THE Apostate Prince: OR, A satire Against the King of Poland.  
By Richard Burridge.  
LONDON Printed, and are to be Sold by most Booksellers. 1700.   

THE Apostate Prince: OR, A satire Against the KING of POLAND.  

NOW, like a Porcupine, I dart my Pen  
Against the least of Kings, and worst of Men,  
What Sat'rist can forbear the lashing you,  
Who neither will to Man nor Heaven be true?  
Who ran from Saxony to cruel Rome  
Only the Throne of Poland to assume,  
That ticklish Seat of Empire; which allows  
None there to Rule, but what will pay their Vows  
To such like Saints, which commonly departed  
The World upon a Ladder, or a Cart.   

Fie, fie, a Christian Prince his God betray!  
Change his Religion, the Apostate play,  
For such a Diadem which must not be  
Entailed upon your Line successively?  
The Jews, the Turks, who falsely do believe,  
Do Laugh to see your Faith pinned on your Sle●ve;  
And I do fear, you will, as Pride does Swell,  
Turn Atheist next, to be a King in Hell.   

Scandal to Princes, scorn of Kings, and shame  
To Christendom, infernal is thy Fame!  
A Prince affront his God with Deeds so foul  
That they slain Heaven, and deform the Soul!  
O horror, and amaze! what hast thou done?  
My Blood congeals, and scarce has power to run,  
To think thou art to Pride, that base born Slave  
Of Hell, so much a Friend, that you can leave  
A Church so well Reformed so True, Sincere,  
Pure, Orthodox, and Holy, to adhere  
To that Communion which does Canonize  
Men for nefurious Impieties;  
To make their Peace with God, invoke the Dead  
Stanislaus of Polish Saints the head:  
But good St. 
† There are many Saints whose Aid and Assistance they Implore in particular Diseases, and Distemper of Body; as St. Venisa for the Green-sickness, St. Liberius for the Fistula, St. Flacrius for the French-Pox, etc. See Stopford's Pagano-Papismus, Chap. 4.  Flacrius, I do suppose,  
You call on most, that he may guard your Nose  
From those Disasters which attend the sport  
Of Venus, in a lustful Prince's Court.   

Into what Errors are the Papists led!  
To think their Jugglers do release the Dead  
From Purgatory; it's a feigned Flame,  
Which doth such simple Fools as you are Tame.  
As under every Poplar, Elm, and Oak,  
The Ethnics did their senseless Stocks Invoke;  
So they to Images, and 
† At Fouchial in Madera, I have seen the Picture of our Saviour carrying his Cross, painted on the outside of one of their Churches; to which the Portuguieze paid so much Veneration, that they kneeled in the open Street, and sang before it for near a quarter of an Hour: O superstition exceeding the Heathen!  Pictures bow,  
As if they Sense had got their Zeal to know.  
Your Priests drink Wine, give Laymen only Meat;  
O Romish Faith! itit's but a holy Cheat.  
Pray, what avails 
‖ Stopford again tells us in these words, cap. 17. In some Churches the Candles are put out with a Wax hand, which signifies the hand of Judas, which was as it were of Wax; that is, flexible to evil, by which Christ our King, and true Light, was Betrayed, and, as much as in him lay, Extinguished.  Wax-hands; Indulgences,  
Censers, Odd-numbers (damned Fopperies!)  
Towards Heaven? Or, what Grace doth Flagelling,  
Crossing with Holywater, to you bring?  
None: Nor does Agnus Dei's Sir, preserve  
You from Enchantments; from the Truth you swerve.  
Your Beads will serve you, as a Scale, to tell  
How many Miles it's from Warsaw, to Hell.   

Apostles Christened Men, as Scripture tells,  
But Rome, as well as Men, do Christian Bells.  
If Pilgrimaging merits Heaven, take  
A Trip to England, for the Blessing sake.  
Here may you see fair Winifria's strange Well;  
And old St. German's, where he once did dwell;  
At Canterbury base St. Becket's Shrine,  
For the deserved end of which Divine,  
A King was Flauged; here may you likewise see  
Tyburn, that triple, consecrated Tree;  
From whence, St. Coleman, Whitebread, Pickering,  
And Langhorn, went to Heaven in a String.  
Since for a better we our King did change,  
A Chapel has been (you will think it strange.  
' Cause not Lorettoes) brought from Heunsloe-heath,  
Eleven Miles, it's true, upon my Faith.  
But if strange Relics you've a mind to see,  
You must tramp France, proud Spain, and Italy,  
And other foreign Parts; though once we'd here  
A Nail, which fixed Christ to the Cross; a Spear,  
With which Longinus pierced our Saviour's Side,  
When he between Two Malefactors Died.   

The Lustful Flames of Whoring Carmelites,  
Proud Cardinals, Rich Abbots, Lazarites,  
May make you dread those endless pains of Fire,  
They represent by lecherous Desire;  
To prompt their Fury of debauched Heat,  
They need not 
† He tells us from another Author, cap. 18. Many lecherous Men and Women resort to Compostella, to eat Scallops for the kindling of Lust, and increase of Nature, under the name of a Pilgrimage to St. James his Shrine.  Compostella Scallops eat;  
Their Heat without 'em Swells their burning Veins,  
And, where their Host is consecrated, Reigns.  
The Nunneries, where Parents Daughters thrust,  
And Maidenheads are sacrificed to Lust,  
They're to your Clergy, dedicated Stews,  
There handsome Paramours they pick, and choose;  
What need Maids to be Whores range Christendom,  
When they may be as well Debauched at home  
For nothing; without acting that damned Crime  
Of sending 
‖ H. T. in his Abridgement of Christian Doctrines, being one of your own Writers, that unbaptised Children dying, go to the nethermost part of Hell, where they endure the sense of Loss, though not of Pain, and are ever excluded from the Face of God.  Babes to Hell, Rome's natural Clime?  
Was Blood upon each murdering Nun to fly,  
As Judgements to detect Barbarity,  
They could not then about their Gardens tread,  
But Vengeance would spurt from the private Dead  
In reaking Wrath of stifled Infants, Blood,  
To drown their Parents in a crimson Flood.   

Perhaps the Pope's Infallibility  
Makes you to be in love with Papistry;  
But, knew you all that Hist'ries of 'em tell,  
You would not run so fast with them to Hell:  
The Lives of John the Thirteenth, Hildebrand,  
And others, put the Devils to a stand,  
For fear their Pride, and grand Impiety,  
Should claim o'er Spirits, a Supremacy:  
Such as will take from Emperors their Right,  
For that Prerogative in Hell will Fight.   

But, hark you me: Another Trick they do,  
They Make their God, and then they Eat him too.  
If Rats, or Mice, should chew this holy Meat,  
The Creature than does the Creator Eat;  
This Metamorphosis is very odd,  
Lo, Bread's made Flesh; a Priest can make his God;  
That Wine they can so soon to Blood convert,  
Surely it must be done by Magic Art!  
What Prodigies of Sin!— These Poisoners shun,  
And, to the healing Balm of Luther run;  
Leave Poland, and then let the Diet choose  
One purposely bred up his Soul to lose.   

Although by Bell, by Book, and Candle, they  
Will curse you, if you'll not their Church obey;  
Laugh at their slight anathemas, and hate  
The Pope, whom God does Excommunicate.  
Like our first Martyrs (with immortal Praise  
May it be spoken) in Marian days,  
None of our Pastors of the Church of Rome,  
Walking with Crooks, and Mitres, durst presume  
To hazard the Salvation of their Souls  
On spurious Faith; the fear of Death controls  
Their foolish Doctrine; tells 'em, if they die,  
They die great Villains to assert a Lie.   

Base Profligate, your Honour Heraldry  
May justly paint with black Iniquity;  
Yet other Colours may, as Emblems, show  
That many Qualities belong to you.  
Gules in the first place may adorn your Arms,  
To show, a bloody Faith your Conscience charms.  
Next Or, to show you're Impudent and Bold;  
Your Heaven to hazard for a Crown of Gold;  
Then Vert, to signify, at any time,  
Your mind is Fresh, and Brisk, to act a Crime  
For Interest; the Blazon, let it be,  
Set out with all the marks of Infamy;  
Two Jesuits, the Supporters; on each Hand,  
The Motto, God and Justice I withstand.   

Arouze, ye drowsy Imps, and do not Sleep;  
For, if a Register of time you keep  
In Hell, now change the Epocha, and Year,  
A New-Style make, as well as Papists here;  
And when Old-Nick does find such silly Fools,  
Who will for Wealth, or Honour sell their Souls,  
Much after this same form, And manner, let  
The Bond be Signed; and hereunto I set  
My Hand and Seal, the first of June, N. S.—  
In the third Year, since Fredrick's Wickedness  
Revolted from a true Belief, which made  
Infernal Markets have but little Trade.   

Though Hell's Applause you have, yet, when you Die;  
Satan will have a very careful Eyë  
Over your most perfidious Soul, for fear  
Your growing Pride should snatch at Empire there;  
He knows, with Oaths, you'd make the Damned believe  
Strange Matters, and the Wits of Hell deceive,  
With sugared Words, till your usurping Pride  
Had got the Brimstone Forces on your Side;  
Then every Day you'd lessen more and more  
His Strength, as you had Conti's heretofore.   

I am afraid in your dull frigid Clime,  
There is approaching a distracted Time,  
Wherein the Wrath of Heaven will soon Rejoice,  
To plague you for the Crown, the People's Choice.  
But what care you, brave Champion for the Pope,  
Who dreads no Vengeance, nor for Bliss doth hope?  
For one short Moment of Regalian Sway,  
High Heaven you would, though damned for't, Disobey.   

Were you by th' Turk's Besieged, too hardly pressed,  
For Liberty, or for a Crown at least,  
You'd Swear, till Oaths from Hell, did Devils draw,  
The Alcoran were truer than the Law:  
To Moses you'd prefer his Mahomet;  
(Who, in his pendant Tomb, at Moecha, yet  
Deceives the blinded Turks) Swear him alone,  
Greater than the World's Saviour on his Throne:  
Swear that the Musselman's true Sanctity,  
The unbelieving Christian does Outvie:  
A Thousand other Falsehoods Swear too, which  
Shall raise your Fame in Hell t'a higher Pitch  
Than tottering Poland's Throne; whose Steps ascend  
To Ruin faithless Princes in the End.   

Perhaps, now Crowned, you think, your Greatness can  
Protect you from the common Lot of Man;  
Tho' Kings are styled Gods, yet must they Die,  
Their Sceptres, Riches, Crowns, nor Dignity,  
Can't save them from the Power of that Fate,  
Which will not grant to Life a longer Date:  
Nay, had you all Endowments, which adorn  
The Mind, or Body, Death such Gifts will Scorn:  
The Beauty of Young Absalon; or Age  
Of Lamech's Son; the Policy of Sage  
Achitophel, nor Height of Saul; the Son  
Of Kish, the Wisdom of King Solomon;  
Or matchless Strength of Samson, could not be  
Defence enough against Mortality.   

I'm apt to think thou'rt wicked Julian's Ghost,  
Who, in the middle of a numerous Host,  
Smitten by God, fling up, towards the Sky,  
Handfuls of Blood, to show he did Defy  
The force of Heaven to the last: But now,  
Some hurly burly-being raised below,  
Among the Damned, you have stolen away  
From those dark Shades, into the Beams of Day:  
If Man, you must descend of that Fell Wretch,  
A Monster whilst on Earth, who was no Sketch,  
But perfect Picture of as horrid Crimes,  
You count the Glory of the Present Times;  
Who would, when dreadful Thunderclaps broke through  
The Mounts of Heaven, and swift Lightning flew  
About the limpid Air, in proud Disdain,  
Throw counterfeited Thunder back again,  
To make Resemblance that his Majesty,  
Was equal to the Powers of the Sky.  
That you might see your Errors all, and fear  
The Scourge of God, I wish, there might appear  
Comets, extending frightful, blazing Tails,  
A Navy which through Clouds of Fire Sails;  
Warr'ours in a confused Enmity,  
With stranger Apparitions in the Sky,  
Which might portend some heavy Punishment  
Was due to you, unless you do Repent:  
But, ah! I dread, thou'rt too much hardened in  
The Love of Monarchy, thy darling Sin;  
Good Counsel you will spurn against, and count  
Them all as Foes, who'd have you to dismount  
Your Ivory Throne; a Bliss, you think, so good,  
That God in Competition with you stood  
About it, if he should Displeasure show,  
By dire Signs, which from his Anger flew.   

Who would, besides yourself, have all this Shame,  
Only to be a gaudy Thing in Name?  
Power you've none; for the Republic Rules  
As it thinks fit; Crowns are but lent by Poles:  
Your Queen durst not be there, unless, like you,  
She'll headlong damn her Soul, and Body too:  
Because a Gentleman, they let you wear  
A Sword, but of your drawing it take care;  
For, if you offer there to be Uncivil,  
They'll drive you, and your Saxons to the Devil.  
Such is your high Ambition, (which would feign,  
By grand Rebellion, over Angel's Reign)  
That Laws of Nations, Bonds, and solemn Leagues,  
No influence have on you, your dark Intrigues  
With Hell, in whose behalf you draw your Sword,  
Make you, with Kings and Princes, break your Word  
Your Pride, with which you meet your Glory, can  
Deceitful be to God, as well as Man.   

Does Hell, and Rome, already stir you up  
To fill the ever-thirsting Harlot's Cup?  
With Blood of Innocence, without a Cause,  
Damned, and be double damned your bloody Laws.  
Must Lifeland now be Plundered, Ravaged,  
Made a Sepulchre for the Massacred?  
The Streams of sweet Duina be Entwined  
With Romish Rage, and under Blood Confined?  
It's hard, but Riga will, (I do not doubt)  
For Sweden's Honour, hold your Fury out.   

If you Dominion over them should have,  
Rogues sent to Galleys, or an Algiers Slave,  
Would have less Bondage; so they'll Freedom choose;  
Rather than, like the French, wear Wooden Shoes.  
As a Bassaw, when some Deaf Mute doth blow  
The Fatal Trumpet at his Door, and show  
The Sultan's Ribboned Orders, for his Head,  
Trembles, wax Pale, and, with the Fright, half Dead,  
Resigns his Life, Resistance being vain,  
Against the force of a Despotic Reign;  
So to great Taxes, must the Swedes than bow,  
And not presume to ask, why it is so;  
Sic volo, & sic jubeo compels,  
When Vassals, to obey against their Wills:  
Nay, more than this, your Rage will Violate  
Those Holy Altars, which they Consecrate  
Unto a Sacred Deity, that's true,  
And not to Saints, their Fathers never knew.   

Have we, like They, a ten Years War maintained  
With France, till we that Throne had almost drained  
Of all its Wealth, for weeping Europe's Good,  
Made Flanders Drunk, and Reel with Humane Blood:  
At Ryswick made an Honourable Peace;  
And, shall not Wars yet in her Bowels cease?  
To please the Humour of your hellish Reign,  
Janus must open all his Gates again.   

Is this the Thanks which Caesar has, to bring  
To all the Universe Peace-Offering?  
Has he, for this, so often crossed the Main,  
(Where Neptune Homage paid, and all his Train)  
To Face the French, and make the Eagle fly,  
With Olive, from the Crescent Enemy;  
Ventured his Life for all, without Excuse;  
Fierce Ireland in Person did Reduce;  
Where that Attempt, performed at the Boyn,  
To everlasting Story Fame will join:  
There in the great Exploit, a Random Shot,  
(Which had its dying Orders near forgot,)  
Did Wound the King, but God the Fate withstood,  
It being not designed for Royal Blood:  
Virtue and Fortune seemed to contend,  
Which of the two should be his greatest Friend;  
Angels, amazed to see him Baffle Fate,  
With Crowns of Laurel did upon him wait,  
To all his Foes, his Presence (like the Soil,  
Which Poisonous Infects Kills) was Killing; while  
The Hero rushed through Blood, and Smoke, to Fight,  
The Unsuccessful James did take a Flight,  
To tell the News to Him, which doth supply  
His wants, more for the Queen's Dexterity  
In Bed, than out of Pity to the Fate,  
Which has reduced him to so mean a State.   

Now think but what our KING has undergone,  
That Europe might not be by France undone;  
How He has broke her Chains of Misery,  
To set her free, for all Eternity;  
Then Thoughts would quickly to your Conscience tell,  
To break her Peace deserves the Pains of Hell.  
Without a Cause to Gore thy Neighbour's Prince!  
All Kings should join to punish the Offence.   

Deserter of the Faith, what hast thou done?  
False Judas, cruel Herod, Cain, or none,  
Who are tormented in the Flames of Hell,  
Did, when they lived on Earth, so much Rebel  
Against their God as you; Cain strove to Please  
Him, but in vain; a horrid Dread did seize  
The Soul of Judas, he was sore Dismayed,  
That he (like you) his Master had Betrayed;  
And, as for cursed Herod's Cruelty,  
Fear prompt him to secure his Regency:  
Thus Murderers of a Brother, and the Lord  
Of Life, young Infants, wicked Crimes abhorred  
(Yea, one especially) by all the World,  
I can excuse, but on you must be hurled  
My Wrath. O wicked Runagate, reflect  
Upon a future State, do not neglect  
That great Concern, return to Saxony,  
And, laying Crowns aside, to Heaven cry,  
To make you but the least amongst the Blest▪  
Which lean their Heads on faithful Abra'm's Breast;  
But, hold! bid I a Pilate to Repent,  
It is as strange as Flesh to Rome in Lent;  
For; now you have an earthly Crown, you slight  
Your way to God, in hopes a hallowed Light  
Will guide your Steps to Heaven, when you Die,  
So, this I Note on your Impiety,  
Non-Recantation to the World doth tell,  
Your Coronation will be next in Hell.  
The Plagues which God and Man can heap on you,  
Are but, base Ruler, thy deserved due:  
Were there but such an one as Ravillac  
(That would but Laugh at Tortures on the Rack,  
So he could wash his Hands in Royal Gore)  
To Stab you, Europe would the Fact adore:  
That every Deed of Murder would prefer  
His Noble Soul, to be a Shining Star  
Of Heaven; Heaven would the Murderer Greet,  
Nay, come Halfway, the Regicide to meet.   
FINIS.   

These Three following Books, Written by the Author hereof, are Sold by B. Harris, at the Golden-boar's-head in Grace-church-street.  
ST. Ignatius' Ghost, appearing to the Jesuits; upon the KING's Signing the Act against the Growth of Popery. A satire. Price 6d.  
THE Shoemaker beyond his Last: Or, a satire upon Scurrilous Poets, especially Ned W— d, Author of a Poem entitled, a Journey to Hell; or a Visit paid to the Devil. Price 6d.  
HELL in an Uproar, occasioned by a scuffle that happened between the Lawyers and the Physicians, for Superiority. A satire. Price 6d.