable:  
While the fond Camel wished for Horns, denied;  
His forgiven Ears he lost, for's foolish pride:  
So whilst the Pope both Swords to gripe doth gape;  
Shortly he shall lose both, desert of Rape.  
Thus, thus 'tis plain (or I myself deceive)  
All's his that Christ did to prime Peter leave.  
The Pope is Peter's Heir of All; likewise,  
As Prince of Priests he thus doth Peterize.  
Nor God nor Man, nor both; but 'twixt both dubious:  
A two-legged Thing, monstrous, amphibious.  
A Semi-god, two natures, janus-elfe:  
To Pet'r as like as Peter's to himself.  
Him God ordained to sit in judgement seat:  
And under God, Priests Ashuer●sh great.  
When of Christ's Church to Heirs their parts were made  
All fell to th' Pope (as pilfering Popes have said.)  
He's heavens Key-Keeper and Housekeeper great:  
To Saints in heaven, he gives, gai●e-sayes a Seat.  
To hell's deep dungeon he throws desperately,  
Infinite Souls; yet none dare ask him why.  
White into black, old, new; squares into rounds  
He turns; but mutter, and he thee confounds.  
Thou but whetst wrath, digg'st flames, the Lion sharest:  
With taunting terms, if chide the Pope thou darest.  
If, once, this Lion, big Behemoth roar,  
His breath will blast and beat thee o'er and o'er.  
Then, O dire Fate, too late, thou shalt be taught;  
What 'tis this Halfe-man-God, to set at nought,  
Maturely, than (lest his fierce fury boil)  
Slack, and draw- back the fuel of thy spoil.  
And if thou love thyself unboyled, yet,  
Quickly, submissly, run to Rome, 'tis fit.  
For (I think sure) thou scarce secure canst be:  
When night and day such dangers threaten thee.  
O supreme Prelate, Earth's God, sacred Sire:  
Didst thou for this Christ's Sheepfold thus acquire?  
To Peter's chair, was such fierce fury given?  
Are these men's duties services, of Heaven?  
Art Thou Christ's Type? dost Thou in's room reside?  
thouart rather Type of Tarquin's, Pluto's pride.   

OF THE INTERPRETATION OF THE SCRIPTURES.  
THE THIRD SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Since, 'tis most plain, Popes can explain Gods Writ;  
To seek to Them, in All. Doubts, is most sit.  
THe Trident Council hath confirmed the scope  
Of Scriptures to the pleasure of the Pope:  
Whose sacred Sense on Rome's Hi●● Priest depends:  
And therefore to Rome's love submissly bends.  
If not, her Readers shall be sure to find  
Nothing but Wry-wayes, Byways, dark and blind.  
For 'tis God's Word; which none, well, understand:  
Unless the Pope pu● to his helping hand.  
Consult with Popish Rubrics lest thou wander;  
This Ariadne guides in Texts Meander.  
For of God's Word he's th' only Hermes best:  
The holy-Ghost being seated in his breast.  
And the Pope's Word, is God's Word certainly:  
In whom is not least spot of Heresy.  
This Wizards quick Wit picks-out, passing well;  
Marrow from bones, Nut-kernels from the shell.  
The holy words true sense he sure finds out,  
Who else interprets, leaves the text in doubt.  
He only being Scriptures South-Sayer, sure,  
Resolves the doubts of rigid Texts obscure.  
Sols daystar, which, to Christ's Church gives pure light:  
And doth dark clouds of Error banish quite.  
He's virtues Watch-Towre, rule of Piety:  
Laws light, and Courts bright-beame of Equity.  
The Sages Star, Christ's birth, showed not so right:  
As Popes to Christians do God's Word enlight.  
Like as the Sun fills All with shine most pure:  
So his clear Light makes bright the Bible sure.  
And since his Paraphrase from error's free:  
Ergo, the Texts pure Sense from him must be.  
If at his Candle thou'lt not kindle thine:  
thouart blind, and God's Word cannot in thee shine.  
The Axletree of Rome's Faith rowles hereupon:  
That Peter's Heir must be thy Master known.  
And though a Gloss most Gross the Text doth wrest:  
Since, Ipse dixit, that must be the best.  
This Library of God, Atlas of Faith,  
Commends, condemns, at pleasure, saith, unsaith.  
But (sure as Sol doth shine) he's the bold Boaster  
Of Piety; false-Prophet, World's Imposter.  
He, boldly, his opinions doth apply  
To Scriptures; but ner're bettered is thereby.  
For if thou knewst how he Christ's writ doth wrest:  
Thou'dst think he brow, nor brain, nor heart, possessed.  
He is (Rome's Delius saith) the Delphic Sword:  
Life's perfect leaden Rule, God's holy Word.  
Pliant t'each Sense, Devotions doubtful line;  
To false opinions facile to incline.  
'Tis God's own Word, that Pens of Exposition  
Should run with Rome's Rites, Practices, Condition.  
The Church, Truth's witness (a dumb witness, sure)  
Must learn from Rome's high-Priest to speak most pure.  
Thus this world's Dunghill, Patriarch subtle, sly;  
Expounds Gods Word most artificially.  
But, whatsoere's unpleasant to his taste,  
His Paraphrase must mend it in all haste.  
O Pope, Arts Prop, great Master of the Muses:  
Whose holy mouth, faith into all infuses:  
Must I (O Clerk of Clerks most learned, rare,)  
Be a Disciple of thy Sacred Chair?  
I'm sure of Paul's and Peter's anger, when  
Thine Oracle (great Scholiast) I contemn.  
Long have I listened, let me quickly know  
The sacred Oracles which from thee flow.  
Though Rude, I'm Ready; thou shalt find me free:  
If taught, new- wrought from Rudeness I may be.  
Thus, then: Christ, thrice bad Peter his flock feed:  
Ergo, the Pope must supreme Head succeed.  
Christ left his sheep to Peter to be fed:  
Ergo, the Pope is of all Counsels Head.  
Again, to feed his Lambs Christ Peter bad:  
Ergo, from his mouth Scriptures Sense is had.  
Feed, that's to say; the world's Vicegerent be:  
And let all Regal Sceptres bow to thee.  
Feed, that's as much, as Curb, proscribe, and kill:  
In this sense Peter did his charge fulfil.  
Sing, holy Sir, Saint Peter makes thee sit  
His firm Successor, witness holy Writ.  
On, with this newfound Logic; Beautify  
Thy thus got charge; thy prize (fair Palms) is nigh.  
Hark now: Christ said to Peter, follow me:  
Ergo, he followed Christ, in Empery.  
Peter's firm faith was ne'er with blasts oreblowne.  
Ergo, Pope's faith eclipse hath never known.  
To thee (O Peter) heavens blessed Keys were given:  
Ergo, the Pope them keeps as Port'r of heaven.  
Christ prayed for Peter: Ergo, 'tis most plain;  
The Petrean-Parents faith must firm remain.  
Kill and eat: Ergo, Peter must be Head:  
For that which ears, that same is sure the head.  
Upon a Rock Christ's Church was built: Therefore,  
Peter's a Rock, the Pope his Paramour.  
O Prince of Priests, Bishop of fragrant fame;  
Who (tamelesse) tamest All; heaven hath willed the same.  
Prop and protect Rome's Axletree with more might.  
Lest thy Pontifike heaven be cast down quite.  
Open (O rare Interpreter) for me,  
more Scripture Nuts that I their Kerns may see.  
Others (alas) give but a glimpse of light:  
But thy blessed Lawpe gives a great Sunbeam bright.  
To thee the Scripture freely opes her heart:  
And to thy Cistern doth full streams impart.  
Apollo prompting thee, thou canst conclude,  
Ought out of aught▪ Logic thou hast subdued.  
Expounding's fit for Boys: sense swims to thee:  
Spare oil and match, thou without Light canst see.  
If I an hundred wise Apollo's had,  
To find thy force and fraud, they'd all run mad.  
On, farther, Father, sit down in thy Chair:  
Thy word to weigh my prone ears I prepare.  
To cast to Dog's things holy 'tis not fit:  
Ergo▪ Rude people must not know Gods writ.  
Other things when I come I will dispose:  
Ergo, th'Apostle did the Mass compose.  
For thirty Pence our Saviour was betrayed:  
Ergo, the Host like Pence must needs be made.  
Christ was a Rock: Ergo, to say Mass on,  
All Altars must be made of Rockey Stone.  
Promise of Life, to Bread, not Wine, was made:  
Ergo, the Wine to Laics is gainsaid.  
Who eats this Bread, shall live eternally:  
Ergo, for Heaven, Bread serves sufficiently.  
Priests are i'th' Church, like Soldiers spiritual:  
Ergo, against Hell with Songs they roar and yaull.  
The fruitless Figtree, Christ with curse did smite:  
Ergo, the Pope may curse and ban by right.  
All men shall at his Footstool Him adore:  
Ergo, the Pope must on men's backs be boar.  
People, of Priests, touching the Law must ask:  
Ergo, t'expound is the Pope's only Task.  
An Ethnic let him be, which hears not Thee:  
Ergo, All must receive the Pope's Decree.  
It seemed good to th' Holy Ghost and me:  
●rgo, the Pope Truth's Horologe must be.  
Moses, the jews jars, to an end did draw:  
Ergo, the Pope's Law's lively; dead's Gods Law.  
Christ, Tribute paid for Peter: Ergo, than,  
The Pope pays none, but catcheth all he can.  
O Rabbi rare, Angelical Expounder!  
Whose sense of Sacred-Writ, than all is sounder:  
When I a Beef kill, thou the horns shalt have,  
For these thy Scripture-Expositions brave.  
The pith of Texts is known so well to thee;  
That for thy use, they Parrots seem to 〈◊〉.  
What's next? O show it, shoot more lightning out:  
To scatter trembling Heretics about.  
Those that live in the Flesh, please not the Lord:  
Ergo, the Pope will Priests no wives afford.  
Melchisedech the Priest no Parents had:  
Ergo, Priests to be Parents is most bad.  
God hath put all things underneath his Feet:  
Ergo, the World should be Pope's slave, 'tis meet.  
The Lord two great Lights made: Ergo, Popes Might,  
Must be the greatest, lesser Emp'rours Light.  
First Heaven, than Earth was made: Ergo, I hope,  
Caesar in pomp, must come behind the Pope.  
The Spirit th' unbridled Flesh must tame, abase:  
Ergo, the Pope of Emperors must take place.  
The Father is the Sucklings due Superior:  
Ergo, a King is to the Pope Inferior.  
Sin-Sory Mary kissed our Saviour's Feet:  
Ergo, that All, the Pope's feet kiss, 'tis meet.  
Earth's Springs, sprung up, moisten the Earth again:  
Ergo, the Pope (World's chief) o'er all must reign.  
O precious Priest, World's Master most admired!  
Art's pillar, pride, glory, so much desired.  
Praiseworthy Provost, of Wit's crafty School:  
O the rare Fame of thy Cathedral Stool!  
Saint Peter's Power, amazed, I adore:  
Than thy great Name, I make of nothing more.  
My thoughts are sharp, my wits are ready pressed,  
My Muse is roused, thy Fame to manifest.  
Whole Academies, Bay-trees bend to Thee:  
Pallas, Apollo, thine Inferiors be.  
To thee 'tis given to know Heavens Mysteries:  
Thou, for pure sense, art th' only Wizard-wise.  
Another Priest, i'th' Priesthood, placed with Thee:  
he's but a Calf; Thou a huge Ox shalt be.  
Since, I, at Delphos, Oracles mayn't here:  
Thou, thou alone, shalt be my Delius dear.  
A fig for all the Fathers; of their light  
I scorn to borrow; theirs by thine shines bright.  
Thou none dost cheat, nor, none cheats, only Thee:  
Thy sacred word, God's Canon Writ must be.  
Heaven is thy Studies Stool, thy sense, the Stars:  
And no Eclipse thy shining jubar bars.  
All the trim treasures of Celestial skill,  
The sacred Cabinet of thy breast fill.  
The gates of hell against thee have no might:  
Faith doth for Thee, at sword and buckler fight.  
Yea thou Christ's very thoughts dost throughly know;  
And in thy mouth God's Sp●rit springs to and fro.  
Why should not then the World's loud exclamation,  
Sound out to thee Hosanna their Salvation?  
Th' art righteousness, and Peace's Prince of fame:  
Melchisedech, King Salem, changed in name.  
Since graceless Rome, with her ungrounded faith,  
Other blessed names of Christ to thee given hath:  
Christ is the first, thou the World's second light:  
So, golden- Glosses, t'us grosse-Asses write.  
In Christ, her Fere, the Church, his Deer, is blest:  
And thou (Vice-Christ) her Brooker keep'st her best.  
Christ is that Royall-Head which quickens all:  
And thou must be that Head, Subalternal.  
The world which Christ protects, is thine own charge:  
Let others take his part, thine's the world large.  
Christ and Thou but one Consistory have:  
Thus under him thy rule may realms be-slave.  
Thou, Cherubins and Seraphins mak'st tremble:  
Yea Devils to do thy will thou'lt soon assemble.  
Mountains, to Molehills melt; veils cleave in sunder:  
Seas, are drawn dry, if with thy Voice Thou thunder.  
The fiery Chariot of Elias, strait;  
Shall whurrey thee through Clouds, to Heaven Gate.  
In spite of Swords and Shields (great King of Kings)  
Earth's Thrones to thy Throne, couple with strong strings.  
Thy Royalties with Christ's so close agree:  
That (as thou iugglest) we no difference see:  
Yet (to be plain) great difference is in th' one:  
But being alike, your Powers the like are known.  
Thou, may'st infringe; Christ must the Law fulfil:  
Laws Debtor He, Thou Dispensator still.  
What need we Words, when Deeds more plainly speak?  
That at thy pleasure, thou Gods Laws canst break.  
By Power of Pope-ship, and the Holy Chair,  
Thou All canst mar; All things, as just, dost dare.  
If ought remain, to heat it I am pressed:  
That so thy Clients tired ears may rest.  
Henceforth I'll thou a Fisher of Men make:  
Ergo, the Pope in's net may Kingdoms take.  
All things are judged by the Spiritual man:  
Ergo, the Pope doth all well judge and scan.  
All things are judged by the Spiritual man:  
Ergo, judge Popes, pneumaticke-Lords, none can.  
here are two Swords: Ergo, they both are Thine:  
And every Kingdom shall to thee incline.  
Perish shall every Land not serving Thee:  
Ergo, all must Popes Tributares be.  
Perish shall every Land not serving thee:  
Ergo, to th' Pope, all Lands must vassals be.  
Under his feet are all things put: Ergo,  
All power, this Hyperbolike Pope's below.  
No man can serve two Masters: Ergo, All  
Must serve the Pope, and from their Princes ●●ll.  
No Servant is above his Master known:  
Ergo, to blame the Pope, 'tis fit for none.  
Slaves than their Lords, Cynthia than Sol is less:  
Ergo, ought Kings to Popes their necks depress.  
Many such Lies (Arch-Sophister) thy Wit  
Relates; and wrists God's holy Word to it.  
And were not Thine concordant to the same,  
'Twere none of Thine, none of it from thee came.  
Thy Witness called, Thou'lt tortures add thereto:  
Their right to wrong, their contrary to do.  
Thus Thou a Doctor's Charge, Christ's Office, thus,  
Thou vnder-go'st, and smack'st Gods deep sense, thus.  
Distasteful is thy Taste, th' art Woodden Wise:  
Whilst thou dost broach thy brains fond fantasies.  
Thou (Chemical Expounder) Protean Senses  
giv'st to God's Word; with an old Fox pretences.  
Yet, no Sense Wrested, Thou the Text dost follow:  
For thou art Scriptures Phoebu●, wise Apollo.  
Art thou the Bibles Hermes Touchstone pure?  
He that denies it, does most wisely, sure.   

OF THE DAMNABLE DOCTRINE IN THE DECEIVABLE SYNAGOGVE OF SATAN, AT ROME.  
THE FOURTH SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Coined, re-coyned Faith, at Rome, oft hatches  
A great Increase, botched up with many patches.  
WIth what thick mists (oh Antichrist profane)  
What, Stygian Chaos, seek'st thou Truth to stain?  
Of Living Streams, poisoning the sound, sweet drafts,  
Digging up Muddy-Pooles of Lies and Crafts.  
On pain of Heavens fierce fury charging All,  
Wrong-wrested Texts to hold Authentical:  
Thou scornest the Hebrew Conduit-Heads, As though,  
From thy Sluice, Slow, far fairer Floods did flow.  
With Orthodox, Apocryphal false Writs;  
With Doubtless Truth, Friars Forgeries Rome fits.  
Grammaticke, Mystick, Moral, Sphynx-like senses,  
God's Book must have, to save the Pope's pretences.  
But, since such various Sense, God's Book contains:  
I wonder how least Sense in It remains.  
Thus Antichrist, Christ's Word, most heavenly Treasure  
Doth explicate, and applicate at's pleasure.  
O proud prompt Tyrant of Nonsense or Sense:  
Bold Bibliocide, Autographs oft offence:  
Great Talmudists, Rare Popish Alchemist:  
Whose beck, whose bleat, thy Sheep lead as thou list.  
O how Rome's learned Landmarks on her Glosses,  
The Pope's great pleasure or confirms or crosses.  
Christ's Scriptures, you, with Dross for Doctrine varnish:  
That they, thus wronged, your Latian-God may garnish.  
For, this Metropolite of Sophisters,  
Hath of Religion Asslike Engineers.  
And Readers jester justly (sure) is He,  
Whiles thus for profit he'll God's Prophet be.  
Faith's Farmer, Framer, forms opinions new:  
And would, with His Faiths-Bond, bind Christians true.  
Fowl faced: the World's Apostate-Generall,  
T'himselfe assumes Faith's holy Tenants all.  
When once his Annual pompous Fasts begin,  
Who-'ere eats Flesh, commits a deadly sin.  
Fish they may eat, but to eat Flesh 'tis hated:  
Because the Earth, not Sea, was execrated. 
Why then eat they bread.   
Great ghostly Grandsire, Coryphe of Doctors,  
People's Omega, Alpha of Hell's Proctors:  
Since thou dost thus such Devilish doctrines broach,  
Is't like, Christ's Flock (Thou Guide) can Heaven approach?  
Since thou'lt officiate Satan's part so well:  
thouart Commissary, not of Heaven, but Hell.  
Scriptures, Thou callest the Book of Heretics:  
And these (Man's joy) thou burnest like Brands or Sticks.  
And though in other Books be thousand Lies:  
Only the Bible as Delinquent Fries.  
In uttrance strange Thy holy things are shown:  
Which Ignorants conceive like stupid Stone.  
He which to men reads Scriptures fruitfully,  
Casts Bread to Dogs, to Hogs doth pearls apply.  
Raw stomaches may their holiest things digest;  
Their Picture-Pastures famished Souls fill best.  
A Player's posture shows Faith's Mystery:  
And Folks in Flocks, carved Saints do rectify.  
Thus Bethel's made Bethaven: th' Ark exiled,  
Thus Molechs' reign God's Temple hath defiled.  
What talk I of their Glosses of dull Wit?  
While their dull Bishop jests with sacred Writ.  
Of God's blessed Word, th' abused Majesty,  
Shows in Rome's rout that there's no piety.  
Th' order of pristine Priests was once of Gold:  
Now't's Wooden, Why? Wooden Pope's Popedomes hold,  
Keepers had need be kept; Teachers be taught:  
Curates of Cures, be cured, lest all be naught.  
illiterate Lubbers base are dignifi'de:  
To th' sacred Chair comes nought but climbing pride.  
Priests cloddy, cloudy ignorance, poor skill,  
With most Cymmerian darkness Temples fill.  
With Babish toys of Christ they Pulpits stain:  
With impious Errors they chaste Faith profane.  
Most drossy Darnell, poisonous Pills they give,  
And Salves apply, which Health from Sickness drive.  
If Strumpet Rome had not a brazen Brow▪  
She could not but my Words for truth avow.  
If she deny (as that she hath and will)  
It shall her brand with prostituted Ill  
But now le's see what rotten Rags remain,  
What upstart Tricks, Romish Faith to sustain.  
Dost know great Purgatories wondrous fire?  
This flame, clears souls, Bags emptieth for hire.  
This purgeth Purses pregnant with pure gold:  
Rome's strong gold-glister torrid zone behold.  
This purgeth metals (though most pure before)  
And leaves to fools, of wit and wealth small store.  
A Bugbear is this great Catharticke flame,  
Pope's painted hell, World's Scarecrow fools to tame.  
How this fond Pope's fond fire, fond fools doth fright?  
How foolish lightnings from's false heavens shine bright?  
Nothing but Sinon's voice Fraud, Chemic tricks,  
Is in this strange Purse-purifying Styx.  
He which can quickly kindle this quick flame,  
Can if he list (rare craftsmen) quench the same,  
Thou hast (O Sacred Sir) firm faculty,  
To damn, redeem all souls that there do fry:  
If thou canst save, but wilt not th' art too just;  
But if thou wouldst, and canst not, who'll thee trust?  
Choose wheth'r of these, since either of these overthrow thee:  
A Lying-Priest, or Tyrant-fierce, they show thee.  
Rome's Pontificke, Pompificke Prelate, rather,  
Such fond Daedalean fantasies doth father.  
And Berengarius quaintly quips them well,  
For pot and pottage they the World excel.  
But I (if lawful 'tis) may term them, true,  
Mercuries, joiners, Coiners, of faith new.  
Great reason ist that Purgatories fire  
Should burn most bright, and warm the Pope's desire.  
For if this Money-fertile fire go out,  
Pope's chimneys would (alas) lie cold, I doubt.  
O Supreme Priest, Apostle general:  
Great master of the Chair dogmatic:  
O let illiterate Me, be farther taught,  
The Babylonish Rites thy brains have brought.  
Thy great Decree from heaven all those keeps out,  
Which from Thy sheepcote straggle, stray about.  
Thy slightest censure makes damned Atheists fly:  
Thee to displease brings death undoubtedly.  
No scourge of Heretics ere raged like Thee:  
Yet thou, worst Heretic, they guilty be.  
Since Personal Succession helps thee not:  
Thy Faith's Succession, who regards a jot?  
Yet, this I grant, as Darkness follows Light:  
Thou and thy sheephook, follow Peter right.  
Thou Caiaphas, 〈◊〉 Cephas, dost succeed:  
Simon (not Peter) Magus did thee breed.  
Annas and Caiphas held succession fair.  
But Christ and'● followers did not for it care.  
Issue of Men Faith's issue can't imply:  
Nor empty scabbards win a victory.  
By hearing, not succeeding, Faith's begot:  
A Holy life mak●s goodmen, Orders, not.  
Ancletus, Cletus, Clemens, Linus, Pope,  
Which, who succeeds, to show is passed all hope.  
And to this day the tyrant Turk doth hold  
Four Patriarch Seats, by four Popes lost or sold.  

jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria, Constantinople.  Thus he Vice-Christ doth Christ succeed, 'tis right:  
For, Vice-christs' Presence breeds Christ's Absence quite.  
That ravening Wolves should follow Pastors pure:  
Saint Paul foretold, and Gods Amen, proves sure.  
O disguised Sire, Christ's Vicar vizard faced:  
Which here on earth, hell's forces, courses, haste:  
Show me more Wardroabes of thy Koran;  
And novel Tricks thy Trevet stands upon.  
'Tis thy divine decree, that Man, sins slave,  
Can work God's Will, yea more than God doth crave:  
The Just, thou sayst, do it, but perfect men  
Do more than God's Law doth demand of them.  
But ist in me the Law of God to do?  
Why then by Bond; did God me bind thereto?  
The Law me kills, the Law me tramples-on:  
Can then Life's acts by Dead be vndergon?  
By power of man's freewill and inbred-good:  
Thou dost despise, disgrace Christ's blessed Blood.  
And lasting life t'election to make sure,  
Thou'lt use thy Mud, and not Christ's Mould most pure.  
Christ's blood shut-vp; vain Veniall-Sinnes thou'lt find;  
Which to Death's Doom, the soul of no man bind.  
But e'en these sins which from Christ's blood thou'dst free,  
Will cause thy soul Christ's Kingdom ne'er to see.  
Whilst by the Law thou lookest for Salvation;  
Thou dost the Law by mere imagination.  
For how thou ●anst God's firm Law undergo,  
Thine own fast-law-bound Conscience best can show.  
Christ's Blood (thou sayst) for Sin, not Pain, did pay:  
Yet (thy Indulgence can take Both away.)  
Sometime thou'lt Penanco have, yet Sin protected:  
Can Sin be salved, yet Penance be expected?  
O the Indulgent love os Rome's kind Father!  
To bind, loose, show to Gild, and Guilty favour.  
At once, he blows, and sups, makes hot, and cold:  
Binds, and unbindes, unbound things fast doth hold.  
What e'er he pardons, he can punish to;  
Make Guilty, Guiltless, this and more he'll do.  
His Ramish-Romish Faith much Mirth may make:  
But whose weak Faith, true growth from it can take?  
He which is daubed with extreme Vection, hath  
Full strength to struggle with spiritual scathe.  
This blessed Balm Christ's blessed servants makes:  
He's none of Christ's, that Babel's Balm forsakes.  
But Caluinists (though Papists rage and rave)  
To grease their Boots, this oil do often save.  
Calixtus, wisely, did four Fasts ordain:  
For, bodies, years; four quarters do● contain.  
Like the four Humours and four Elements:  
And as four farthings for four Eggs, contents.  
As, Peter was a Fisher, fish to use,  
Peter's religious Popes do chiefly choose.  
Repentance was no Sacrament of old:  
Penance is now a new-one uncontrolled.  
Baptisme's a pledge of Faith to Christ conjoined:  
And by this Badge Rome's Vice-Christ, his will find.  
Heaven's life Eternal, by external laving  
We get: and thence comes all men's hope of saving.  
This Salt, this Oil, these magic Arts, rank spital,  
Abuse thy people (O Christ) not a little.  
O damned deeds of Rome's botching-Bishop base,  
God's Law and pure Handwriting to disgrace.  
Heretics this Archhereticke makes those,  
Which will not seven sound Sacraments suppose.  
For, the seven Cardinal Vices, Virtues, show:  
From the new covenant, just seven Signs to grow.  
Ith' Eucharist, their Wine is poisonous, sure:  
For laymen may not that dire draught endure.  
These thirsty Guests sup, sip no moisture; they  
(Against their wills) That cup, to pass them, pray.  
If Sacrilegiously they'll half withhold:  
With neither part to part, they may be bold.  
Masspriests took Bread and Wine; Laics, but Bread:  
If Bread serve these, with both, why are Priests fed?  
The answer's easy, Who eats Bread, has Wine:  
For needs must Flesh, within it Blood conjoin.  
Well, if meere-Bread both Bread and Wine doth coop:  
Why (besides Bread) take Priests so sound a S●ope?  
And if one-Element sufficient be:  
Change turns: Give Laics Wine, take Bread to thee.  
Since Christ (Cup, Bearer-like) gave us his Blood:  
How is it by audacious Popes withstood?  
Confession is (thou sayst) Sinnes Remedy:  
But thy flock finds it Curing-Crueltie.  
Their soul being fed with Vinegar and Gall:  
When pardoned, to sin's Penance 'tis in thrall.  
Soule-Tyrannizing Pope, dire dregs, hard heart:  
O how unkindely-kinde (alas) thou art?  
No Laud, much Fraud in thy Confessions be.  
Which thy Newes-quaff●ing-Eares (sly Clerk) drink free.  
Surely the fond Confessors self, oft times,  
Both hears and clears (thee telling) thy foul crimes.  
And canst thou then other folk's faults forgive?  
Thou canst thine own, then, howe'er they live.  
Thou canst indeed absolve Absoluers: Why?  
Heaven's kingdoms Key between thy lips doth lie:  
For something, all things, thou'lt forgive to All:  
Which for Rome's joyful jubiles do call.  
Thou'lt lose Omissive and Commissive sin;  
And could Christ's Passion greater glory win?  
Canonised Saints are surely saved, thou'lt say.  
Thyself unsure, wouldst certainly display.  
Dost thou know others, yet thyself much doubt?  
Are thy eyes bright abroad? At home put out?  
Wouldst be believed, but not Thyself believe?  
Though wise to others, thou'lt thyself deceive.  
See here, the triple Crowns decree divine:  
See Pope's Petrean-faith, Saint Peter's Shrine.  
Art thou not right Bezalels typed Temple?  
Babel, God's Ark may hear, with like example.  
Of this Browne-Bran (for here's not least fine Flower)  
Dogmaticke dunghills, Popes to make have power.  
What need I name, each worship-new, vain Rite?  
Whereby true worship is even buried quite.  
Rome's Mother-Church is big with foolery:  
With faithless Faith and impious Piety;  
For the most part, Papisme is Paganism:  
Fertile, yea rank, in rotten newfound Schism.  
O impious Idolising Papists grave!  
Is God your God? who many Gods may have?  
Whiles you lie snorting, th' Envious Man keeps watch:  
And Satan (so) you oft with scoffs doth catch.  
Vain, silly Superstition songs doth mutter:  
And daily Prayers by numbered Beads, doth utter.  
But I shall show in more convenient place:  
The noise and toys of Romish Quires most base.  
Mean while, What does our Clergie-Master, see,  
How plays he Peter's part? How flocks Feeds he:  
Surely, this Care, who will, may take in hand:  
Himself i'th' Church, treble-Head-Stone doth stand.  
And in this Sense, I say, and ever shall:  
The Pope's a Rock, lively Grammatical.  
And I will wager now, with any one,  
That, than the Pope, Nothing's more like a Stone.  
He's hush in Words, but Swords he'll brandish brave;  
In Love, Stone-heart: in Hate, Wraths part he'll have:  
He sends forth Threats, suspends milk- Teats; and thus,  
Favours Gods flock: thus is Religious.  
Paul (sure) that Pattern of a Pastor good,  
Nor Peter (thus) their duties understood.  
Doubtless, whilst he Kingdom's loose shackles shakes:  
His Kings, most blind, to Wars and jars, he makes.  
While these his restless Cares, all rest deny, 
Non v●cat ex●gu●.   
justly this love sleight sacred Cares may fly.  
If thou reuise each annual act and deed:  
None of them show one Pope his flocks to feed.  
And this Vice-Christ, herein Christ imitates:  
With a few Loaves, thousands he satiates.  
Good Shepherds, more than Life, their Flocks do prize:  
The Pope his Flocks, under all, vilifies.  
Ah ignorant, base, dull, blind, vulgar Rout!  
To whom the Lamp of Light and Truth's put out.  
O how your day is darkness, Guides, misguide:  
Hearts, rough; Mind, tough; Hope, vain; Faith foolified.  
Thousand Goth-like, Vandall-like villainies:  
Mongst thousands of Pope's people Tyrannize.  
At Rome, huge bands of Vagrants vain there be:  
Which break Christ's Sabbaths' in loose company.  
Shepherd's may keep the Erymanthean Bear:  
As well as Popes Christ's Flocks, devoid of care.  
He which i'th' Church will have nor, Blind, nor Lame:  
In holy'st duties, he's in Both the same.  
Implicit faith to hold, they hold most holy:  
And Ignorance, chief Piety, not Folly.  
This is no holy Fatling, but lean, lank:  
This is not People's power, but Poison rank.  
Thus in Soule-captiued flocks is Pope's delight:  
Like the Cyclopean Troops bereft of sight.  
Whilst he by Images would people teach:  
himself's an Image, he'll not to them preach:  
While his external Temple's glorious gay:  
He suffers Gods true Temple to decay.  
And while he may wallow in worldly pelf:  

Proximus ipse sibi.  Farewell poor Christ, He's nearest to himself.  
Yea fare thou well, that thy Priest well may be:  
For if thou first do well, then (sure) will he.  
Bread to be made of Stones (with Stygian skill)  
And men t'eate Stones in Statues, is his will.  
Cease Questionist t'enquire of faith sincere:  
Rome holds it fittest, faith confounded were.  
This high Priest of Rome's sacred Rites, indeed,  
His feeble flocks with frothy milk doth feed.  
Impostor, Pastor, Doctor, Deceiver great:  
Is there in thy Sheep-fold such holy meat?  
Whiles thou dost thus souls feed, or rather starve:  
Give Satan Them, the Rest to thee reserve.  
Since in God's Church thouart rough Marpesias' rock:  
Why then should stupid I, trust such a stock?  
Should men thee trust, as thou thyself dost trust:  
Trust me, who trusts thee, is a mad man just.  
People trust Priests, Priests Bishops trust, I hope;  
Prelates trust Counsels, Counsels trust the Pope.  
Let all opinions t' one's opinion trust:  
Then, but one flock, one faith needs be there must.  
Is This faiths golden Syntaxe firmly true?  
Commend it first t'a Turk or faithless jew.  
Now (great Priests-Prelate) by thy mitred pleasure:  
Declare more 
Things following from things already demonstrated.  Confectaries of thy Treasure.  
If thou, faiths Cacodocuments will't show me:  
A triple-fitted Crest I'll wish unto thee.  
Rome being drunk with sacred Saints dear blooe:  
Worshippeth Saints, with Rites, ne'er understood.  
Truly thou sayst, and we the Truth must trust:  
Thou then, when I speak true, believe me must.  
The Popes (by rules of Rome's Religion old)  
far less, love Saints, than Strumpets, base and bold.  
Under Christ's name, many foul contraries  
To Christ, this cunning craftsman doth devose.  
On Satan's Boxes, he subscribes Christ's name:  
With paliated Fraud; God's Flock to shame.  
The people eat poison, with paint surrounded.  
And venom drink, with Antidotes compounded.  
Vice-Christ adores Christ's name, not Deity:  
Keeps less of Christ's, than Peter, memory.  
To Peter, Temples, Feasts, Fasts, makes, erects;  
Peter to be Faith's Rock, he most affects.  
Peter, alive, would not be worshipped: Now,  
To's Image (as to God) being dead, they bow,  
The Saints alive, were clad in mean array:  
Their pictures, Puppetlike, are wondrous gay.  
A Maid, is made, Man's Saviouresse divine:  
And She by right her Son can aught enjoin.  
Nor is Rome's sect (the Mother's so adored)  
With Christ's, as Mary's worshippers, so stored.  
Heaven's kingdom, Christ did with his Mother share:  
Kept half himself, and half to her did spare.  
God's Daughter by pure fruit of most pure birth,  
Excels the lovely Lilies of the Earth.  
Fairer than Phiebus, than full Phoebe whiter:  
Clearer than Stars, than brave Aurora brighter.  
Sea's Star, Sun's Patroness, Heaven's golden-gate:  
Transparent Spring, Rose most intemerate;  
Poor wretches joy, Anchor, Haven, blessed Blast, Hope;  
And What Not? Is She to th' plumbeous Pope.  
She, which to th' World brought forth the promised Seed;  
took from the World, almost what Eve did breed.  
The Pope, fall'n back, to Heretics old Toys:  
Heresies fragments to reboile, much joys.  
In golden Cups He deadly poison quaffs:  
And in brave Bowls, to slay poor Souls, He laughs,  
Is Christ Med'atour? Why then seekest thou More?  
Yes, Popelings thousands have, thousands adore.  
O fond, besotted Papists, deaf, dull, blind:  
Can one such madness, amongst the Heathen find?  
This Hellish Hangman Mart'ricide most fierce:  
Worshippeth many a Martyr's painted Hearse.  
This Faith's Confounder, killing thy Lamb's good:  
To Thee (O Christ) doth sacrifice thy Blood.  
A painted Lamb's adored, devoured alive:  
Thus, thus, doth Rome's Religion rarely thrive.  
Him I will not Religious, Holy, style,  
But Common Whore, or Couchant Wolf most vile.  
God's Church, with floods of blood, o'erwhelmed all:  
We may the Pope, Saints bloody Butcher call.  
This Field of blood, Acheldamae thus shown:  
Makes thee (proud Priest) a Dog-Wolfe, Bitch-Wolfe known▪  
How many Tesles do detest with Scathe;  
Rome's sacrilegious ebbing, flowing Faith?  
Which he'll, now firm, anon infringe, and be  
A Sinon sly, not Simon-Peter free.  
For to a Counsel, One, once called, secured;  
The Guest was slain, the Host, his Faith abjured,  
And whereas Priests Gods Flocks bright Star should be,  
The raging Dogstar this Vice-Christ, we see.  
Christ's feeble Flock, the Pope's Salve hurts, not heals:  
He with tart Tortures, not mild Medicines deals.  
I surely think, that Turks of All Pope's times,  
ne'er wrought against Christ, so many bloody Crimes.  
O what a Man of Blood art Thou to th' Bride?  
By whom Her offspring Dye, in Fire are fried.  
Pope's furious frowns, make many undergo  
Death's Dart, War's Smart, Waves final, fatal Woe.  
The Pope and Pluto (witness every Loon)  
Thus differ, he hath Horns, Pope's triple Crown;  
All else concur. So well performed thou seest;  
All Satan's Works, by this Plutonick Priest.  
A time will come, when He, Christ's sacred Train,  
And living Members dear would regain.  
And yet Saints slaughter will not Him suffice;  
But o'er Dead Corpse digged up, he'll tyrannize.  
Nor rests his Fury with Dead bodies fed:  
But this fierce Fiend their Ghosts hath tortured.  
Rachel, Thy Church (sweet Saviour, craves thy aid:  
Lamenting sore, that she's so childless made.  
Her Saints wide Wounds from Rome received, she shows;  
And how with Flames she shines, with Blo●d o'erflows.  
She now doth Roses with much ruth bring out:  
Who, in sweet peace, once, made white Lilies sprout.  
In midst of Flames, than Flames themselves more bright;  
Thy Martyrs were, all clad with fiery Light.  
Nor did her soil want rain, to spring and bud;  
Too fertile 'twas, o'er flown with showers of Blood.  
Pope's Founders and repairers Devils were;  
With props of Blood, His Throne to build and rear.  
O Christ, whilst Thy Saints, after Death feared Death:  
They feared not in Life to lose their breath.  
In England, here, a Queen being Papists pride:  
By fire how many holy Martyrs dyd'e?  
Nor did Queen Marie, of mere Vulgars' build  
Those Godless Flames; but burned five Bishops mild.  
Nay more; a Child, from Mother's Womb which braced;  
Was into th' Fire by Romish Fiends re-cast.  
Lo; thus, with slaughtered Saints, Rome's shambles shines;  
No better bravery Rome's renown refines.  
Servant of Seruant●, Fellow servants slays:  
And so himself a Servant base betrays.  
This Latian Dragon with God's Saints makes war:  
In Blood, his foul Face laves, than Wars worse far.  
In one of these fierce Monsters shortest reign;  
Records report, an hundred thousand slain.  
Nocent the third, (I take in from the Nocent)  
So many thousands in one Slaughter spent.  
O thou (in truth) Saints ruth, All red (oft read)  
With Blood of many Martyr's Martyred.  
Slain corpse do con-corrupt my life (alas)  
That He Saints Homicide so long doth pass.  
And when (O Christ) thy Servants slain I see,  
O'erflowing Floods mine eyes I wish to be.  
In that Parisian Shambles, known too well;  
How many guiltless Lambs in one week fell?  
Whilst Paris, then more blood did drink, than Wine:  
That Town, that time, a Tempest was Sanguine.  
Forewarned, learn wisdom, do not Christ despise:  
Whom, soon, Rome's Shambles brings to Butcheries.  
Alas, he's not Sheep's Peeder, but Confounder:  
Black-cankered Conscience, Ouicide, Sheepe-wounder.  
He which grows great by sacred Saints perdition:  
Hastens to Hell with guilty Expedition.  
Thine, plagues (O Christ) by Sufferance, subjugated:  
For, what they cannot shun, they tolerate.  
To these, Life's want is Life; their Death, no Death:  
Conquest, their Cross; to live, to lose their breath.  
Goodness, their Gold; the World, their Pot, Grief, Flame:  
Their Flesh, the Reed; their Hammer, God; to frame.  
Blood founded first Christ's Church; by blood, it grew:  
Blood showers, It cheers; by Blood 'tis of red hue.  
With Blood, Vice-Christ, Christ's Folds doth filthifie:  
See, Men of God; See, Popish Piety.  
Of Rome's false doctrines, many Scraps remain:  
Which my close Hedge is too close to contain.  
Index Expurgatorius, Books great Bane:  
A Work, well known, dishonest, crafty, vain:  
Robs, or rubs out much antique learned Treasure;  
Pills or pals out much, at the Pope's displeasure.  
His Censure suffocates men's Births, (their Books)  
Takes out plain Truths, puts in vile spurious Crookes.  
O horrid, hateful, Slaught'r-House, foul, nefarious:  
To Godly Books, a plague, a torture various.  
The Father's Strays, not Sons (then) Papists Name;  
Though Fathers theirs, All theirs, still theirs they claim.  
Their Postils, Packets are of Trumperies;  
He which in them can find no Wit, is wise.  
'Tis plain, All Papists are Traditionists:  
Who term and trouble us for Scripturists.  
Which be, or what, or how many Traditions;  
Or where they are, escapes (yet) Rome's Inquisitions:  
Yet These must be observed religiously,  
And be embraced with Scriptures dignity.  
Whate'er hath part of neither Word nor Writ:  
With Word, and Writ, in equal State must sit.  
Thus Clementines, and Asinines poor packs;  
(Wherewith the Pope his Library well thwacks)  
And God knows what trim toys, and Decretals,  
Must be Gods sacred Scriptures Corrivals.  
Thus that blessed Book must have no blessed use:  
More Wealth, more work from others, Pope's produce.  
Relics, more than Religion, they respect:  
And more than Churches, Chimneys they affect.  
His Agnus Dei's made of Wax mo●● pure,  
He makes the World's great Wens and Sores to cure.  
And he which will not blest Salvation miss:  
Must straightway strive the Pope's blessed Foot to kiss.  
Water with Wine (after Rome's custom) mixed;  
Assures poor Souls to be with Christ fast fixed.  
The Thorney Crown (O Christ) which wrought thy woe:  
A Golden Crown, on a baldpate, doth show.  
A Cock, on Pinnacles of Temples placed,  
Warns All with Peter to Repentance haste.  
Waxe-Tapers, burnt, to grace the Noone-days light:  
The Gentiles promis'd-Light, declare, most right.  
But (sure) those Lights, do plainly intimate;  
The Pope's Soules-darknesse, and his friend's retreat.  
It also shows, that Papists hate Daylight,  
And, most like Owls, see best in darkest Night.  
Much Faith boiles in his brain; his Heart holds none:  
And whilst he brags of Good, his Work's not shown.  
A Pater Noster said, putteth sins away:  
If thou it say, resay thrice, oft a day.  
These taste to me, as Gall to Christ did taste:  
Whatever I read, taste, trust, prove; All proves waste.  
What virtue by Christ crucified grows,  
The Mimick-Masse, Pope's Cleopatra shows:  
Fair Phillis, Philomela, Calliope:  
Venus, Melissa, and Melpomene:  
This Rome's Religion her Palladium hath,  
This the Idea of the Romish Faith.  
here Babel's Bawd ruffles in silk and gold:  
In shining Syndon sheltering thefts most bold.  
And with clean clothes her damned Dens doth hide,  
That She of none a ravening Wolf be spied.  
Her Face to grace, the Pope's Spouse spares no charge:  
For Satan's Mask, She needs not pay so large.  
Unto All sick, All sound, at all times (sure)  
The Mass a Medicine comes, them all to cure.  
If thou thy Swine sick of the Measles see,  
A sovereign Salve the Mass will make to thee.  
A Venial or a Mortal Sin to clear,  
The Mass, Gods Might, a present Help draws near.  
Who hears a Mass, shall not by day wax old:  
If the Massmonger be well paid with Gold.  
For, the Heaven's Poles (the Mass near tired) stand still:  
And lazy Lachesis, leaves Wheel and Quill.  
For quick and dead, there, prayer's and offerings be:  
The Mass, (Messias) is an Ape of Thee.  
Nay more, the Priest (strange wonder) daubed with Oil:  
By's Host, can Christ to's Father reconcile.  
Ith' Eucharist (O Christ) God gives us Thee:  
Canst thou again by Priests to God given be?  
Thou art (O Christ) our Priest and Sacrifice:  
What power, so like, in unlike Masspriests lies?  
O Pandects of impure Impiety!  
Which th' impious Mass doth seldom let pass by  
If once a man to Mass admitted be:  
Goodness and Faith omitted he shall see.  
A Puppet-playing Priest, makes (O foul crime!)  
Christ's Passe-ouer, Sport, to passover time.  
They, sure, which did Masse-matters institute;  
Than Christ, Paul, Peter, were far more acute.  
The Priest says Mass, the idiot people mutter:  
While oldwives, petty, pretty prayers do utter.  
A strange Tongue talks, but sense none thence can pick:  
Thus Fickle Fools, Brittle-glasse▪ Bottles lick.  
Let him on th' idle Stage see plays and Sights;  
Which would go see, hear, love, and know Mass Rites.  
He which conceives not, hears not: Even so He,  
Hears, sees in vain, which void of sense, doth see.  
Not Sentences, but Sense enlights the mind:  
Consent is gone, if Sense we do not find.  
O how the Monkey in his Surplis white;  
The merry-Masse, and Massing-Priest, plays right.  
With hearty laughs, my heart in me would chatter;  
When I but read the Masses merry-matter.  
Music so much, sweet Songs, shrill singing out;  
Rome's sacred Sirens do so chant about.  
These cunning tricks, Kings facinate; and All  
Quaff her adulterous Nectar spiritual.  
Christ's Ransom, thus, and our Redemptions pay,  
She sells, and sits, for gain in Harlot's way.  
If then by Christ's blood thou thy soul wouldst save;  
The Pope, (Souls Hope) Mass, as Messias, crave.  
If thou the World's Sin-purger feign wouldst buy;  
I'th' Mass for Money he's sold easily.  
For a small price, the Mass makes Thine (cocksure)  
Christ's Merits, which He dear did procure.  
Caiaphas' doted, when he paid so dear,  
T'have Christ betrayed, he's bought far cheaper here.  
O formidable God, Heaven's high Commander:  
Seest thou, yet sufferest this nefarious slander:  
The sacred Covenant, justice, Rites, blessed Hope:  
So oft abused, misused, by Rome's proud Pope.  
O can thy boundless longanimity,  
To judge this monstrous Mass, yet still passe-by?  
O can thy endless Mercy tolerate,  
The Mass, Messias Rights, to arrogate?  
Though God be slow, he's sure, to punish Pride:  
And who his sharp severe wrath can abide?  
To strike more sure; his Sword he lifts up long:  
His Leaden-Heeles, bring Hands of steel most strong.  
O Devils device, accursed feasting place:  
Damned mass of the Mass, sin's bundle base!  
O Pope profane: which with such monsters vild:  
So idle Idols, haste God's House defiled.  
Art thou God's Parson proud, Faith's Lamp most light?  
Curate of all God's Cures, his Arch-Leuit●e?  
Thee, Faith's desiler, Christ's, his Church's Foe,  
My obligated Verse, to th' world shall show.  
Whilst life doth last, the Whetstone of my Rhimes:  
My Verses Venom, shall be Rome's foul Crimes.  
And while my Pen may play the Satyr's part,  
Rome shall be stripped and whipped, and sound smart,   

OF THAT BLASPHEMOUS FALSE-FICTION OF MERIT, AND OF WORKS OF SUPEREROGATION, to the Derogation of Christ's honour.  
THE FIFTH SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
On Rome's Bawds brow is branded Blasphemy;  
Whose Mark, mark here, in this gross Heresy.  
WHo (Pseudo. Prophet, of false Prophets) can  
Thy thundering Blasphemies discuss or scan?  
Christ merited (Thou'lt say) that thou mightst merit:  
And Merits dipped in his Blood dost inherit.  
With Merits mingling Christ, dost Monsters make:  
Which from Workes-wages, and Faith, fashion take.  
Strange juggling Tricks of Merits, thou dost plot:  
And mak'st Christs-selfe to merit God knows what▪  
By Merits, thou (for so the bargain's made,  
'twixt God and Thee) hast for God's Kingdom paid.  
Salvations Stern, and Foredecke, Merits are:  
Thy Faith's in Christ, for Faith's Deseruing-share.  
Sole Faith is no Faith; is a Carcase dead,  
Nothing almost, rude lump, a fant'sie fled.  
With Merits, Grace-Mediatrixe saves (thou sayst)  
But vain is Hope on God alone that's placed.  
Faith fixed on God, confused, retires, retorts;  
But fixed on Thee, Thy goodness, It supports.  
Faith Physic is; trust in Physicion's frail:  
And, without thine own work, Both these will fail.  
Thy prayer, is, Lord, for Merits, Mercy show:  
And thy desires desired as debts that grow.  
Boldly thou'dst breake-ope heaven Gates by Merit:  
And make thyself and thine, God's Throne inherit.  
As Ixion did his Cloud, thou'lt this embrace:  
As thy chief Light, Delight, and heavenly Grace.  
Merits superfluous scums and scraps thou'lt sell:  
(Apothecary kind) to All not well.  
Who ere wants Merits, thou canst fill him full:  
And out of Trunks and Treasuries, them pull.  
The Just do supererogate, thou'lt say:  
And for himself and his, On, merit may.  
Such Just are superarrogating Elves:  
And merit not for Others nor themselves.  
Stealing Saints Merits, thereby to get gold:  
thouart Merits-Thiefe, Merits unfruitful mould.  
I wonder where this Chest of Merits stood:  
Ith' days of our Isachian Patriarches good.  
Did Rome keep this trim Treasure of such worth▪  
That afterwards Rome's Lord might bring it forth?  
For, if Rome's jove a golden gobbet have:  
He'll strait raine-downe a shower of Merits brave.  
God's gifts are free, the Elect get grace unbought:  
The Pope's gifts are at most dear prices sought.  
Ith' Scriptures, none, can Tubs of Merits find:  
But, there (we read) Grace gratis gives (most kind)  
Upon Christ's blood, God, our soul's health did place:  
Canst thou then sell this Ransom (Pedlar base)  
'tis a deep Whirlpool of most impious bane:  
Which muds the stinking Laerna of thy brain.  
Christ ne'er (thou sayst) t'us Righteousness imputes:  
Yet Rome, Saints-Righteousnesse, t'us attributes.  
Did free Saint Francis gran● what Christ did not?  
Thy pate and party Physic might have got.  
For (sure) all Saints (that none might Merits lack)  
Their Merits hid, i'th' corners of thy Sack.  
At Rome also Merits Exchange doth stand:  
Whose golden Keys, are at thy chief command.  
Porter whereof thou art, but in good time:  
Thou mayst be Butler, and so higher climb.  
And as Seas waves all on a heap do flow;  
Nereus being ne'er the less, when back they go:  
So thou alone dost all Saints Merits take:  
And, sell thou ne'er so many, they ne'er slake.  
'tis in thy power to poure-out Merits treasure:  
For, all Store's trusted to the Steward's pleasure.  
Rome's gracious streams from her full veins do thrill▪  
That grateful ones may gratis drink their fill.  
Alas Christ's troubled, Truth disgraced grace:  
What Goods, what gifts, gives Man, God to abase?  
Hebrews and Greeks, no word for Merit have:  
Both Covenants God in Greek and Hebrew gave.  
The Faithful live not by their Righteousness:  
Life and soul's health the Just by Faith possess.  
Saints have received, but Crowns did ne'er bestow:  
And none to lend their Righteousness, I know.  
Who in himself perfection seeks; Ith' Gra●e,  
Seeks Life; which, he may seek, but ne'er shall have.  
He makes up Merit, that he so may see,  
Christ's Passion spoilt, and God no God to be.  
Say Peter, when as Christ beheld thee weeping:  
What Merits helped thee? who had them in keeping?  
God's grace, is no grace, if not gratis given:  
Dost thou deserve it? Grace is from thee driven.  
By sin, first Adam, Hell to us did Merit:  
By second Adam, we may Heaven inherit.  
But whose foul Seed can give a fair conception?  
If no man's can, can I wretch, all infection?  
My faith's most firm, that me poor wretch to save:  
Himself God valent, and Christ volent gave.  
Each, operist-Papist, scraps of works doth add:  
And of's own pureness is halfe-Botcher bad.  
In's life time oft times he works aid doth trust:  
But, dying, he all's Works away will thrust. 
Note this mystery of iniqui●i●.   
O helpless Hope, on Merits to rely!  
Who, trust such faithless faith, soon fall thereby.  
Such hapless Hope, by hoping spoils poor wretches:  
Whose care to keep, by too much care bewitches.  
Sole Faith is Sole Cause, of Souls health assured:  
Christ says to th' sick, believe, and thou art cured.  
When Christ our Lord with souls betrothings hath;  
His Nuptials busy Bride-Maide is sole faith.  
The debtor, than the Creditour's more base:  
If works make God our debtor, where's his grace?  
Can Works worke-out my punishments remission?  
To work my Bliss, add Merits least addition?  
Can I by Merits my soul's sore-eyes cure?  
Are These the Sop●, sweet Wash-Bals, blots to pure?  
Must heavens blest Harvest, works base husks require?  
Must one-howers work; enjoy joy infinite?  
Must I with Merit-Oyle, enlight my feet?  
Lest I with sightless lamp, the Bridegroom meet?  
Whom, Christ's Words, Wounds, lave, saue, and sanctify:  
Can worthless Works, those better beautify?  
Can Merits drive-backe Death's darts deadly rage?  
Is merit my souls wholesome sovereign Sage?  
Can Trash pay Treasure, Drugs and Dross, pay gold?  
Can mites, with mounts, minutes with myriads hold?  
Can my deserts, Christ's death, deserts, deserve?  
Such proud opinions from true wisdom swerve.  
Since by Christ's Blood, 'tis plain, I gain salvation:  
Heavens wrath, base merit, brings to consternation.  
I live no● of myself; if so, I die:  
God is my life, the life of God wish I.  
whatsoever is try de i'th' Furnace of God's frown:  
Is quickly, quite with furious flames, burnt down.  
What if man's Works to th' world seem ne'er so fair:  
If God be judge, all men most guilty are.  
Who, Guilty, does Gods will? unless he do it,  
By God, first Facient; He, poor patient, to it.  
All's else a Shadow, Christ the Substance pure:  
Christ is (alone) my Life, Salvation sure.  
Christ's Price and Ransom, my Redemption paid:  
What then can man (all paid) to pay, be made?  
Moses, all livers lives i'th' Blood, did place:  
So in Christ's Blood shed, is my life, my grace.  
Virtue, is Vice; if Grace, by Christ be none:  
And if we ought do well, 'tis God's alone.  
Nor (sure) did God confect, but Gall infect,  
Those Eyes; which on Christ's Price have ill aspect.  
O let Christ's precious Blood my blessed Bath be:  
And not one drop of least desert in me.  
O, be't my care, myself, a Wretch to view:  
And no desert (but death) to be my due.  
O me, me most unworthy, heaven to see:  
So conscious am I of desert in me.  
My eyes confirm, my inward-parts confess:  
Of Merit, my sad souls great emptiness.  
I feel defects, my life ore-laide with woe:  
And I poor wretch (these gone) do nought else know.  
Gold, jasper Stones, are foul, with Christ's blood placed:  
Must not deserts dregs, (then) be more abaced.  
When I am wrenched and drenched in Christ's dear blood:  
O let my Merits, be hells burning Wood  
Say, I had lived well, yet my hope might fail me:  
But having lived ill, death will (sure) assail me.  
Oh, from death's danger who shall me wretch raise▪  
Herein (sweet Saviour) Thine be all the praise.  
The hand-writing of Sin Christ quite defaced,  
Which ta'en from Satan, on his Cross he placed.  
If Christ God's only Son, Life's orient Sun;  
For Me, a Servant, dire death would not shun:  
Can I, a Slave, Christ's death, as my due claim?  
And challenge Life, because Christ death did tame?  
Blood should flow from my deep torn worn heart:  
And all my Marrow, should sad tears impart.  
I merit nought; myself, by no means save;  
Christ, my Redeemers death, this, to me gave:  
O may I die ere Christ's Grace through me die:  
For, in me, of me, for me, nought have I.  
O wash me, well i'th' Well of thy good will:  
Lest, guilty me, my guilty deeds do kill.  
O may my fil●hs of flesh, my life lewd, base.  
Dear Christ, be folded in thy kind embrace.  
Satan's dire Darts assault me (Victor great)  
Give me sharp shafts, that I may Satan beat.  
I am, i'th' world, soiled, spoilt, (O jesus good)  
Lave, save my soul, i'th' Brook of thy blessed blood.  
I burn with self-love, (O great Lord of Love)  
To burn with thy Love, grant grace from above.  
As Lord, the Spirit; as Tyrant, flesh I serve;  
Oh tame the Tyrant flesh, my soul preserve.  
Lest Earth me take, lest Hell me terrify:  
O hold me, heat me, with heaven's Fervency.  
Let Earth's frail joys to Heavens firm joys give place:  
And sacred love of good, Earth's Mud quite chase.  
I hate all mine, and that I be not mine:  
I seek thee, Christ; and sue to be all thi●e.  
O let thy large, thy Seamlesse coat (most fair)  
Paliate my native filth, and leave none bare.  
O Lamb of God, slain from the world's creation:  
Thy proper-Worke, be my Propitiation.  
With thy dear Saints (O Saviour Christ I crave)  
Me, thy most Suppliant, submiss servant, save.  
The evil of guilt, and punishment I know:  
This, this indeed's the Merit I can show.  
But th' evil of guilt and pain and hell's fierce flame,  
Yea hells great Lord; I know heaven's Lord did tame.  
This is my constant faith's confession; hence,  
I'll not be forced by fraud or violence.  
He which (O Christ) trusts not thy sole sweet Merit.  
Shows he's not thine, and shall not thine inherit.  
Since all thy gracious gifts, me far surpass:  
Can my naught, nothing, merit ought (alas.  
Whos''s 'ere (O Christ) an hundreth Pence Thee owes:  
Unto ten thousand Talents, My debt grows.  
Within Me, Sin: a Massy Mountain hath:  
Sins Mountain to remove, Lord, strength my Faith.  
Lest I (O God by Death's sting wounded be:  
Behold my Saviour's Wounds wide-ope, for me.  
O Thou which Bottlest up Thy Saints Tears, All:  
Let not, these of thy Servant, fruitless fall.  
The Bane of Sin, my Blood of Tears descries:  
And me, my sweet Redeemers thirst, even fries,  
Free me, from Death, and from life's guilt me clear:  
And for my Spots, O let Christ's Stripes appear.  
If Christ for's Servant, undue debts did pay:  
Let not the Servant pay, what's paid, I pray.  
O jesus, which of heart, reins, Searcher art:  
To thee, I (here) sacrifice reins, and heart.  
ay thee beseech, even by thy bloody Sweat:  
Thy Teare●, Fears, Flouts; whom jews unjustly beat?  
Let all my hope, to thy sure Seal be fixed;  
With none of my selfe-Meri● to be mixed.  
This is my serious, pious protestation:  
Confirmed, from false dogmaticke alteration.  
Christ hath engulfed me in his Sea of Love..  
Bare, poor, impure, I'm (here) a milk-white Dove.  
Here is my Hope, firm Faith, Pledge of salvation:  
This, this fair foun●, flows to my restauration.  
If th' Ocean of Christ's Blood; me, all keep in:  
'Twill purely purge my Blots and Spots of sin.  
Let this, th●, this, blessed Lamb with's holy hide:  
Cloth me, and let me, thine (O Christ) abide.  
Sweet Saviour of the world, jesus most kind:  
Let me thy Mercies, in thy Merits find.  
Gold, Incense, Myrrh, of Praise, I humbly bring;  
As Lord, take Incense; Man, Myrrh; Gold, as King.  
Whatever is Thine, and thou to th' World mad'st free:  
All those, Thy Love, makes proper unto me.  
With godless Goats, adjudge me not to stand:  
But, with thy Sheep, set me at Thy Right Hand.  
Whom Thou held'st dear, and dear for me didst pay?  
Now, count not Vile, as willing my decay.  
For, without Thee (O Christ) I say, and shall:  
I, either Death deserve, or Nought at all.  
But, since, for vanquished Me, thou'rt Victor-wise:  
My pain is Thine; Thy Palm, is made my prize.  
My due- Deaths-draft (O Christ) Thou first drank'st up:  
When, Thou for me, didst say, Let pass this Cup.  
O let my Death, by thee, be Death's decay:  
And in thy Love, to leave Life, no delay.  
Let Grace, be my life's lovely Morning-light:  
Then Glory, will beeths ' Euening-Starre most bright.  
By thy dear Death, and Life, let me, Death's due:  
Obtain sure hold on Life's Hire, most undue.  
And let thy glorious Beams of Goodness shine  
Upon this sparkling Faith, faint heart of mine.  
Yea, where all plenteous pleasures, from thy Torrent,  
And Loue-Flo●ds flow, from thy still-streaming Current:  
Let me drink deep, from that deep Spring most clear,  
And with Thy Blood My thirsty Heart re-cheere.  
Let Thy Death be my Host; Thy Pains, my Pay;  
Thy Cross, my Crown, Thy Sores, my Salves always.  
Whilst Life doth last (O Christ) I'll deadly hate,  
Thy Romish Rival, I'll repudiate.  
Thus, then, Man's Lies, Blasphemies arrogate,  
Merit by's Works; from Christ's Deeds derogate.  
Thus, to Man's Merits, Christ must now give place:  
And to Rome's Ruler render Throne and Grace.  
And, thus, Christ's godly goodly Vicar, hath  
God's Power disdained, profaned the Name of Faith.  
His Merits Meritoriously do Merit,  
That he should Hell, but never Heaven inherit.  
For Merits, Heaven he'll sell, the Church defile:  
And Christ to Belial He dates reconcile.  
O Rome, is this thy Zeal? thy Church so fair?  
Did Christ charge Peter thus for's Flock to care?  
With such Tartarean terms (Church-Scourger brave)  
Dar'st Thou God's justice, free- grace, whip, deprave?  
If any sense in thy blunt Breast doth stay:  
Antichrists noted Notes, these be, thou'lt say.  
But, I am hopeless, by my Verse, to frame  
On th' Anvil of thy Heart, Sense of thy Shame.  
See, then, Rome's Faith, Rome's holy Church, now see:  
How like to Peter's, He and his Faith be.   

OF THAT LOVDE LIE, AND FOND FICTION OF TRANSUBSTANTIATION.  
THE six SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
When I receive (O Christ) Thy Body blest;  
The Signs, in Substance, still the same do rest.  
Romes' Ten b●rn'd Beast strange Errors belcheth up,  
And Heretics, Schismatics feeds, breeds up.  
More Heresies from Peter's proud Chair spring,  
Than all Church, chapel pews could ever bring.  
Much I passe-o're, since (else) my Muse would be  
Too too prolix (kind Reader) unto Thee.  
But yet, there's One, sprung from the sevenfold Whore,  
Prodigious, horrid, fond, ne'er found before,  
Amphibious Gorgon; whereby Substance slips:  
This, this, my Tisiphonike Satire whips.  
here, hath my Pen large Lists, abundant stuff:  
here, to triumph my Rhyme hath room enough.  
here, Waves waves overflow; Depths invocate  
Depths; here's a Mean to be immoderate.  
This anointed, big- Brood, Accher●ntine Crew;  
In's Mass createth a creator new.  
Surely, 'tis more Christ, than a World, to make:  
Nor, ere, did God, to make God, undertake.  
But Popish Chemics make a thousand Gods:  
Priests (then) are greater gods than God, by odds.  
Ith' Masspriests mouth, what so great virtues are,  
That He, with's Mouth, his God can make, and mar?  
Surely, he hath some rare resistless power:  
Whereby he makes and unmakes God, each hour.  
Christ's Flesh (i'th' Mass) This Flesh-feeder eats up:  
And this blood-bibbing Bishop, Blood doth sup.  
With Murder, stained is this Christ-killing Host:  
Whilst he God's Flesh with's Fangs to tear doth boast.  
Indeed, besides this Popish Cannibal,  
Of Men, not God-devourers, read we shall.  
Grant, This gross Error, and grant thousands mo●:  
Which from this horrid Hydra, thick, would grow.  
Me thinks, I see Serpents on Gorgon's pate,  
When this Gorgonish Act I meditate.  
This Christ-eater, with's Cyclaps throat wide open:  
With griping Claws, with grinding james (the Pope)  
● Lycaon's filthy Feasts doth celebrate:  
And 
* A King of Arcadia, who to 〈◊〉 jupiters' godhead, served in the flesh of certain young gentlemen of the Molossians at a Feast which be made to jupiter, who in detestation of that foul fact, saved ●●is Palar●, and turned Lycaon into a Wolf.  Laestrigons' cursed Cates doth devourate.  
For, He to's holy Cheer invites (most kind)  
Sharp Teeth, good Stomack●, but no godly Mind▪  
Proud jays are they, not Eagles, which, thus, dare  
Forecast to come, to eat Christ's dainty fare.  
Not Abra'am, Patriarches, not blest Prophets all;  
Who, yet enjoyed this Man●● Mystical: 
* Another kind of Cannibals in Campania▪   
Could thus eat Christ, could thus have saving grace,  
For, God Mans-Flesh was, then found in no place.  
And, since by Christ, Grace, Life's alike to me:  
Christ to receive, to me like rule, let be.  
With mouth and teeth, I take not (sure) Souls meet:  
This, with my mind, heart, Faith, I take and eat.  
My Hearing eats, my Knowledge, Christ doth chew:  
And lively Faith digests Him in me to.  
I taste Christ with Heart's palate, there, confined,  
That Feast's a Fact, not of the Mouth, but Mind.  
Christ's Presence, is Faith's Charge, Christ's real being  
Is sure i'th' Supper, to each firm Faiths Seeing.  
Yea, Christ to those that thus believe, is slain:  
Whose bles● Oblation, still doth Faith sustain.  
Again, each vnbaptized infant small,  
Once borne, and washed in the Fount Mystical:  
He should with Christ have no Community:  
If Corpse must Corpse, Flesh, Flesh, touch needfully.  
Herod did (once) but some young Infants smite:  
The Pope's opinion damns All Infants quite.  
Besides, He which believes not, Christ may eat:  
And thus, to Dogs, Hogs, Mice, Christ may be Meat.  
Yea, judas, thus, with Peter hath full share:  
Christ's Body is to Both, like dainty fare.  
Can he which is not Christ's, upon Christ feed?  
Are God and Satan Partners well agreed▪  
Or can Christ's Members in Christ's Body rot,  
Which, boldfaced Rome, to broach abroad, shames not?  
O Mad Religion, strange Divinity:  
Clergies fair Helon, Pope's fond Fantasy!  
Bread makes a God, as Mice may Ca●●ls make.  
Not so: The Pope's opinion we mistake.  
But Sure, (although the Trid●●●-Councell wise,  
The same, to Christ's Guests more than once denies)  
The same means which in Baptism Christ contains:  
The same i'th' Supper also Christ retains.  
This feeds, That breeds, by Christ's Concorporation:  
I'm Bred, and Fed, by the same Obligation.  
Symbolik● Signs we all in Baptism see:  
Therefore the Signs i'th' Supper unchanged be.  
In Christ I live, as I of Christ am made:  
What Grace converts, concerns me, as is said.  
Union gives Life, Communion It sustains:  
That was the Spirits, This still the Spirits remains.  
But, truly, truly, (for this truth's most true,  
And Faith, to be Truth's Daughter, ought most due)  
What's made of Bread o'th' Virgin is not made:  
Nor was Christ's Being, from a Bread-corne blade.  
Nor was the Promised Seed of Grains weak power,  
Nor Mary blest, a Mother of five Flower.  
Nor did the Root of les●, bear ●ares of Corn:  
Nor was Inds Li●● of Land-Acres borne.  
Nor Floods, on C●r●s Birth, the Dragon shed:  
Nor could a Wheat-Eare break the Serpe●t● Headpunc;  
Besides, I feel this bruised, assumed, consumed:  
Where was Christ● Body then may't be presumed:  
Absurdly, ●bsurd Fools▪ absurd things reach:  
And to th' Absurd, absurd opinions preach.  
Out Field is filled with troops of Reasons good:  
Which Popish Parad●xe● make to skud.  
When Christ, Himself, the Bread of Life did name:  
Before, and after that, Christ was though S●me.  
Christ is a Vine, the Ways the Life, who ever  
In Him gr●●bes, g●es, li●●s, f●des, wanders, die● never:  
Thus Christ says of himself; yet I suppose,  
Of Way, ●me, Life, no Transi●●●●tio● ro●e.  
Why then i'th' Supper should a change be made?  
'Cause Christ of Bread, This is my Body, said.  
What if huge Heaps of Loaves were consecrated?  
Must all to Flesh be forthwith Transmutated?  
What if a Groom's Horsebread b● conse●red?  
Will it strait into Flesh be altered?  
What if the holy-Hoste be eat in Lent?  
Will it be turned to Flesh incontinent?  
At that time (I think, rather) 'tis Fish made:  
For, Flesh to eat, in Lens, Popes have gain said.  
How well Rome's Pythagorean Fool doth act:  
Does things forbidden, forbids his own Fact.  
'tis Witty Folly, Father's foolish Wit:  
To Stab his statutes, his Births heart to split.  
This Popish Metamorphosis most vi●d;  
Hath Natures Laws pulled down, God's Laws defiled.  
Faith's Nerves and joints it reaves and cleaves in sunder:  
And brings in Doctrines●ew ●ew, with hideous wonder.  
These working-Words, This i● my Body; They,  
No Type, or mystic meaning have, do say.  
Yet here's a Trope: for, here's a Transmutation:  
Thus they deny, even their own affirmation.  
Truth's Force and Strength is great, most certainly:  
And makes Hi● Foes her praise to testify.  
Thus, ofttimes Thiefs, fatally faults confess:  
Traitors own mouths their treacheries express.  
For Sacraments, the Papist placeth Toys;  
And, for a Trope, Tropical Tricks employs.  
Dejects what He erects; grants, what's gainsaid:  
Pulls down the House which his own Hands have made.  
Perverse Conversion doth pervert Sense sound:  
An impious Gloss doth Truth's pure Glisse confound.  
For, forced by the words true force and scope:  
The Test'ment, called a Cup, they says a Trope:  
And why ist not a Trope, when Bread is named  
Christ's body? is here other speech, form fromed▪  
He's non-plusd, now; his fond opinion frights him:  
And Heresies own hand, herear, even smites him.  
Incredulous, quite faithless may I be,  
Y'ere I (dull Papist) fix my Faith to thee.  
Many such false, feigned Iliads, yet have I:  
All which to whip, one day cannot supply.  
Not all of Christ, but whole Christ, each where stays;  
This, ancient Father's faith affirms, and says;  
If, then, Christ's flesh be not in every place;  
Sure, 'tis not flesh, i'th' Mass, in any case.  
If, Bread it be, and must his Body be:  
Then, of his Body, 'tis no Sign to me.  
The Body's not the Type: the Type, It, shades:  
If things themselves be Types, the Type (then) fades.  
All other holy things, their Signs ne'er change:  
That Signs change only here; Is it not strange?  
Surely these pendent Seals assure, alone,  
That Promise which Gods Word had me foreshown.  
And sacred Seals their Patents ne'er oppose:  
Therefore, both Sign and Substance, Christ enclose.  
But by the Word our Mouths must not Christ chew:  
This Supper (then) Words Seal, makes not this true.  
This Reason's Eagle-eyed, in truth quicksighted:  
And what It sees, is quickly erudited,  
This Reason seems with radiant Sunbeams written:  
With so pure Light, the sight is. thereby, smitten.  
But now, here's one, and one in stead of All:  
Which, thunder-throttles Rome's faith mystical.  
If, under, show of Bread, Christ's flesh be made:  
Are snares of death in this flesh closely laid?  
Henry the seventh, Emperor of Germany,  
By Poison in a Mass (foul fact) did die.  
But, sure, Christ's flesh, with Poison, ne'er, was mixed:  
True Life, not Death, is to Christ's flesh affixed.  
'tis strange, Christ's flesh i'th' Poison did not die:  
When venom in that Murthering-Masse did lie.  
I wonder, when the Friar, i'th' Fire, did throw  
The Host: whether Christ's Flesh he did it know.  
Fond fool, thy learned lectures thee confound:  
And thine own cords, have thee in snares fast bound.  
What need I strive t'oppose, Thee with my Shield?  
When thine own Sword wounds Thee, wins Me the field.  
If consecrated-Bread so altera●e,  
That Masspriests may God to Christ's flesh create:  
As many Lo●●es, so many Bodies be,  
As many Bit●, so many God● we see.  
And, when Christ (first) his Body made our meat:  
He did, himself, in form and substance eat.  
For, what he to his twelue-Disciples gave;  
Himself (I think) did eat; This, all Feasts crave.  
And (sure) that Vine whose Wine Christ then did drink,  
Gave plenty of our Saviour's Blood (I think)  
And, even so oft, as Bi●s, Christ's Body, be:  
So oft, his Soul from's Body torn hath he.  
For (I believe) his Soul they cannot bake:  
Their foule-mouth'd-Masse, thereof no power can take.  
If Thou'lt on points (as Vowels Vassal) stand;  
And not permit true judgement thee command:  
As Bread Christ's Body is (witness God's Writ)  
So is the Cup, his Blood; (Truth proving it.)  
Any Cup, forged, by any, any Art;  
To th' Testament in Christ's blood, doth convert.  
Nor was (O Christ) blessed Marie, more thy Mother,  
Than Goddesse-Masse would be to thee another.  
Nor were thy Bones (O Christ) broke on the Cross:  
But Popelings Teeth bruise, break them, short as Moss.  
Nor could one Body, all Christ's Guests suffice,  
To take least part thereof, their Souls chief price.  
And whilst heaven, earth, (at once) this flesh contain:  
His flesh continuous, Christ cannot retain.  
And, mouldy Bread (we all know) Worms will breed;  
Which, from Christ's Flesh ('tis plain) cannot proceed.  
And Wine kept long in Cups will (sure) wax tart:  
But, thy sweet Blood (O Christ) still cheers my heart.  
And in thy hand, crucified flesh, didst keep:  
(O Christ) before thou crucified, didst sleep.  
Who e'er doth strive these strifes to reconcile:  
Doth lose, abuse, his cost, and care, the while.  
Though the Pope's triple Crown thrice wreathed be:  
It cannot, from these Cobwebs, sweep thee free.  
Why strive I then, Mad-Masses fantasies  
To rouse to Me, or set before Thine eyes?  
Behold, I quickly come, (saith Christ, and yet,  
He comes not down, to be with men's teeth bit.  
Remaines, o'th' Passe-ore (once) were burnt in fire:  
Did they burn aught of God (then) I require?  
Once, without sprinkled Blood, Offerings were vain,  
And can a bloudlesse-Masse, God's love (now) gain?  
Over much Wine works Wit's intoxication;  
And hath Thy Blood (O Christ) like operation?  
When amongst these Masspriests, Wine with Water greets  
A Whay-like flood of Blood and Water meets?  
In shows of Bread, lies Christ's true Body here?  
And does the Same in many a Place appear?  
'tis All, in All, and All in every Bit:  
Yet, in this All, no Part, a par● doth sit.  
Head, Foot, Mouth, Shoulders, Stomach▪ hand and Breast,  
Conjoind by Place, ne'er disjoind from the Rest.  
Pendulous Signs of Substance void, stand still:  
Thus, doth this empty Air Their Hunger fill.  
Baker's bake flesh, which is with Blood well knod,  
So please the powerful Will of Rome's great God.  
Corn, the commands of this Masse-God, obeys;  
Bids he a Bit? the Bit turns flesh straightways.  
And when his Skill the Masse-Priest list to show,  
A coat of crumbs he gives and takes God fro.  
When Magic sounds the Misser once gives out:  
The flesh is fled, the Meal gone out of doubt.  
This Maker of his Maker, moves his Lips;  
And strait, the Bread into Christ's Body skins.  
A Change most strange, four wondrous words do emake:  
This comes, That goes; something, doth nothing take.  
When I, by Masses▪ Popes made Lasses, see,  
Then I'll believe, Flower turned to flesh may be.  
Here's no dimension of the Quantity:  
Sensible Bodies Sense cannot descry.  
No Rul● of sigh●, no set Position being,  
No judgement, Sign, of Things, no Real seeing.  
Whether we eat Christ's Flesh, clothed or bare,  
This, to disclose is Rome's Apollos●are ●are.  
For, when That Suppers Rites Christ did ordain,  

Or fine Linen.  Syndon or Priestlike clothes, he wore, 'tis plain.  
But Christ i'th' Supper, naked to eat, now,  
Neither Religion, Custom, Shame, allow.  
If we eat Christ in's clothes, in that array,  
What do we eat? is flesh a Garment gay?  
Had I an hundreth-fold Apollo's skill,  
Did Verses flow, like Oceans from my Quill:  
I ne'er could cleanse th' Augaean filthy Stable,  
Lernaean Fen, found in this monstrous Fable.  
The Bread being conjured, by the Masspriests mumbling,  
(As cursed Ghost) a headlong pace runs tumbling.  
The blessed Crust, being crossed, a fleshy-lumpe,  
Into Breads harbour joyfully doth jump.  
Strange things I tell: Priests blustering breath can frame  
Christ's Body, as it was, in All, the same.  
Imbaked in flesh, incarnate in the Bread:  
Christ, in the banished Meal, is covered.  
And, Who (said Tully, once) so void of Wit,  
Thinks, that, his God, which he eats at a Bit?  
Substance of Bread is transelementated:  
Yet nought's i'th' Bread, which was not there first stated.  
This flesh, lacks flesh; This ruddy Red's not Red;  
Much difference, here, 'twixt Flower and Flower is bred.  
Can flesh lack flesh? And must not Red, Red be?  
Who than i'th' Pope's Brains, Brains can hope to see?  
The same's, here, not the same, not known the same;  
Every Sense, here, deceives, errs, limps, is lame.  
The same thing's not the same, at the same hour;  
What e'er is, yet, Itself, strait, leaves self's power.  
This is my Body, Is not (if changed straight)  
The Body first t' a Bit doth alterate.  
The Subject fickle, Adjunct firm doth stay,  
Th' Effigial's fast, Material, flies away.  
Something makes Nought, a Body, Body makes not.  
What's done, is not done; what's formed, fashion takes not.  
If any main Madness, all others pass,  
'tis this, Rome's nimble slight, strange sight i'th' Mass.  
This monstrous Metamorphosies strange charms,  
Hath brotched abroad, uncivil, civil harms.  
All the Wind's blustering Battles, here, have met,  
Numberless Numbers, with cross Coiles do fret.  
Strife follows Strife; and, Errors ancient Crew,  
Though paired, impaired; yet hatched are Hydra's new.  
For th' Body of Christ, scarce is Christ's Church (O woe)  
A Body: thus from Peace great War doth grow.  
But here, we only sing the furious fight  
'twixt Rome's 
* Erichthonius was the son of Vulcan, having feet like a Dragon. There was also one Erichtho, a woman of Thessaly, famous for her multitude of poisons.  Ericthons' and 
* Andabata w●re certain Fencers that fought blindfold.  Andabats height.  
Who are these Champions whom their drink makes good:  
Bloodsuckers, and God-eaters, their dire food.  
Friars do sret, and Sophisters contend,  
Schoolmen conscold, and threats on all sides send.  
Discrepant Bands, their Banners pitched, flock, flow:  
Hoarse Academies vaunt; full theatres, lowd-low.  
Grammaticke wars do rage, yea wars indeed,  
Whence, last Opinions (oft) make, first to bleed.  
Grammaticasters rise, Munkes mighty swarms,  
Clatter together, man to man, arm in arm.  
Petrus de Quercu, pugnes, oppugned is he,  
By john d● Monte▪ both fight valiantly.  
Alphonsu● fumes, hot Hugo frets much more:  
Poor Polus pants, and Lyra loud doth roar.  
They which want Proofs, with wrangling clamours rave▪  
And seem even Mad, when they no Matter have.  
jodocus proves Fab'● improves, Occam approves;  
Scotus even foams at mouth; Thomas, war moves.  
Andradius, Driedo, Cathrin, Carthusian,  
With sharp confronts, each one doth play the man.  
Guido, Capistran, Sote, Cope, Canus stout,  
With upstart Errors, drive the Old-ones out.  
This, beats the Air, That's light makes all more dark:  
This, opes no Knots; nor That, can hit the Mark.  
The Victour's vanquished; Cutthroat killed by's foe;  
Assailed th' Assaylant; Wounder's brought to woe.  
Biell brings bloody Mars; Bellarmine great,  
Rome's Rabbi, wars, woes, blows and threats doth threat.  
Bonner, he bleats, Lindan loves Lullabies;  
Lombard belubbard, to's dull Doctors hies.  
Echhius and Hosius, Dorbell, Duns, at duel,  
Pighius grunts Pigge-like, Alan is most cruel.  
whosoever may belch whatsoever, against Whomsoe'er,  
Cadmaean troops by their own swords fall there.  
O Pope, world's winking-light, life's Rule, faiths Guide,  
Do even Thine-Owne; thy damned Decrees deride?  
With what brass Brow wilt Thou deny, so bold,  
This Duell-Champion-flocke, of thy Sheepfold?   

OF THE CORRUPT LIFE AND CONVERSATION, CUSTOMARY IN THE CITY OF ROME.  
THE SEVENTH SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
knowst thou not, in what City, sin (most) grows?  
He which but knows the crimes of Rome, This knows.  
PErchance thou'dst know the holy conversation  
Of Rome, renowned, for her sevenfold foundation.  
Old-Rome (if we may true Historians trust)  
Now in new-Rome lies buried in the dust.  
Papistry is a Sprig sprung-up from Hell:  
An All-vice-bearing Branch, whose Boughs excel.  
Rome is a Den of thieves, World's common-Stewes:  
A beastly Cell from whence all Sin issues.  
He, that knows not, Rome on seven Hills to sit:  
Is ignorant in Stories, hath no Wit.  
Why art thou wroth (O Babylon) with me?  
If, by my Verse, thy known Crimes scourged be?  
O Wedlocke-hater, whose anointed Host  
Of fat-cramed Clergy; war serves for thee most.  
So much dost Thou and thine sweet Marriage hate?  
Whores, before Wives, to Love and estimate.  
Thou, and thy Flocks are (sure) Spiritual:  
So much that Evil Spirit defiles you all.  
While Pope, Siricius, Priests their wife's gaine-saies:  
The Temples Sodom shield, to God they raise.  
Your Single lives, how chastely, closely led:  
Oft, Infant's Golgothaes' have witnessed.  
Oh how much better were their foul Vows broke?  
Than of Lewd Lives to bear so shameful Yoke.  
Masculine Virtues ne'er to Rome befall:  
Things carnal fit not men Spiritual.  
Oh, Rome's Faith all her Males Emasculates:  
The World, with Pregnant Virgins exornates.  
And that her most pure Church, may purer be,  
Pure Friars, from their pure Nuns pure Brood's may see.  
Many a nimble Nightmare Spirit is known,  
To make such pure Sp'rit-hanted Virgin's groan.  
Wives of their own they'll none, Neighbours have these:  
In such Flesh (may be) they can God well please.  
Religion, thus, hath foamed up Luxury:  
A Lazy Life bred many a Prodigy.  
But yet (I hope) Rome's Church and Chair to pleasure,  
Thais (i'th' Church) may justly purchase treasure.  
Besides, much Gain, much Godliness makes grow:  
No stinking Savour can from Lucre flow.  
Oh, must Rome's Corban, Temples pure profane?  
Must God take Gifts from Strumpets filthy gain?  
To horrid Whoredoms dost thou Pardons grant?  
From all good men all pardon thou must want.  
Captines have Freedom, not for Ill, but Good:  
This Freedom was procured by Christ's blessed Blood.  
But now, behold, huge Swarms from Rome's full stock,  
Rare Pomp Pontifical, Spiritual Flock;  
Myriad of Munckes, Armies of Eunuch's kind,  
All which twigs, sprigs sprung from thy Root, I find:  
Flocks of fat Sheep, large Droves of Wether's fair:  
Cling close to Thee, thy Warfare stout they are.  
So many holy Father's grave, thou hast,  
So many Nuns, angelic Virgins chaste:  
So many fat Papasinines unmarried;  
Grylls offspring, in religious Armies carried:  
So many Sister-hoods, Fraternities,  
As there be twinkling Stars in Frost-faire Skies.  
Devouring Sons in Numbers Numberless;  
Sardanapalus Bands, in foul excess:  
Legions of Locusts, Herds of holy Hogs;  
Foedifragous' full Flocks, Worlds muddy Bogs.  
Their old-Religion holds of nothing more,  
Than Bacchus and their Bellies to adore.  
Monsters, whom Virtue cannot free from Vice:  
Such as from fertile Rome, spring in a trice,  
To feast at funerals, and to drink pots dry:  
Is Work enough, is enough Piety.  
Much quiet, dainty Diet, Lazy feast-days:  
Their fatted Bellies like blown Bladders, raise.  
Feasters to be, not Fasters, they are known:  
Whose glutted Paunch so far is overgrown.  
What is a Monk? A Flesh-lump, A Wine-Pot:  
Whose Salt is Life, lest he corrupt and rot.  
Circe's (sure) turned, by Magic Medicine,  
Swine into Munckes, or else, Munckes into Swine.  
Betwixt Countrymen and Moules there's no such odds:  
As 'twixt old-Muncks, and our new- Munckey-clods.  
What's Friar's frothy Troop? A Stygian Brood:  
Pamphagean Swarm of Locusts, lacking food.  
Wise Graziers will not for one fa● Ox, buy  
A thousand two-foote, barefoot Friars most fly.  
Many seem proud, Christ's naked Name t'embrace:  
Whose wicked Lives deny Christ to his Face.  
Many are fired with Zeal, whose Piety  
Is but gilded over, Religion, Cruelty.  
Many of this Christ-preaching holy Host,  
Build Heaven in Word, in Life build up Hell most.  
Whoredom with these is a small-Sinne, and they,  
Guilty themselves, mild Mulcts upon it lay.  
Thus, Rome one Stews, these Staines permits in any:  
All Rome is (now) one Stews, where first were many.  
Bishops, sweet Swarms, in euer'y Cell, Muncks, Friars,  
Are Fathers, All; who this deny, are Liars.  
For, they that Children get, must Fathers be:  
I know theyare Such; This Reason's firm for me.  
Have I not stirred this muddy Ditch of thine?  
Shall I thee show the Pope's Guard soft and fine?  
Rome's Purple Peers, and Latian Cedars tall,  
Cardinal Chorus, glorious unto all;  
For Worldly joys, Earth's Toys no jot contending,  
Do even contemn, what each New-moon can send-in.  
With Visage Sage, Gowns Flame-like, red Hats fine:  
Oh how their Lives do show, their Zeal doth shine?  
But truly (truth to say) their purple Clothes,  
Wax red, being died in Blood and bloody Oaths.  
Christ's Lambs they Butcher with inhuman spite:  
Thus, their Robes red, thus wax their Bonnets bright.  
Redcap's, disdain pure Wine, drink ye pure Blood:  
The Spirit springing thence, is much more good.  
Thus, by such Ghostly guides Christ's Flocks are fed:  
And Cardinals Functions are thus finished.  
Thus, Christ they serve, thus Christians lives they live:  
Thus, unto Christ they holy Worship give.  
These Fathers fitly may be props of Hell:  
But, of God's House, they cannot, half so well.  
Why seek I Samplars? since full Stories writ,  
Rome's Fathers filthy lives set out most fit.  
Even Sol doth shame, their cursed Crimes to see:  
My modest Muse may now (then) silent bee.  
here, ofttimes fell a Star, from a clear Sky,  
A Cloudy Day brought unchaste Chastity.  
Roman Records do filthy Fogs exhale;  
Her Scene obscene is as a loathsome tale.  
Rome, Vicious Rome, the World's Metropolis,  
The Metrapolitan Popes foul Chair is.  
Gomorrha, scarce excelled it in strange Crimes:  
So many Sin-Monsters reign in their Climes.  
And, sure, but by that-fire which All must fry,  
Their frozen-Sins, nought else can liquifie.  
Rich Rome, for triumphs, Rome, most honoured:  
Is now the Empire's Tail, which (once) was Head.  
A Shambles of much Murder, Sink of Sin:  
Shames Cell, Lust's Seat, a place to quaff Wine in.  
Where you may many Harpeies', Mastiffs see:  
Where proud Ambition, fly Sedition be.  
Rome, thouart blest Salems' Character as right,  
As Christ is typed in thy Metropolite.   

OF THE COVETOUS BVYING AND SELLING OF ALL THINGS UNDER THE POPE'S Power and jurisdiction.  
THE EIGHTH SATYR.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
That Simon Peter was at Rome, Who knows?  
That Simon Magus was there, All Truth shows.  
OF Rules, reformed to strange got-gaine I write:  
Effected by the Pope's Command and Might.  
Who laps-up, wraps-up, all the world like Floods:  
Like Water scours, devours all Neighb'ring-Goods.  
A private Plague Rome's monstrous Maw doth fret:  
The more she gets, the more she gapes to get.  
Furred with Gold is every Popelings Bull:  
(As Loadstones Steel) This, yellow-gold can pull.  
Let Shavelings serve the Pope, their Patron grave:  
For, at his Pleasure, they their Treasure have.  
here, Ezraes' siluer-Sense, Moses doth open:  
To All, all wrong is right, if Gold they grope.  
Great Golden Glisters purge all Crimes committed:  
The Guilty, are by argent Agents quitted.  
Thus to the World affied, not crucified:  
Worlds thirsty Love, Rome's Father hath even fry'de.  
His Works He works by sacred Policy:  
But, these to God are Atheism most high.  
Christ's Throne is Heavenly, Heavenly things do muse:  
But Papal Pride, an earthly Throne doth choose.  
Yet, vaines this Choice, which chooseth Earthly things:  
For, by such choice, toward God he folly brings.  
Satan stalks, walks, seeking whom to devour:  
The same doth Rome's Cosmopolite each hour.  
That this Possessor poor may gape for more,  
'Twixt Riches, Rapine, his great Thirst doth grow.  
Bohemoth hopes to drink up jordan dry:  
And none Rome's gaping Gulf can satisfy.  
With unseen Shackles, Law-snares intricate,  
This sharking Sepheard, Sheep can captivate:  
Thy Church (O Christ) a Money-Mart He makes▪  
Seeks not thy Lambs, but Lands t' himself he takes.  
Good Manners, not great Manors God best prizeth:  
His Steward Manors Loves, manners despiseth.  
For, This Priests Polypheme and Atlas stout,  
By these Tricks, trimes & props Gods House throughout.  
Most craftily strange Grins and Gins he lays.  
His hollow-heart hath thousand wilie-ways.  
Of which, Gold-Bringer, bravest of them all,  
His Love, his Life, his Wife, He (well) doth call.  
His zeal is 
* Amphisbaena is a Serpent in Lybia, with 2. heads, one in the rig●t place, and the other at his tail, both ve●y poisonous.  Amphisbaena; serves two Lords:  
The World good service; God, he none affords.  
The Gifts of Good-gift-givers make them Popes:  
Who want at home, at home may sit, like Mopes.  
Vice-Christ, Laws firmes, and them repeals by Bribes.  
But, he God's Law, prostitutes and proscribes.  
john Baptist, Herod did forbid to wed  
His Brother's wife; This Popes have suffered.  
Paul became All, to All, a Soul to get:  
All Vice-christs' care is on his own gain set.  
Oh Christ, Thy Guests Thou'lt first invite, then urge:  
Thy Vicar, will them threaten, force, and scourge.  
Thy Head (O Christ) a Crown of thorns did tear:  
Vice-Christ, a Triple Crown of Gold doth wear.  
Thus, strangely better, is this Head Papal,  
Than Peter, Paul, john Baptist, CHRIST, and all.  
This Fee-Fowler, Wealth-watching Argus fly,  
Spreadeth Gold-catching Snares, most cunningly,  
Sinners by Sums being taxed; Is Coin so vicious?  
Gold (sure) is Heresy: T'have Wealth, pernicious.  
Thus, guilty-Gold, in Birdlime Laws is caught:  
And Nothing deadly, but a man t'have Nought.  
If Gold-death Antidotes, your dead, thou have:  
From deadly-Sin thy Soul He'll (surely) save.  
For, Rome's Bullipotent, indulgent Pope,  
All evil of pain and guilt removes, I hope.  
Touching least Trifles, he doth Laws ordain:  
All which are quickly void by precious Gain.  
The trunk is little, whence a Fly sups blood:  
And to the Pope least Laws bring greatest good.  
At Toys he'll rage, winks at most wicked things:  
If happy Gain fly forth with golden wings.  
Sins shackles shaken off, thou'lt quickly see,  
And pure Souls fly to Heaven, if Gold them free.  
Give to the Pope, and dare each damned deed:  
Actors foul Acts no punishment can breed.  
All's pardonable to Gift-givers' Alderman:  
Their Sin's as Vendible, as Venial.  
Thus theirs at Rome the Purses dire decay:  
But no soul's health, no forcing sin away.  
Give, Give, Give oft, this Romish Horse-Leach cries▪  
And, by her food, fierce hunger still doth rise.  
All unction, all compunction is from gold:  
And he wants Nought, that hath most yellow mould.  
Rome's Mother-Church, her Teats ties-up from none:  
By whose good Gifts, she fat and fair is grown.  
But, here observe (for this distinction stout  
With oft ingemination they giveout.)  
Peters chairs great, above all Laws his Might:  
And to the Pope God's power is due by right.  
A Sym●nist he's not, Gratis gives he:  
Give, and he'll Give; take thou, he'll sharer be.  
He gives to thee, thou to him, what's more clear?  
Thus, Love reciprocal must love endear.  
Why mention I, the traps, toils, money-Meanders,  
Of Rome's world-thirsting covetous commanders?  
Rome's vnfilled intricate Charybdis broils;  
And, though too wealthy, swallows wealthy spoils▪  
The Church of Rome, hath power Omni-potent;  
And lively liver-veines Omni-p●tent.  
Deformed R●les, enormed Rites, Rome's Court,  
Doth at her wicked will invent, support.  
Her Courts with wranglings ring, Goodness is whipped:  
Her tattling Troops, with Gold, their tongues have tipped:  
Gold-griping Eloquence pleads free from scathe:  
Such power Rome's Rhetorician (Riches) hath.  
Besides, at Rome (whens'ere no causes be)  
Cause-pleaders, strait, cause-coyners turned, you'll see.  
Here Lawyers may fell Laws, most lawfully;  
Because by Bribes a Lawyer's Bench they buy.  
In plodding Plebeians many matters, they  
Despise dispatch; device and watch delay.  
If Wealth come, Rome will welcome thy dispute:  
If thou bring nought, then stay at home, be mute.  
Wealth-wanting Lovers, Lais love in vain:  
And Rome loves none, that bring not gold and gain.  
Rome strains at Gnats, and swallows Camels down:  
The Guilty sh●'le forgive, on Guiltless frown.  
She'll vex poor Lambs, and let proud Lions go:  
For Wolves and Foxes faults, her Sheep feel woe.  
Thus, is Rome's Papal justice to be sold:  
And Goddess 
* jonis filia & Iustiti● Dea.  Themis to be hired for gold.  
The Pope's foul faults are facts Apostolic:  
His flocks frail facts are faults Apostaticke.  
Wonders I write: but what, has not Rome's throne,  
And all ore-ruling power of Bishops done?  
Great Grandsire, Guide of Guides, Rome's demigod:  
Thus are thy flocks ruled with a Golden-Rod.  
O how (besides Rome's Abaddon) th' art right,  
Nummipolizing Pope, Law-breaking wight?   

OF THE MOST FORMIDABLE AND ABOMINABLE POWDER-PLOT BY PAPISTS, WITH THEIR horrible authorized liberty to perpetrate any Villainy.  
THE NINTH SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
At Rome, by Rapine there's a Golden-Age,  
By Cruelty, there's still an Iron Age.  
WIth God's Law to dispense, makes deadly wounds;  
Yet, Rome does This, and All things else confounds.  
Right, Faith, and Troth, Oaths, Promises, Vows given;  
(These wronged, thou'lt say, are keys of hell, not heaven)  
She wrongs, unbinds, breaks, kicks at: thus past doubt,  
No Obstacle her free Decree bolts-out.  
Why should not she free all with others pelf?  
Who, all else (soon) dispenseth, of herself.  
Pope's will's a Gen'rall-Rule: dost do his mind?  
None then, thee Guilty of the Fact can find.  
Any, against Any, Any thing commits,  
Whilst God as Priest, the godless as judge sits.  
Parricides (once) against this Realm arose;  
And did a desperate damned Plot compose.  
A machinated Treason, strange and true:  
Whose like, no past, no future Times, can show.  
I quake to speak, my trembling Tongue sticks-fast:  
My hands do shake, my Muse is mute aghast.  
Twelve Ringleaders did meet, deep Hell's blacke-Band;  
A new strange bloody Birth to take in hand.  
At Rome 'twas shaped, Rome's Whore ' its Dam became:  
Monstrous Megaera Midwife to the same.  
The King, his Queen, the Prince, Peers, Bishop's grave,  
Superior and Inferior, Nobles brave;  
The Scarlet judges and wise justices;  
The chiefest Knights and choicest Burgesses:  
All pious Patriots, met in Parliament,  
On State affairs (as custom was) All bent:  
All these, by those base Traitors marked to die,  
(Had not Heaven's foresight made discovery)  
Smothered in Smoke into the Air blown up,  
Had drunk full draughts of deaths most direful Cup.  
O woeful, fearful, Stygean damned Act:  
Likest itself, paralelld by no fact.  
O mischief, murder, massacre most strange:  
New Snare, base Ware, brought forth from hells Exchange  
Nought under heaven was (once) new: but our time  
Brought forth a new, nefarious, monstrous crime.  
First was a Golden-Age (as Gods dear daughter:)  
As the Pope's Niece, a powder-Age came after.  
What sacred, sugared love at Rome there dwells?  
This father's love all Father's love excels.  
For, that we might not dead to heaven go:  
Alive, by Powder, he'd us thither blow.  
" These are the Briefs of Rome's Religion brave:  
" To make oneday all-Brittaine bring to grave.  
Rome's Monsters mouth and throat is large and hollow:  
And, at one draught, can many thousands swallow.  
O Popish cruel crew, inhuman, quite,  
Monsters in Gods, Monsters in all men's sight.  
As Peace perturbers, as Bloodsuckers, all,  
That see you, fly you, find you, from you fall.  
O woeful wrack, such and so many slain:  
This, work they would; but wrought their work in vain,  
Is this life-giving true Christianity?  
Is this firm faith, pure Popish Piety?  
Ill deeds to good-ends, None may enterprise:  
And yet may Rome do such that Rome may rise?  
Had all our heads upon one Neck (then) stood;  
As Nero (once) desired (Rome's man of blood:)  
That Neck, with one crack of sulphurous smoke:  
Had been smit-off, had not God stayed the stroke,  
O wretched Work, to which all woes are due:  
Great wrack, more great, than may be held for true:  
Who present saw All, noted, All, he saw:  
To trust all seen, his own eyes scarce could draw.  
With such fierce flames of quick sulphurous scathe,  
Doth Rome promove, approve her Cath'licke Faith.  
Alas, Christ's truth into King's Courts, ne'er came,  
With Swords, with Poisons, Pistols, Powder-flame;  
Covered with Satan's knavish-cloakes, to slay,  
Till Rome's Philistims grew so great, so gay.  
Did Peter fish for Kings in streams of blood?  
No, Belzebub can fish best in that flood.  
To be catcht-up in Blood, as Peter's fish,  
And pay so dear for Rome, I'll never wish.  
O thus, even thus, each Romish-Traitour, hath  
A Vault to hide his Treason, as his Faith.  
Oft bloody blasts from Rome's Tarpeian Tower,  
Broke forth, and did thousands of Souls devour.  
Fire-spitting Brats, igneous Ignatius bred:  
If Jesuits be his Brood (as so 'tis said.)  
Religion hath been ever fringed with fraud,  
And Piety been made foul Treasons Bawd.  
While Jesuits do what them the Pope hath bidden:  
Under their Mealy-mouthes foul Fiends lie hidden.  
The Church's Weapons (once) were Prayers and Tears:  
Rome's Weapons (now) Swords, Firebrands, Poisons, Spears.  
Viperous-Imps are in Rome's bowels bred:  
And truly barbarous, boisterous is her Head.  
Boasters in Blood, in Fire, in Swords, in Rapes:  
Thou'dst Papists judge; foul Devils in men's fair shapes.  
Though many props do Rome's Religion stay;  
Their Chiefest hold on Sword and Fire they lay.  
But, whilst thus oft their Flocks they fleece, overthrow:  
They Signs of Romish Faith and Falsehood show.  
Within, foul Crimes; without, Revenge they bear:  
Acts against Christ none vnauenged appear.  
Alas, why by two deaths, thought Tisiphone,  
On ours to prey, and then to slay her own.  
For, Rockey Peter's Chair, Faith's Rock to be:  
Thou, by Salt-Peter, Powder, Fire, wouldst see.  
But now, the World their Papal pranks espies:  
And Romish Rhea shames at her own Lies.  
Rome's Ram-like Actors came upon the Stage:  
But God opposed their hateful Active-rage.  
O Rome, thou buildest Nests; Birds, canst not hatch:  
Acknowledge then, God's Hands, God's Eyes thee watch.  
Thus Babel's brood her Birth could not bring out:  
Whereof prime pregnant Hope, made them past doubt.  
Damned Dirae sighed and hells furies fumed:  
Yea, Pluto's palace shook, as nigh consumed:  
Because their hellish hopes took none effect,  
And heaven did timely their deceit direct.  
Rejoice blessed Britain in this New-saluation:  
And keep That day with endless recordation.  
Christ freed thy Soul from hell fire, and this fire  
Than ever any flame, to hells, came nigher.  
That day which they Britain's blacke-Day would see,  
Novembers fifth, Britain's bright-day shall be.  
The day was Tuesday, but by Popish spite,  
Papists Ash-Wednesday, it had been more right.  
Daniel, delivered from the Lion's den,  
Had not such cause to praise God, as We, then:  
For, rage of roaring Lions, oft, is tamed:  
But, Rome's fierce Wrath is quenchlessely inflamed.  
For ever, then, fell Papists, howl, lament,  
Your Popish Powder-Pieties Intent.  
For, all the Ocean's floods will ne'er make clean  
(Perfidious Rome (thy knavish Sink obscene.  
England's Transalpinated Papistry.  
Hath wrought such oft Blood-smeared cruelty.  
Breeds our Transmarine Travail so light mind?  
Let's then by Law be to our homes confined.  
For doubtless, this detestable foul fact  
Was counselled, couraged, by the Pope's compact.  
For, he which bids do, what's almost done: he  
In's will doth work must stay't or author be.  
Had he not cast Paternal care from's heart:  
He'd ne'er have played such a Stepfathers' part.  
Who from his Bubble-bellowing Bulls boiles out,  
All Caco-curses, hellish Broils about.  
And thus he says: Let oneday England make,  
One Grave, whose note on future day shall shake.  
Vice's Viceroy, or Vice Itself, is He,  
Who, Peter Chair dares foul with Villainy.  
We read, that when the Highpriest used to enter  
God's Holyest-Place: without Blood he'd not venture.  
So, Rome's Highpriest unless some blood he taste,  
To's Shiloh Synagogue doth seldom haste.  
Thus one of many facts we have found out:  
Hear Others (now) not better Ones, I doubt.  
To All Sins, fuel this Dispenser finds:  
And much fine-Flowre out of Crimes-corne he grinds.  
Pope's Pardons purge foul Homicides most white:  
Makes blots and spots of bloody Daggers bright.  
And if, this Priest of Rome's rare Rock, dispense,  
Thou quit mayst sit free from all foul offence.  
Or, if the Laws strict Act thee guilty make:  
Death's deadly Act on Thee no hold shall take.  
Antichrists Bull and Christ's Blood are near kin:  
For, that, as this, pardons and pures All Sin.  
If Rome's blessed Bishop wars, wiles, perjury,  
Commands as just; just they are, instantly.  
For, the Pope's pleasure is all deeds direction:  
'Tis Law of Laws to yield him sole subjection.  
Thou, then, Who bids, not what He bids, take heed:  
And do his Will, with Courage and with Speed.  
And do his Will; for Christ did All Command,  
To the Lord God of Rome's high Hests to stand.  
His Fist, Arm, Shoulders, Warlike Engines are:  
Lest He grow Mad (then) have a special care.  
For, first, these regal Rites Christ Peter gave:  
And to Rome's Peter, Prot●-Pope most brave.  
But, Rome's rich Patriarch to be Peter's Heir,  
Saint Peter's Chair and Mitre, There, declare.  
All Crowns, Thrones, Kingdoms, through Earth's ample scope;  
Christ gave to Peter, Peter to the Pope.  
And He which Fathers moves, Himself approves,  
Patrician; But, He, Father Peter moves.  
Therefore, all th' honour Christ to Peter gave,  
Our Lord the Pope (I surely hope) must have.  
And, in prime Peter All rare Acts you see,  
Must this Petreian-Patrons Actions be.  
The word is vain, virtue comes not by kind:  
Saint Peter's offspring we excepted find.  
But, Peter's pious Life, and last Confession:  
In the Pope's Chair, find no Chair, nor Impression.  
Peter's faint-Faith (O Christ) Thee thrice denied:  
Full oft the Pope (Vice-Christ) doth Thee deride.  
Yet, Peter's tears showed Peter penitent:  
But, no man ever saw the Pope repent.  
Lastly, for Thee, Peter did gladly dye:  
The Pope thy Members murders cruelly.  
See, who'll deny the Pope to have (as due)  
Sure Shape, Staff, Stool, of Peter Martyr true,  
Rules not wise Palinurus in Rome's Ocean,  
Peter's tall Ship, without least Slip in's motion?  
Peter's Ship (sure) on many a Rock and Shelf  
He drives; and is the Ships worst Rock Himself.   

AN EPILOGUE OF THE ANTECEDENTS.  
THus Rome's Dictator All the World directs:  
Thus He Gods holy Bible, fowls, infects.  
Thus Sacrilegiously Gods Gifts he'll sell,  
Simon (not Peter) Magus matching well.  
Thus feigns he Fancies fond, Heretical;  
Of Heretics being Head Spiritual.  
Thus Monarches he to jars and Wars incites:  
And like a Martial Priest, with two Swords fights.  
Thus Pope's permission outlaws Laws most just:  
And Canons (when he lists) Canons forth thrust.  
Thus Cai'phas calls black white, wrong right, and still,  
All gain is good: and Lawful what He will.  
Thus Rome runs-ore with Wanes of Wickedness:  
Though God's wise Steward dwell there, nevertheless.  
Thus Pro-Christ, Procrust that rate Thief, is like,  
To Christ's true Type and Pattern most unlike.  
Thus He Christ's Work promoves by slaughters fly:  
With sitting still a Stock, Block, Dullard dry.  
Thus He sells Smoke, and turns his Lead to Gold:  
Thus finally He robbeth Christ's Sheep-fold.  
Is not this Prophet (think you) from God sent?  
Yes, sure as Night doth Daylight represent.   

OF THE HOLY RELIQVES, TRADITIONS, AND OTHER ADMIRABLE INVENTIONS OF THE CHURCH OF ROME.  
THE TENTH SATYR.  
The ARGUMENT.  
O how the Pope loves pretty pranks and toys!  
How Peter-Priests and Mitred-Men, Him joys!  
NOw, full fraught Legions, and prodigious Bands  
Of Rome's Patrician, hasten to our Hands; find,  
Whose pregnant Whore doth Rags and Relics  
The Universe with trifling toys to blind.  
Look at, and laugh at the fond Fantasies,  
This Fabling-Father means to Moralise.  
he'll show you many Nails (if truth han't failed)  
Wherewith Christ's Hands and Feet, to th' Cross were nailed.  
And of Christ's Cross a pretty piece, not rotten:  
Which pregnant Piece, hath thousands more begotten.  
Why do they not the Thorns, Nails, many more?  
And (as the Cross) Longinus Lance adore?  
gav'st thou (O Christ) the Church, thy Spouse, sure prizes?  
Her Dow'ry (sure) was no such Marchandizes.  
Traditions Caucasus so huge is grown;  
That Hi● great growth thy Church hath nigh o'erthrown.  
Rome's deepe-learned Doctors in Divinity,  
Make th●se, Religions firm Profundity.  
Traditions Pillars, prop Rome's Papal- Power:  
These fortify her gorgeous high-toped Tower.  
Much honour, hence, hath Rome's great Grandsire got:  
And of this Mould, hath made a glistering Pot.  
But by the dismall-doctrines which he preacheth:  
He is God's Traitor, and Himself ore-reacheth.  
Traditions ghastly Gorgon's he projects:  
And by these Rockey-Rules, men's Faith infects.  
Unwrit Decrees He with Gods-Word compares:  
Yea, them prefer 'fore God's Handwriting dares.  
A mere Inck-Doctour he is held most fit:  
Which knows and shows nothing but penmen's writ.  
With these poor shreds, this Latin Bishop frames  
A Figleaf Coat, to hide his Whorish shames.  
But I, Traditions loathsome Lees most vain,  
Spewed from Rome's Nauseus-Maw; spue-up again.  
The Scriptures (saith He) are not Faith's Foundation:  
Traditions are Faith's Basis, Propagation.  
Scripture is not Faith's Prop, Mainmast, Chiefe-Poste:  
Truth's Horologe, Rule, Canon, Guiding-Coaste.  
Nor was God's Word given, as Faith's guiding-Queene:  
But that it might Faiths Chambermaid be seen.  
The Pope's opinion is Faith's Conduit-Head:  
But by God's Word Man's Faith must not be fed.  
O proud presumptuous, vain, profane Decree;  
And which proves plain Asses-eares Popes Ears be.  
Yet anxiously almost All Popery rests,  
In untaught Teachers, blockish, brutish Breasts.  
Now comes the Scribbling Age, Arts honour brave,  
Rome's pretty Page, the Pope's fine fawning Slave.  
And many Wonders wondrously doth write,  
Whereto (in doubt) I Faith deny and plight.  
These Packs of Pickthanks, flattering Gnathoes base,  
With luscious Lord fatten the Pope's fat face.  
These are dull Doctors, as dull Carcases;  
He these fond Fools conforms, forms as he please.  
All these skinne-o're foul Antichrists deep wounds:  
But what's the Salve, when God the Sore confounds?  
The golden-Legends of their Saints they'll show?  
Whereof, He is most wise, which least doth know.  
For senseless Writs and sottish Writers rare:  
Rome long hath borne the Bell, past all compare.  
To which (devoid of Light and Learning quite)  
What Popes (each hour) put out, put in, is right.  
In wondrous witless wise, many seem wise:  
Who little teach, and less do exercise.  
T' Apollo's Kitchen I'd not bring their Books,  
But for Pie-papers, and for Spice for's Cooks.  
And their mad making many Books, I fear;  
Is it which makes me buy my paper dear.  
He which as forged Writings doth suppose  
Canons-Apostolike, with Truth he goes.  
But when Decrees, they Decre●als would call,  
God's true Religion, then, began to fall.  
Neither my Mars, nor my Mineral, may  
Their New-Religions oft divorce, diplay.  
Thalia, bite thy Nails, thy writings rend;  
For, onething yet will not thy Verse attend.  
Yet be courageous; courage much assists,  
With strong-armed hopes to re-attempt the Lists.  
Black and White-friar's, Priests, in gay Coats dressed:  
A two-foot Cordeleire a barefoot Beast:  
Friars Mendicants and Manducants increase,  
Fat Epicurean-Calues, besmeared with grease:  
All these fair Sprigs, fat Pigs, Rome's Sow doth breed:  
From Rome's most pregnant Dam, such Brood's proceed.  
here thou mayst see Christ's Name make many white:  
Whose devilish deeds make their lives black as night.  
Their hour's devotion is their devoration:  
And to their throat to give a fat oblation.  
But some do fast, that they by Fasts may merit:  
And thereby think (fond fools) Heaven to inherit.  
Each one his Sect observes obsequiously,  
Does Deeds forbidden, bidden Deeds doth fly.  
This Sect, wears Linen; That will woollen wear:  
This Sect, holds Fish; That, Herbs more holy fare.  
This baldpate narrow is; That's bald more wide:  
This, wears his Gown more loose, That's closer tie.  
This, Augustine serves best; That Benedict:  
This (O Carthusian) is thy Copesmate strict.  
This, bears the Cross, That bears the Cool about:  
This, is for th' Altar; That, for th' Kitchen stout.  
This (sweet Saint Francis) is thy follower bold:  
That, as his Slave, Saint Anthony doth hold.  
This, like an Auchorite, lives in a Wall:  
That, strange to th' World, loves the World most of all.  
This, to Hee-Saints; That, to Shee-Saints, doth pray:  
This, Woodden-gods; That, Stonie-gods makes gay.  
This, to things framed, feigned, pictured, prostrate vows:  
This, one knee; That, to's Image both knees bows.  
This, Christ's; That, Peter; This, Paul's Ape will seem:  
This, you'll an Ox's, Asses, Sow's Mate deem.  
Finally; fitly, coth ' 
* Bos, Fur, Su●, alq, Sa●erdo●.  Ox, Thief, Sow, Priest, meet:  
And many, hold this Sect to be most sweet.  
Yet every Sect thinks his Rites holiest:  
And, of all Orders, his to be the best.  
Divorcement of Religious Romanists;  
Their Faith may se●er, never firmly twists.  
There are, whom I 
* Suita, de Suc.  Suits; from Sows may name:  
For, they their Names from jesus falsely frame.  
These are Peace-spoylers; Bellowes for to blow,  
And Brands to kindle, flames of quenchless woe.  
This fraud-blood-borne base-brood, dissembles, feigns:  
And with sweet words to hide sharp Swords takes pains.  
'Ts enough, that they ye● Luther, Papists were;  
This is their Faiths and their Religious Sphere.  
See the Devotion of these brave Whip-bearers:  
How they with whips are daily selfes-flesh Tearers.  
Giving themselves forty Stripes lacking one:  
For, this in thee (O blessed Saint Paul) w●s shown.  
Francis (they say) Christ's wounds in's Body bare:  
To Rome's Stygmatickes, he's the Pattern rare.  
He only had with Christ Conformity:  
In's body therefore ●hey five-wounds can spy.  
I wish them, this devotion still to hold;  
This whipping-Cheere, Christ's Coat, thus bought & sold.  
But let their Whips three stinging Cords contain:  
And Tiburn-like, triangled Marks remain.  
But why do such huge Troops of Wenches throng?  
In Popish Camps, Their Covents, struggling long?  
Obedience (sure) and vowed Chastity,  
They there perform; true Popish piety.  
Nymphs strangely pregnant, this Religion makes:  
And from Maid-mothers' their sad burden takes.  
In many Cells, this Hell-Spawne Papal Crew;  
Vow-breaking Brood, their belly-gripes can show.  
If, in Rome's holy Coop, hat●ht-chickens peep:  
'Tis chaste enough, if closely they it keep.  
In every Cloister and religious Cell,  
Their order, Rites, and Rules, do all excel.  
Each, for Religion's Rule, his Order hath:  
Their Orders order Fools; disorder Faith.  
Mongst all their honoured Sects by Order graced:  
Rome's Order rules, God's Order is thence chased.  
Alas, doth Rome's Schismatic train by fractions  
Sound praises Harp, or discords Dram to factions.  
At Festivals approach, Good-Workes they praise:  
But to perform them use most long delays.  
Feasts ornate, onerate, each month, each day:  
That, all the year (almost) brings days of play.  
Then, with their Feet (not Hearts) to Church they go:  
Where prayers, performance, all their fingers show.  
And who'd not swear that they to Christ pray not?  
When, as amazed, they pray, but know not what.  
Thus they their frequent Matins Vespers utter:  
And Orisons to Hee-Saints Shee-Saints mutter.  
Thus, for Heart's Vows, Harps various harmony,  
They give to God, Songs for Sincerity.  
I oft admire, Rome's Bacchus-like oblation:  
'tis strange, yet see, things of more admiration.  
Pope's Bulls, Pope's Pardons, Oh how dear they be?  
Yet, this dear ware's not worth a Rush to me.  
Brave Balsam, th' Agnus-Dei, Fools to gull:  
I hold as dear as is a Lock of Wool.  
In Rome's rare Riches and facetious-Treasure,  
None but mere Madmen, or fond-fooles, take pleasure.  
He that is wise, Rome's Bulls, blown bubbles makes:  
he's wise, Rome's Fathers Led, as Feathers takes.  
What speak I of the Frauds and lying Tricks?  
From which, this holy Sire much money picks.  
Rome's Popes, the World's prime Pedlars, Chapmen brave,  
Much gain, from many Wares created have.  
Are Merry-Stewards of all sorts of toys:  
Chief Schoolmasters, of Schools of joyless joys.  
Yea, Rome's quick- Sight, such money-Snares doth frame,  
As, to relate, do want, Means, Number, Name.  
That gain may grow, and Rome may Riches see:  
Base Hucksters, Pedlars, Panders, Popes will be.  
Whatever Rome's fingers feel, his eye doth spy:  
His Heel kicks-at, is holier, instantly.  
For, from this holy Prelates spicey-lips,  
Into All-things, rare sweetness strangely skips.  
If Satan's filthy throat beltch-up Infection:  
The Pope from's mouth breathes forth a fine Protection.  
Besides, His holy Breath (strange to be told)  
Makes all his Sons, the Holy-Ghost to hold.  
Creating Masspriests, hands on them he lays:  
Breathes; then, Receive the Holy-Ghost, he says.  
Since Christ said, so; He must needs wicked be:  
Says, the Pope may not say't as well as He.  
What-so is Christ's, the holy Father claims:  
And, this▪ the Head of all sound Faith he names:  
For, whatsoever Gods-Word our Saviour gave,  
The Pope, Christ's Little-Ape, the same must have:  
As to jerusalem, an Ass, Christ bore:  
So, should the Pope ride Asses, Horses spare.  
Alas, oneday, would nothing near suffice,  
To reckon-up all Rome's fond Popperies.  
By great good hap, to hunt for store of Coin,  
The Pope hath got neat Gins and Engines fine.  
Since, never Bishop thrived by Subtlety:  
The Pope's Throne only thrives by knavery.  
Fair Marts of Arts, and Crafts to get much gold,  
He hath ordained; where mud for money sold.  
Antichrist, first Babe-like, than a Roarer stout,  
To his great Grandsire's dealt rich doales about.  
But, now, his Tributes have a Fever got:  
Which Grief, to cure, he must contrive a plot.  
What once was held jupiters' Image brave:  
Fishing Saint Peter's picture, now they'll have.  
But this I'd ne'er believe, unless my Creed  
With a strong Mountaine-moving Faith he feed.  
So strong, long, lose a Faith all Popelings find:  
To trust whatsoever Pope's wills their conscience bind.  
Peter's Conclave, long after him waned known:  
Nor Rome to be Pope's Sacro-sancted Throne.  
The Carriage of the Host, so up and down,  
Knew no such use, as now is come to Town.  
The Master of Rome's Market, sells vain things:  
And to God's House, he, thus, base Riches brings.  
He makes his Buyers, re-buy things fore-bought;  
And yet the Sale his wares abateth nought.  
He gives what's sold, what's given, he'll keep, he'll hold:  
And the something to many, at once, is sold.  
He frees, for fees, and (if the Pope thou pay)  
His pitteous-Pardon is thine own straightway.  
Rome's Broker (trust it) hath all sorts of ware;  
And Pearls of Bliss, for Gold, can soon prepare.  
Reprobate, run to Rome, for (there) behold:  
Heavens holiest Household-stuff thou'l● buy for gold.  
Was this rare selling-Trade given Peter tho?  
The Pope's Bull (sure) shall ne'er make me think so.  
But now of Wonders wondrous rare, I write:  
Unworthy Credit, worthy Fools to fright.  
In many Temples made of Marble Stone.  
Whereof proud Rome's big brags abroad are blown.  
Their Stones sweat Blood, their wood yields trickling-teares  
But he whose Faith here fails, is freest from fears.  
Their mumbling strange, makes devils, them obey:  
And can enforce fiends fast to fly away.  
Fairies, Hobgoblins, Witches, Fantasies,  
Can do no hurt, if the Pope play his prize.  
In holy Fonts, their Bells baptised are:  
Pay for a peal, and Spirits they quickly scare.  
Incense they burn, their Altars to perfume:  
Whereat the Devil soon flies forth of the room.  
Yea Rome's blessed Bishop by his sovereign skill,  
Can make the fiercest Fiend fly when he will.  
Satan would rage-about, his Chain being broke,  
If Rome's rare Art did not that youngster yoke.  
Much talk they have of holy-Waters good:  
Whether it's not more powerful than Christ, blood?  
For, from sin's spots and blots it frees the soul:  
And Satan's malice quickly can control.  
If sprinkled with this holy-dew, thouart blessed:  
For, of all Liquors, this is purely best.  
Hemerobaptists, Papists rightly show:  
Who, madly must, each day, have holy-dew.  
O Puppet-playing Papists, Triflers vain:  
Crafts-Enginers, Deluders, most profaine:  
He (I believe) which taught you this blacke-Art:  
Than Satan's self, plays better, Satan's part.  
Holy Lambswool, is very dear sold:  
This, the Pope's Cassock makes more rich with gold.  
If the Pope sell pure Wax, it purgeth Sin:  
This truth, than Truth it self more truth must win.  
With the Pope's finger, to be blest is rare:  
Deny this, and deny Seven Stars there are.  
O what great power, hath holy Unction, spital,  
Honey and Milk, to Grace? sure, 'tis not little.  
But, if thy fiercest foes the cross do spy:  
This conquering Sign, will (surely) make them fly.  
Her circumspective care doth cure, keep All;  
Is the soul's Target, Tower, to save from thrall.  
I wonders write: By it, the world is guided:  
And with the cross, Christ hath his Crown divided.  
Not Christ's coats hem, not David's harp, to God;  
Sea-cutting Rod:  
Unto the Cross, in power, half equal were,  
For, it, even Gods own might and grace doth bear.  
When to the Cross Christ's Body was made fast:  
God's power upon it (doubtless) then, was cast.  
Fly Birds i'th' Air? A sign o'th' Cross is made,  
By their spread wings; by which sign, They are stayed.  
By Sails and Masts, cuts a ship Neptune's waves?  
Even these do, make a Cross, and this, it saves.  
The Ploughman with a Ploughshare, ploughs the ground:  
A blessing-Crosse, there, also (sure) is found.  
A Crosse-line cuts the heavenly Axletree:  
In Heaven the holy Cross (then) figured see.  
On the Seashore men do a Cross erect:  
The waves thereby That bound to pass are checked.  
Poison, though drunk can do thee no great ham▪  
If, with the sign o'th' Cross thy lips thou charm.  
Great Father, worthy Fauter of the Cross:  
One question of It 'twixt us, let us toss.  
If, in the Cross, the evill-sprite fears aught:  
It must the matter or the form be thought.  
Fears he the matter? why then d'ont the sight  
Of Pyles of Wood, Stones, Metals, him affright?  
Fears he the form and merely figured frame?  
Why then do not all house-crosse-beames him tame?  
A mad Crosseworship than mad-Zeale displays,  
When in the Cross, a Cross to be she says.  
But yet, the Crosse-waxe, which Pope's Bulls do wear,  
Is most unlike the Cross, which Christ did bear.  
O Rome's dear Dedalus, expert in toys;  
Who, Wealth to win from fa● Farms, them, employs:  
Thinkst thou thus fond me to Foolifie?  
To trust thy Tricks as Truth's sound certainty.  
My Head (I then) should hold blunt, void of wit:  
And wish thy Triple-Crowne thereon to sit.  
Now with thy Nifles, Trifles, relics vain,  
'Tis time to end, since they no end contain.  
For, thou with all, all sorts of relics rare,  
Gods holy Temple to profane dost dare.  
Thou searchest Tombs, thy Relics to increase:  
Not suffering buried Bodies rest in peace.  
Thus thou to th' unknowne-land of Relics goest:  
And all thy Relics all the World-ore showest.  
Thus what with Relics and such superstition,  
To thee (O Christ) they scarce can give admission.  
Yet, all is sound Religion: for, hereby,  
From the Pope's Coat, all error's forced to fly.  
Thus, he t' himself alone Christ's Church fast chains:  
Here, dwells pure Truth; here, Faith, no Fraud remains.  
And now the Old-worls musty Householdstuff,  
Brings to my ready Muse, Matter enough.  
Much, now, swims-up, which, sunk to th' bottom lay:  
And store of Rubbish shines, now, clear as clay.  
The Image brave of grave Antiquity,  
Hath Signs of new, Signs of true dignity.  
Old Laws, old Saws, Primitive-church, most sure,  
All old-Traditions, old-Religion pure:  
All are at Rome, seen plain, yet dost thou doubt?  
Pure and sure Faith to dwell, all Rome throughout?  
Why, hence, 'tis plain, they Faith retain, that they  
Have Gods pure worship banished quite away.  
And Rome for all her new-come Novelties,  
Strait brings out Signs of old Antiquities.  
And hereby Papists, Gibeonites, are grown:  
For, All that's theirs, is old, and ancient known.  
That gentle Asses-taile, which Christ bestrid,  
They have with Gold and gorgeous gems quite hid.  
Joseph's cast. .coatess, times Teeth, have torn and worn:  
Yet, Signs of their first-beautie, 'bout are borne.  
A Pot the Virgin Maries Milk doth hold:  
O 'tis dear Ware, indeed, and dear sold.  
Much mouldy Masse-Hosts in hid Pixes lie:  
Which smell of Mice-prodigious Battery.  
He which doth sacred Zions wealth, call these;  
Let him Milk Wasps, and join together Bees.  
Yet, lest Rome's Mill grind thee to powder small;  
Though Faith may fail, thou must believe them All.  
So many Bones, they'll of one Martyr show;  
That (past perhaps) the like in no Ox grow.  
And oft for Martyr's bones, such bones are shown,  
As formerly, were Hogs and Dogs bones known.  
Scarcely one tomb, one corpses leave keeps;  
So quick, each relic from Sepulchers creeps.  
Rome, teeming Rome of fraud and cozenage full:  
These Guiles holds godly, grossly men to gull.  
But He that's well in's wits, spits at them all:  
And smites them with God's Sword Spiritual.  
Alas, how much of Christ's most holy Blood,  
Is daily drunk by Rome's dry Saints so good?  
Yet, a poor drop of Christ's his blood most pure,  
This zealant Bottles-up (believe it sure.)  
This rank Religious Prelate puissant,  
These things to please God wondrously, doth vaunt.  
But I believe no Pythagorean-Asse,  
Nor his brute thundering Threats a pin do pass.  
Delphic Typhaeus, rattling rage, I scorn;  
His deadlyest drams (if not drunk) may be borne.  
His comb is cut, his power impaired, of late,  
Nor butts he half so hard with's three- crowned pate.  
This great Cumanus, yerst, did Monarches fright:  
But, since his horns were hewed, they scorn his might.  
For, Vulcan's Caecus, vomits but in vain;  
Fumes with fond fury, flames, which, Most disdain.  
Yet, Rome's Law-giving Moses horns hath left:  
Only, He's of noah's noble Ark bereft.   

A CORROLLARIE TO THE PREMISES.  
MAny more Marvels marvelous  
In Rome are kept most Curious,  
Which in a Bundle and brief Scope,  
I'll binde-up closely with a Rope.  
Christ's Girdle, Shoes, Coate, Hair, they have,  
His Nightcap, Napkin, Shirt, they save:  
Last Suppers household Implements,  
His Cradle, wounding- Instruments:  
His Crown of Thorns, the Sponge and Reed,  
His Sheet, Whip, Lance that made him bleed.  
Our Lady's Hairlace, Slippers good,  
Comb, Girdle, Gown, Ring, Cloak, Hair, Hood;  
Much, given by Will, to th' Triple-Crowne,  
Pure, precious Things, her gay Silke-Gowne.  
john Baptists Head, kept with great care,  
Saint Peter's Key, Crook, Sword, and Chair:  
Full many Stones, that Steven slew,  
Old- shewred, sure, pure Manna-dew:  
The Holy-Ghosts Claws, Wings, and Bill,  
Michael's Sword and Buckler still.  
Of Euch'rist jarres, large Histories,  
Entities many, Quiddities:  
Inexplicate, Inextricate  
Contentions how to consecrate.  
Pope's Palaces and Princely Courts,  
Crimes Sanctuaries, Sin supports;  
Vice-teaching Schools, ills Engineers,  
A Shop of shameless Slanderers.  
A gaping Gulf, great Giants-court,  
A College where Prey-Birds resort.  
A House of boisterous blustering Winds;  
A Seed-plot for Seditious-Minds.  
A filthy Mart of Holy-things,  
Which to God's house abuses brings.  
A fierce Confounder of firm Faith,  
Which Rome's most rammish Father hath  
Abolished quite, by devilish Dreams;  
And thereby quencht-out Truths bright Beams:  
That Catacath'licke Popes might place  
Rome's Cacolike Religion base.  
Religion, veterate, false, ill-bred,  
Past all Hell's Spel● that ere I read.  
A dead, deformed, f●ultring Faith,  
Blunt, blockish, which no Groundwork hath.  
Hid Mystery of Iniquity,  
Masterpiece of Impurity.  
Many a Souls unsavoury Me●te;  
Wormwood to All that thereof eat.  
Sweet Nectar most pestiferous,  
A deadly Drug pernicious.  
Covents in Combats duellizing,  
Papisticke Armies martiallizing;  
With Censures censuring diversely  
As with Foes Blows even forced to die.  
And many Scotists and Thomists,  
And Occamists and Gabr'ellists.  
And Nominals, Reals not Any,  
And Syllogists, and Critics many.  
And many Muncks and Seculars:  
And Regular Irregulars.  
And many sottish Censurers:  
And many sly Ly-Enginers.  
And many Rolls of rare Decrees,  
And many Romish Vanities.  
And many Lightning sore Complaints,  
And many thundering strict Constraints.  
And many Sects and Sophisters,  
And many bawdy Bachelors.  
And many Saints most inquinated,  
And many Anointed and Bald-pated,  
And many burnt with sacred Zeal,  
And Foes & Fools to th' Common-Weale.  
And Parricides and Regicides,  
And Demi-Gorgon Popes beside.  
And many Cardinals Coped in Red,  
And many a proud vainglorious Head,  
And many decked with Mitres, Rings,  
And many Whores, and fat Kitchens.  
And many Hee-Saints, Tombs most rare,  
And many Shee-Saints, Chapels fair.  
And many Idols, and Colossuses,  
And many Masses, Asses-Glosses.  
And many Head-Bana's, and Head-tires,  
And many Droves of fatted Friars,  
And many Mitres, many Hoods,  
And many, more, most impious Goods,  
And Bishoprics, mere Mockeries,  
And Bishops, Papal Trumperies.  
And monstrous Lies of Miracles,  
And of Loud- Lies strange Oracles,  
And Toys to load three-hundred Barks.  
O then, Who-e're These sees and marks,  
Must needs cry-out in admiration,  
O Rome, the Wonder of each Nation▪  
Deo soli omnis gloria.   

UPON THIS BEEHIVE OR HONEYCOMB.  
THis book's a Bee, not Elephant: Much Gain  
The Readers Care, not Writers Crop, may bring;  
Small Bee●, small gems, small Pearls, much good contain;  
Is Thy small Good (small Book) a base Thing?  
Fools in their Breasts (as Chests) Envy do treasure;  
But in such Riches (Reader) take no pleasure.  
FINIS.