A satire AGAINST SATYRS: OR, St. Peter's Vision TRANSUBSTANTIATED.  Semper ego auditor tantum nunquamne reponam Vexatus toties? Juv. lib. 1. Sat. 1. 
By R. D.  
LONDON, Printed, and are to be sold by Richard Janeway in Queens-head Alley in Paternoster Row. 1680.   

That the Reader may not turn over a Page empty of Lines, no more than the Jesuits run over a day void of Plots, 'twas thought no great piece of Treason or Heresy to insert the following ADVERTISEMENT.  

WHereas N. 't's good-cause Intelligence,  
That piece of Truth, Wit, Honesty and Sense,  
Does not each day come out; How can't I pray?  
The Devil! we can't invent a Sheet a day!  
This in its stead then i'th' Pope's name pronounces,  
Joys to all Catholic souls by Pounds and Ounces:  
Set Purgatory's doors wide ope' I say;  
Let th' half-broiled Martyrs caper thence away.  
We vote this a perpetual Holiday:  
The Devil has gained an Inch, and our cause furthered,  
Catch-Jesuits degraded; Arnold murdered.  
Calig'la's wish now! had all th' Heretics  
Summed up in Arnold all their cross-grained Necks;  
It had been a brave Job; They'd gone to howl,  
And pray e'er this for Father Evan's soul.  
Howe'er, we gained a point by this; and show  
Besides, had we the Game, what we would do.  
Moreover, our Masked Tories think it good  
To seal the Prorogation thus with Blood.  
But what if Heaven should Godfrey this, and vote  
The Plot to bleed once more in arnold's throat?  
Devils forbidden! but can't N. T. foretelled,  
As he the Boyish Project had foresmeled?  
'Tis Irish this to him, or he as yet  
Thinks it a Heresy to publish it.   

Reader for Farewell, I thee advertise  
Now thou mayst see (if th' hast not lost thine eyes)  
Advertisements thou may'st in Satyrs buy,  
As well as in a Mercury Weeklie.    

A satire AGAINST SATYRS.  

Toiled with considering how the world went round,  
I laid me down to rest me on the ground;  
And my tired thoughts retreating, dwell upon  
Some Scripture place, as Peter's Vision:  
Then deeply pondering on that wondrous Scene,  
That massy sheet thwacked full with beasts unclean,  
And how that, that from Heaven should come down;  
And then methoughts transformed into this Town:  
Sleep slily crept in, stole me from myself,  
And then I dreamed as fast as any Elf.  
Methoughts the ground I lay upon did dance  
Jigs, like the butter-hammed Tom-Thumbs of France,  
And such commotions did her bowels tear;  
As though the Jesuits sat on Consult there;  
Then swelling like Pope Joan, she roared aloud  
As Dunstan's Devil, or Thunder in a cloud:  
When straight she opens; and from thence ascends  
A Coal-black Sheet with firebrands at its ends,  
Brim-filled with monsters of such sorts and hue,  
Such as our pregnant afric never knew.  
The horrid Pageant nigh my sight did dwell;  
Methought it a clear prospect of all Hell.  
There were the Devils that had sown these tares,  
As busy as Graziers in our Country Fairs,  
To sort their beasts into some ordered pairs.  
But here they're puzzled quite: had Noah these;  
Not all his wit had e'er found out their seize;  
His Ark had been a Babel on the seas.  
If ere there was a rope of sand 'twas thus;  
Such different Devils hooped within a truss.  
Or that I may the wonder more describe,  
Such higly villains twisted in a tribe.  
In the sheet's front (that I'd almost forgot)  
There was two Ps for Popery and for Plot,  
Written so fair, that he that runs may read,  
And then, when hundred thousand Saints did bleed.   

Well now one Devil full of rage and sweat  
Cries unto me, Arise, man, come and eat;  
He spoke so bold, I thought him first the Priest,  
That came to offer me the Eucharist.  
His offer modestly I did decline.  
Thought I the whelp has drunk up all the Wine,  
Now shams me off with Bread; then he will yeaul  
Profanely; Thou eatest Christ up, blood and all.  
A pretty thing, could it be understood,  
How that our Catholic Jaws could eat up blood  
And 'tis a thing as pretty as the first,  
How eating can thus take away man's thirst.  
Well but let's bar all this; it will not do;  
My thirsty throat would prove my faith untrue,  
Unless by some transubstantiating cast,  
They'd quench my thirst, as well as break my fast.  
But still he pressed me on: then I did cry,  
Let's see the wine, and then perhaps I'll try.  
With that a tripleheaded Cerberus  
Starts up with Cup in's hand, and then barks thus:  
Why you vile Heretic, you good for nought,  
Sup up this liquor! 'tis a Catholic draught.  
Then he held out a Goblet crowned with blood,  
The sad remains of that most innocent flood,  
They sent through France in many hundred rills,  
And broached at the feet of the Alpine hills.  
When he perceived me scared with such a sight,  
He holds me a Cake as round as any quoit;  
'Twas such as Jugg and Cisely baked last night.  
And when well daubed with th' fingers of his Priest  
He'd damn me to th' belief, it was my Christ.  
But being a Heretic; for I had wit,  
I did demand his argument for it.  
Yes presently, replied my Gaffer Pope;  
With that brings out a faggot and a rope:  
Canst thou confute these reasons, or suppress?  
They are unanswerable I confess.  
When Heretics out-dispute, yet this has crost'um  
In their designs, this ratio ultima nostrûm.  
An honest Friar steps up by and by,  
(Suppose I sometimes speak by Irony)  
Who keeping Crotchet time, a while with's breech,  
He whindles out a Gavan's dying speech.  
He tells you modestly, he hates a whore,  
Though he has lain with six but just afore.  
And knows not what means that Adultery,  
Though sixteen Cuckolds wear his Livery.  
And as for Treason vows his innocence:  
Though then thinks how t' assassinate some Prince;  
And having licked his mouth with Holy-watter,  
He than dares swear and re-reswear to th' matter.  
Then he declares how Father Dominick  
Made once a Dung-fork a good Catholic,  
And plucked a Devil by's toes (O strange to think!)  
Out of a Madman till he made him stink;  
What is't he and his Girdle could not do?  
Convert Dogs, Cats, Rats, Owls and Tigers too,  
Bears, Wolves and Mastiffs: pugh! and what is this?  
He crammed his Doctrines in the Gills of Fish.  

All as true as the Pope's Gospel.  One Sermon and the Girdle in a trice  
Turned Papists shoals of Herrings and Crablice.  
Strange! but the good man swears that all is truth;  
And is not he think you, a pretty Youth?  
Truly I almost bring my faith unto't,  
When e'er I see my Friar and his rout:  
And they're the Converts of whom whisker told,  
Only they passed Tranformation mould.  
He tells you on of zealous Brethren three,  
Whom th' Devil had sworn so in iniquity;  
Who on one Friday night had greater maw  
To fill their guts, than to fulfil their Law,  
Prayed in a trice a rusty rib of Bacon  
To a Joul of Salmond or a rump of Capon.  
And pilling th' bone as bare as any stick;  
They would not give the Devil his own to pick:  
But did me controvert it by and by  
To the forerib of good St. Anthony  
There's a transubstantiating trick for you:  
That filled their, guts and purse. And that is true.  
Than one does whisper t'him in the ear thus, Will,  
But thou knowst 'twas a rib of Bacon still.  
Quoth I, that Papist speaks the truth to th' full.  
That I maintain's a Popish miracle.   

But now prick tip your Catholic ears and quake,  
For all this while was I in a mistake.  
An obstinate Heretic I did remain,  
And must bear penance for't; if I've no coin▪  
IT seems the good natured Devil did invite  
Me of his creatures to partake that night:  
And 'twas no call to th' seventh Sacrament,  
He himself knew not what five of them meant;  
Save that fine Extreme Unction, for that  
He knew's the Droppings of the Belly fat.  
But when the thing I understood, alas,  
Better than several Baldpates do their Mass;  
I plainly said; No, first give Bread and Cheese,  
Away Sir, with your Toads and Soland Geese.  
I cannot feed my guts with Barnacles,  
No more than faith on Popish Miracles.  
Says then th' half-angry Devil, Had but you  
My flock exposed unto your fuller view,  
You could not but fall on, they are so rare,  
Nothing can match them out in Bart'l'mew-fair,  
That I believe, quoth I, and they will do  
Thy work, as Barth'lomew Jack-puddings too.  
But their officious Grandsire all this while  
Was bringing of them into rank and file,  
And that but sorrily upon my word;  
Such order as confusion could afford.  

The first Babylonish legion.  There first appears (what yet no ushering thunder?)  
The Gog Magogs' of stupifying wonder.  
Th' old sons of Anakim revived again.  
Perverted Levi ' tribe on Shalem's plain;  
Where th' Father of their Order first did die  
His perjured hands in traitorous cruelly:  
And only in that act each monstrous limb  
Of his, does imitate and follow him.  
Still in a row like Israel's golden calves  
They marched; or Quixot's Rosary of Knaves.  
With hair so holy-watered that you'd think  
Their heads had the Monopoly of stink.  
IT would drive the Devil to run without his shoes:  
If Dunstan has not quite seared up his nose,  
With face in Princum, and with looks devout;  
Like sober Nuns at a Confession bout:  
Whence store of Holiness subinde starts;  
And well 'twas there; for none was in their hearts.  
I'th' brain Infallibility did sit,  
And wisely, to supply the place of wit.  
Supremacy did on their brows reside:  
Hud's bud, but 'twas a little pockified,  
Being such a neighbour to their sniuling nose,  
Which ran as fast as honest Ovid's prose.  
Well, by their wit, beards, honesty you'd then  
Guess them a Court of voting Aldermen.  
I talk of beards, good Cambden, canst thou swear  
What kind of stuff the mossy Dru'ds did wear,  
When they taught Gravity unto the Welsh?  
I know not what to, to compare them else;  
It was so old, I thought 'twas Peter's hair,  
And came to'um by succession with the chair.  
But let'um go as they are; and let's be curt,  
I'll foul no more my fingers with such dirt.  
I can no further now my beasts dissect;  
Already they confound my intellect.  
And to describe'um right from head to foot,  
I do defy the Devil himself to do't.   

But there stood one, 'twould do you good to see  
Reduced by's Miss to an Anatomy.  
His Catholic bones out of his skin did grow,  
Ten thousand fastings had not barred him so:  
As lean as any rake in breast and rump;  
Though all his bags with Europe's wealth was plump.  
You would imagine him one that was sent  
To teach the Devil how to keep his Lent.  
Or else employed by hags out of their Cell  
To treat with Fiends, and make a league with hell.  

Pope Sixtus.  And next to him there pranced that raging boar,  
Whom neither war can tame, nor yet a Whore;  
Whose vast designs o'er Europe all does stride,  
He makes poor Prince's Drudges to his pride.  
He Gospellizes with his glittering Sword;  
But 'tis not that o'th' Spirit, nor o'th' Word:  
But that by which the Turkish Monarches do  
Advance their Conquests and Religion too.  
But having blustered for a while he fell;  
And vengeance kicked him to be tamed in Hell.  
The third sat there with a reforming brow,  
Who says that they hate Reformation so?  
I say 'tis false, for he the work gins;  

The first step of Popish reformation.  And first he qualifies the rate of sins.  
For well he knows that things as sweet as honey;  
When cheap, they are for every body's money;  
And he with others has this politic fetch,  
To live upon the poor as well as rich.  
Sodomy therefore half a Crown before  
Is now a single Tester, and no more.  

Good pennyworths my lads.  Come in ye small-game sinners, wenching shall go  
For a good sober Twopences; and well so.  
Item Adultery suffers an Eclipse,  
Brought down from sixteen shillings unto six.  
But for the eating Eggs in Lent or Flesh  
Five hundred pound's great mercy; nothing less;  
Nay 'tis well, if the good natured Pope  
Let's them escape the Faggot and the Rope.  
For there's no punishment that is so pat  
For a sin so unpardonable as that.   


The second step of reformation.  Next with his Senate of Whores he does advise,  
How that they wear their Coats above their thighs:  
For he'll subdue, in spite of Dr. Oats,  
That Northern heresy of long, long Coats:  
And for the Centuries that are to come,  
Thinks it more Catholic to bare the bum.  

The third and last weighty catholic branch of, reformation.  That's all the Reformation heard of since:  
Except th' enlarging of the Peterpences.   

With them and Reformation I'd have done,  
But that I cannot overlook that Madam Dun,  
That Spawner of young Popes, that does advance  

Pope Joan.  The Chair's succession by Inheritance.  
The Whore of Babylon it'h literal sense,  
Without a Metaphor or shifting Tense;  
Who stood with a Child hanging by the half,  
Just as  a Horse an Essex Calf.  
Much din about her was, that she defiled  
The reverence of the Popedom with her child.  
Some for a Midwife right bid run to Hell;  
Others cried Celier, and all would be well,  
Say they, for she can steal the Bastard o'er  
The seas, and lay it at a Protestant's door.  
Excuse her, answered I, it has been her fate,  
Herself to grow big of a Brat of late:  
Whereof miscarrying by a vile mischance,  
She has lain in at Newgate ever since;  
Say they we shan't have t'other Pope Joan again;  
Tyburn we fear will intercept the claim.  
But what shall now our Popess do? poor Whore!  
Why get astride the Infallible Stool once more:  
St. Peter's holy Chair being once got in,  
Blots out all guilt, and expiates the sin.  
That Sacred Catholic piece of rotten wood  
Has virtue enough to make the Devil good.  
And should he there get up with all his evil,  
He'd certainly be an infallible Devil.  
But what of Popeling too? let him alone,  
That was born Burgess to the Triple Crown.  
Sure to do well this bastard cannot miss,  
'Tis heir apparent, not presumtive this.  
Coined in the Whore of Babilon's own mint,  
'Tis a true Son o'th' Church, or th' Devil's in't.  
Supremacy in Querp, begot you see  
And born too in Infallibility.  
And now one of them croaks: Pope Joan-is gone.  
But one replies another Pope comes on,  
Filled full with Cardinal virtues. We have chosen  
Her Successor, the Devils right-hand Cousin,  
Who strings his sins like Beads by Bakers dozen.  
But where is Gadbury, can't he foretell  
Whether he'll prove the very Imp of Hell,  
And a right qualified Pope? which does prevail  
Leo or Scorpio or the Dragon's tail;  
Or else that cursed Planet called the Goal?  
I'll tell you what, my man's turned Protestant:  
The Devil 'mongst us than needs not fear to want;  
But why should Impudence impose on th' Nation,  
A thing as monstrous as Transubstantiation.  
Well time may be when he may plot no thing,  
But how he decently may take his swing:  
Catch be predominant too in his Sphere,  
And a poor Conjurer ascendant there;  
Although of late the Jesuits taught my Madge  
A trick of false accusing, 'twill not fadge.  
Yet there's good hopes o'th' Pope; myself can tell ye:  

A good beginning Sirs.  He has three Whores already by the Belly.  
He got some hundreds yesterday by's Tricks,  
By sale of Redcaps and of Bishoprics.  
This having told in private, he did sup  
A glass of Hock: then starts Chuck-farthing up,  
With such an awe as though he came to tell  
That Jesuits were breaking lose from Hell,  
Who having crossed himself with good Canary,  
And yeauled you out some forty Ave Mary's,  
He doth enstate his limbs in due decorum,  
With order and with decency before 'em;  
And with the more success t'enforce his truth,  
He does be-ceremony all his mouth;  
And thus gins—   

Our Lord God Pope salutes you, I proclaim  
Unto you all a Jubilee in's Name:  
He pardons all sins, present, future, past.  
Well now go home and sin most devilish fast;  
Ye are now as clean from sin as ever pissed,  
If you believe the Devil and a Priest.  
If Loyal's Blacks be here, or else heads shorn,  
They are as innocent as the Child unborn▪  
Let them go one in Treason; and they will  
Be as innocent as Children unborn still.  
I say again, things, persons, pardoned all,  
From th' Triple Crown unto the Cobbler's stall;  
From th' golden Sceptre to the Oaken Club,  
But pardon him if he excepts the Tub.  
Good reason for't: the Tub must blab, though he  
Has took the Sacraments of secrecy.  
The meal, that was found in it shall first burn,  
 we unto a breaden God it turn.  
Well, I have done, go get you home, for now  
You're pardoned all: odsfish; I can't tell how.  
Here ended he his speech, and so I would:  
But that there's a necessity I should;  
Since I told the Knight Errants, what, and who.  
I should declare to you, what their Squires were too.   


The second Babylonish Legion.  Next to these Quixots in a medley brave,  
There marched a flock of Sancho's grave, grave, grave.  
And yet 'tis strange they marched, their youthly sins  
By Pox and Ulcers had eat all their shins.  
They spoke sententious say, but alas,  
Like Sancho thundering riddles to his Ass.  
And further to improve my Metaphors,  
Such long-eared Asses were their Auditors.  
With ears so long as a good chine of beef;  
But yet not half so long as their belief.  
If to be narrow-mouthed their faith should hap;  
As not to gulp and swallow at a clap  
All th' monstrous balderdash they would impose;  
Though they thrust down the Devil shoes and hose,  
They'll thump it with obedience into them  
Worse than that baalam's Ass was thumped by him.  
This 'lone could prove the story of Baalam true;  
Since he was such an exact Type of you,  
False conjuring Prophets, all whose life indites,  
And christens you at once false Baalamites:  
For you then, scarlet sinners, thus I wish.  
As your lives are, so be your end like his.  
But little more their order to define;  
Before them went a Banner and Ensigns,  
The lively emblems of their bloody minds.  
Lust, Murder, Rapine, Treason they displayed,  
That lately were four Cardinal virtues made.  
Upon their heads red Caps, yet not so red  
As was the poison brewing in their head.  
Their Fiery coloured garments do declare  
What kind of dreadful firebrands they are:  
Which were died deep (were it well understood)  
In Albingensian and Waldensian blood.  
Then came a voice, and asked me what I saw?  
Rough Satyrs made of Sampsons' Asses Jaw;  
Diana's clownish crew transformed to Frogs,  
A devout litter-full of Tobi's Dogs.  
Or Cadmus' monstrous Army, that had grown  
Out of the Serpent's teeth that he had sown:  
And if through one another's hearts, ('twere well,)  
They would like them eat down their way to Hell.  
Take them at sober times within their doors;  
They're the best company at Wine and Whores.  
it'h Synods like ill planets in conjunction,  
They brood o'er mischief, and they teem destruction.  
There they're a flock of Asps together hurled,  
A Conclave of diseases to the World.  
Great's their Devotion; for they daily pray,  
The Devil would take the present Pope away.  
And if he does not hasten, he's a whelp,  
They'll try to pack him off without his help.  
And that my men can can do with deal of ease,  
(They can apply their poisons as they please.)  
For well they know the fate o'th' Papal Chair.  
The vilest rog'ries get the start up there;  
The greatest Villain's the most qualified,  
And he who in innocent blood is deepest died:  
And each being conscious to himself of this,  
How great a villain and a Rogue he is,  
And how versed in abominable knacks,  
Has a strong Faith he may come in for snacks.  
And hence they strive t'excel each other in  
All acts unparalleled of Scarlet sin.  
They urge their sinful nature to a head,  
Would break down its Non ultra if they could.  
Sins hitherto untrodden paths they try,  
And Study methods new of Villainy.  
On such prodigious wickedness they rush,  
Would startle Nature and make Hell to blush.  
But when ones Vice has to that pitch increased,  
As that it singles him out from the rest,  
Makes him like Saul, a taller by the head,  
And th' fittest man by whom they must be led;  
Strange! with what slavish awe they him adore,  
Whom they did sink and damn the night before?  
Who whilom was a Rogue, a Block or so,  
Is now his Holiness from Top to Toe.  
And now with acclamations they complete  
His happiness, and hurl him to his seat;  
As a Bum-bee hurled by a storm to's hive.  
Needs must the Swine go when the Devils drive▪  
But one thing more: they are so cunning grown;  
They will not be imposed by t'other Pope Joan,  
They narrowly search first, if they be men;  
Would we would search so well their plots and them.  
One to th'infallible buttocks laying his face,  
Doth loudly yeaul out, Dominus est Mas.  
Which sometimes well without any M. may pass.  
As in the case of good Pope Celestine,  
Whom a sly knave persuaded to resign  
His seat to him, he thought a voice Divine:  
Or else a hellish spoke to 'em through a reed  
In Boniface's: so it did indeed.  
But having brought my cardinal hitherto,  
As far as Hell and sin and mischief too  
Can him advance; to th' Temple's pinnacle,  
Whence he may with a vengeance have a fall;  
Here I will leave hint and no more will mind him;  
And here the Devil will be sure to find him.   


The third Babylonish Legion.  There next appeared the hodge podge Algernoons.  
A Linsey woolsey tribe of Church dragoons;  
A Joseph's rainbow Coat, chief herein,  
That blood and slaughter it is deep dipped in.  
A Club encorporated to Inform,  
That Hell's great Architect is multiform.  
There's no such Crocodiles by Nilus bred,  
Each carries bowling Greene's upon his head▪  
That outwardly thus far do heaven outdare,  
They show it not nor care for it a hair.  
They with their Traitorous Crowns do shave their sin,  
But that the latter may grow fast again.  
If Cuckold makers also had the horn,  
These Knaves would never venture to be shorn.  
But would you know their Names?—  
'Tis kin to Fires, and it rhythms to Liars,  
There's reason too as well as rhythm for Friars.  
And sometimes for the sake of brevity,  
'Twill do no harm to call them Impious Fry.  
Their work is various as their Names and ;  
Some study ways to break all Solemn Oaths;  
And be they ne'er so sacred, ne'er so strong,  
Equivocation can untwist the thong.  
Some tie their loved Legends tail by tail,  
And yet they ravel into thrums for all.  
And others preach, that is, they scold and rail.  
Treason or Murder is the usual Text,  
Beloved you may guests what follows next.  
Rebellion, Faction, are the Doctrinal parts.  
The Uses Swords and Daggers in our hearts.  
But if there be sweet females, 'tis thought meet  
To leave one use t' apply under a sheet.  
Others there are that seem for to be poor:  
Religious mumpers those from door to door.  
They beg good meet, good wine, and wheresoever  
Good Women are, they beg nights lodgings there.  
And to reward their Landlords these good Dady's  
Get them a store of blessings and of babies.  
Others do lurk in Covents, and do plot  
To make a Holy Madman of a Sot,  
And Jetzerise there several Bedlam tricks  
To storm the Faith of stubborn Heretics.  
And most of these (that let me not forget,)  
Hark to the Curtain sins of Peg and Bett.  
He simpers up his mouth and whispers Bess,  
'Tis shrieving time, my Girl, come and confess.  
Then having throughly pumped the simple Jade,  
When? and with whom? and was she hot afraid?  
On good advice than she withdraws with him,  
And there for penance acts it o'er again.  
But 'tis in vain to tell you all their work,  
'Tis greater task than taming the great Turk.   


The fourth Babylonish Legion, being a Troop of Amazons.  O'th' same bead-string with Friar hanged a Nun,  
What would not you have Tib to follow Tom?  
A female's the grand Engine of a gull,  
Who e'er saw Tinker yet without his Trull?  
These are the crew, whereby the Devil once more  
Would cheat and damn the world as heretofore.  
These are the Siren Cozbites: yes, and these,  
Are they that th' number of the Church increase.  
The mother Church erewhile did barren grow,  
And must have children from her daughters now.  
And such they are that without din or stir  
May truly cry, My father Confessor.  
So nigh the Spirits power they come, they may  
For Abba Father, Abbot father say.  
But I digress from my kind loving pack,  
Who are more used to lie upon the back,  
Than they ' r to count their beads; although they may  
Most generally tell them twice a day.  
Poor Egypt's land had ten plagues; we have more,  
The Popes and Cardinals are the sad plague-sore,  
The Friars the Locust swarm the land o'er spreads,  
And these the Frogs that creep into men's beds;  
Vile Illss in grain;— but hold, although the trash  
Deserves my rugged Satyr's forest lash,  
The Furies whips of Steel, that cut most sore;  
And th' angry Muses Bridewell, far, far more,  
Than the worst Bawds the Bridewell of the City:  
But yet I'll spare 'em somewhat now for pity.  
I will not pill the wretches to the bone;  
I'll be more kind and leave the Devil his own.  
My modest pen won't strip them of their smocks,  
And Friends I would not choke you with a P—.   


The fifth and most cursed Babilonish Legion.  Besides I'm put to it to find out the next,  
With them their own dear Lord is so perplexed  
To search the Skudles, they are not such Fools  
But they have forty thousand skulking holes.  
Some or the Hocusses had shifted heads;  
Some ; some had crept into Lady's beds.  
Some kenneled in their couches and their closerts,  

I commend their wit to be so killed.  And there were slain with Marmalets and sack possets.  
Some lurked in Madam's coats, some were so wise  
As safe to lodge themselves between their thighs.  
They may like beasts be traced out by th' scent;  

Then they were in their studies.  Palm oil will make a Pursuivant relent;  
But not Sir William; as for him perchance  
He never saw the fine Cajoles of France;  
He lost his smell or else his complaisance.  
But honest Officers leave off your search,  
Several of them are got within our Church;  
Your staves nor warrants durst come there t'offend 'em  
They have our mask and garb for to defend 'um.  
But there instead of preaching they do prate,  
And turn the Pulpit to a Billingsgate,  
Whence the Flambeaus set fire to Church and State.  
And if no more at least they'll do these wrongs,  
To carry Traitorous fire-balls on their tongues.  
These are then eloquent, when they can preach,  
What may augment our heats and wide our breach.  
They healing salves to fretting poison turn,  
And nurse the flames, which our own bowels burn:  

We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.  They'd be well served if made a sacrifice  
To England's safety and the Church's peace.  
And as to these I'll Lettany it thus;  
From such, we pray, good Lord deliver us.  
But shall I tell you what old Nickum did?  
He dragged out three by th' collar, that had hid  
Themselves in Quakers meetings, and about  
He looked for six more of the loving rout.  
There stood the Cobbler Will as good as pissed,  
And Tom the Tinker with his greasy fist.  
There Dry-throat Crispin with his wheezing Nose,  
That for good Ale and Girls had pawned his Shoes.  
Next to him Drugster with his Ratsbane Chest,  
Poison he knows suits his Religion best.  
And next Tom-fool with all his Merry Tricks,  
And a frocked Porter too of Sixty six:  
And all this while poor Devil searched up and down,  
And never thought these Lads were all his noun;  
Although there was with him the Pope his Son  
With his infallible Peep-glasses on.  
Some of the Rogues with flippant Wits and Jests  
Had opened Monarch's Cabinets and their chests,  
And some had crept (O grief insufferable)  
Unto their Closets and their Council Table.  
Poor Spain and France have felt these Vultures keen,  
Nor did the old game die with Mazareen.   

And Father Nitard was not Grandee alone,  
There's more La Chese's in the World than one.  
These shroud themselves under Employs of State  
With swelling names to bugbear off their Fate.  
They cunningly intrude to Prince's hearts,  
Dive to their secrets; and thence act their parts;  

The more is the pity.  And twisting themselves in their Policies,  
They rule both them and Kingdoms as they please.  
They seem the State's great Atlases, but th' Imps  
Are the true Kings, when Kings are but their pimps.  
These are the Catholic hinges; and thereon  
The Popish World for many years has run.  
The Rulers they do serve must mind their Grist,  
And rule and conquer but as they do list.  
Sometimes Spain's Interest they will strive t' advance,  
Then, when they please the Interest of France.  
The wretches in their plots 'gainst us would be  
Too sly for infinite Sagacity:  
Would stem the strong tide of Omnipotence,  
And weary out the care of Providence.  
Elsewhere if Providence thwarts their grand design,  
Where they can't help they'll crouch and will resign.  
That's their white boy that wears the longest Sword.  
The Flies still flock unto the fullest board.  
And all a King doth by his Conquests get,  
He toils himself to make these Viper's great.  
These constant Circumstances they are in,  
Whoever loses they'll be sure to win.  
'Tis Kings that are their stalking Nags, whereby  
They shoot at Universal Monarchy:  
The guilded Tennis-balls with which they play  
The blessed game, decreed by Loyola.  
Poor Popish Princes, would you once were wise!  
I pity you: what can it not suffice  
You truckle under an old Pope, but you  
Must be the Trudges of such Vermin too?  
Your Realms still influenced in peace and war  
By such malignant Meteors as these are;  
Prodigious Comets, that don't alone portend  
But are themselves the ruin of a Land.  
Destruction's Conduit-pipes which do spout forth  
Its Stygian Venom all about the earth.  
Hell's great Granades 'mongst the simple rout,  
Which deal still fatal ruin all about.  
The baleful Lungs of Universal death,  
Which poison, kill and torture with their breath.  
Egypt's last plague reacted o'er again;  
But this the greatest terror of the twain.  
It seems to me Justice already hath  
Poured down the seven Vials of his wrath;  
But the world to that height of Vice being come  
Repeats those Items in a total sum.  
And to shape's punishment to th' crimes of men;  
Sums up in these his seven plagues o'er again.  
About the world they like Infection fly,  
As if the Devil had Ubiquity.  
Twisted like Sampson's Foxes tail by tail,  
They do by fires seen and unseen prevail.  
But this doth vex me most of all I know,  
Their Impudence should to that daring grow;  
As to blaspheme the name of Jesus so.  
Julian with's scornful Galilean name,  
Can not that sacred title so profane,  
As these brass-foreheaded blasphemers do  
By th'usurpation of it to their crew.   

Come, Muse, let us new name them: that we will:  
But first degrade them of this precious stile;  
We must have paring knives of Lydian steel,  
Glass will not serve to scrape off th' holy Oil.  
Suppose that done; I am still at a loss,  
Though I give Spittle, Cream, and th' sign o'th' Cross.  
ne'er trust me it would overturn my brain  
To find them out an apt befiting name.  
Had these appeared then among the rest,  
In th' universal meeting of the beasts,  
When the whole world to its own christening came,  
Each at its new Lord's Font to have a name,  
As Eagles, Kites and Lions, Lob's and Eels,  
But yet I do not think that there were Bells;  
Adam with his vast knowledge had been out  
To find fit names for this unruly rout.  
O Aristotle were't alive but now,  
And wouldst but these contemplate; I do know  
These tides unfathomed would confound thee more,  
Than all the Ebb of the Sea before.  
Thou d'st fling thyself first to their Inquisition;  
Ere thou d'st be troubled with their comprehension.  
These are more uncontrolled than those waves,  
The Eastern Monarch tried to make his slaves.  
Xerxes forbear to lash; Kings cannot please  
Nor tame such tides impetuous as these.  
But shall us now however go to try,  
If we can dip them of another dye.  
We'll see how well those names will them become,  
Which Ovid gave his Dogs; clear throat, Ahum:  
Jouler, ha' Jouler, ho! huskuss; haloo;  
Oh brave, my Mischief-masters, this will do.  
Greedy-panch, Eat-all, Fierce, so ho! so ho!  
Howler and Black-foot, my good Beagles, so!  
The game is up in Britain, follow, follow!  
Closely pursue the scent, Rome, Rome, does hollow!  
Haloo, Haloo, my Dogs, spare no endeavour,  
Now Universal Monarchy or never  
Nay, by the Mass, (a mighty Word is that)  
Th' allusion still befits them wondrous pat;  
Th' Analogy holds out in every piece.  
Acteon's Dogs were ravenous, so are these.  
The Dogs of several sizes, Lands and sorts:  
So these religious Erewigs of the Courts.  

Cavette vobis Principes. The Motto of Ignatius Loyola the Father of the Order of the Jesuits.  But Princes look to't: dread the final cast,  
These, like the Dogs will tear their Lord at last.  
But have not I (the very truth to tell;)  
Think you besired my Puppies pretty well?  
But so far forth as to their Names; but then  
For their Description I am off of them;  
I'll keep myself so, whilst that I am well.  
What would you have me rake to th' depth of Hell?  
But here I leave them; I must go and view  
What kind of Desert is our Tower now.  

The sixth Babylonish Legion.  'Tis some Enchanted Castle sure become.  
There the five Champions be of Christendom.  
These are the Heroes, that our cause so brag on;  
Knight errants to subdue that pestilent Dragon;  
That Northern Heresy that domineers,  
And has done so here for these many years.  
Distressed Babilon's Madams to set free,  
They know the rules well of Knight Errantry.  
Sure they can't choose, who did so often con  
Don Quixot's Chapters and the Alcoran.  
St. George for England friends: but where is he?  
On a Signpost in Southwark; can't you see  
That massy holy Hero made of paint;  
And that's enough to make a Romish Saint.  
Well, they shall be Saint George's all, I vow,  
Provided that they be but posted so;  
And if they hang up but for Signs a while  
Upon that Post beyond Saint Giles a mile;  
Such Signs to this Land would portend no loss,  
'Tis better signing than the sign o'th' Cross.  
Well, but for Engines and for Engineers,  
And decent helps for our reforming Peers.  
The Labourers but few, the work is great:  
But there's more Gadbury's and Nevil's yet.  
My good Reformers, sure you cannot want,  
Convents and Baudy-houses are not scant.  
Matter not your Consumption by the house,  
There are more Catholic Villains still in sauce▪  
Go on brisk with your Refomation care,  
Lay the Foundation-stone too where you are.  
First for the Tigers make them Catholics;  
They be of use to worry Heretics.  
Or leave the Leopoards neither in the lurch;  
But make them all Sons of the Mother-Church.  
She'll nurse then in her bosom, for aught I know  
A better brood by far than she does now.  
Well, but who Names the babes? udso: well thought,  
Is Cream and Oil and Salt and Spittle brought?  
And have ye not one Madam Sir Jean with ye,  
To do this Popish Job of Charity?  
As touching Godfathers they need not fear,  
There are five pat one's of you ready there.  
Well, what think you? methinks it sounds wondrous well  
One be called Peter's, t' other Arundel.  
Let th' fiercest of 'em though be called King Lewis,  
The rest be Staffords, Bellasis and Powis.  
So good, my Lords, you will come to improve  
Prison to th' best, by such high acts of love.  
Such glorious actions without doubt will be  
A further Paradox 'gainst liberty.  
But now, my Lords, to show a reverence due  
To such illustrious Pers'nages as you;  
I will withdraw, nor am I hither come  
To be unto your Lordship's troublesome.  
All tediousness you hate, and matter not  
A long debate, unless about the Plot.  
Then now I'll let you 'lone, for I do find out  
You shall be let see, though I prate my brain out.   


The seventh Babylonish Legion.  But here's a troop; wherein none can find blame,  
For nothing is left of them but a name.  
Save a few Quarters on the Gates o'th' City,  
And that's but Staley's too; the more's the pity,  
But they are names like quills of Porcupines;  
And are as full as Scarlet as their sins.  
Here every Massacre is new bepainted,  
And every horrid Traitor new besainted.  
Colemans St. Rope is cannonized, my Dons,  
To whom the Brotherhood pay their Orisons;  
And do their daily Vows and prayers make,  
And partly I believe for interest sake.  
They know their due, and therefore for the nonce  
Still pray the Hemp to pardon them for once.  
Here is St. Rogue, St. Traitor and St. Thief,  
St. Whitebread and St. Coleman too the chief,  
St. Callier, and St. Country Bess, St. Bridget,  
St. Ben, St. Ralph, St. Bob, St. Ned, St. Nidget.  
St. Hoobediboody, and St. Mass, St Ass,  
Good men and true all, and so let them pass.  

The eighth Babylonish Legion.  The next's a sort of Beasts, and to declare  
The truth, I do not well know what they are.  
But yet I think for all their Ass' ears,  
I safely may conclude them to be Bears.  
My reason for't 's as plain as any prose,  
They are so damnably led by the nose.  
Implicit Boobies that still dance along  
Unto a sly-boot Friar's profit-song.  

Brave Sons of Obedience.  Whose love's so strong; whose faith has such energy,  
They'll go to Hell t' accompany their Clergy.  
I'll tell you what with them is to Believe;  

The definition al-a-mode of the Catholic Faith.  To pin their Faith upon a Priest's Lawn slieve.  
And the good man that night to's whore does pawn  
For a night's lodging both the Soul and Lawn;  
And she poor wretch pawns it again to Morgan,  
But Nick is still the getter by the bargain.  
Be you good Lads; believe what the Church saith,  
Though cursed Nonsense, Verities of Faith.  
Nay if she say that Eggs are Pudding-pies,  
You must, believe't in spite of mouth and eyes:  
Be stupid blocks; as dull as any sticks;  
And that's the way to be good Catholics.  
But for to know the right hand from the left:  
A Pudding-bag from a Confessor's shift:  
Or to distinguish between Crabs and Eels;  
If 'tis not Heresy, 'tis on its heels.  
But I shall purge these beasts with holy water;  
And there's enough for them of din and clatter.   


The ninth Babilonish Legion.  Th' next species was (if I may call them so,)  
For truth they had not as much as a show  
Of a Religion; but did defy  
The very notion of a Deity.  
That is their Consciences they did control,  
But could not raze them quite out of their soul.  
They all Religions equally detest;  
Because by th' worst there is a God confessed.  
Not would they care for Popery a pin,  
But as it gives most leave to live in sin:  
And since 'tis seen die worst Identity  
Is singled out the best to overthrow;  
True Catholic Religion cannot be  
So harmed as by a by-religions blow;  
They Devil-like (to give them all their due,)  
Support a false one to suppress a true:  
And since they cannot all Religions smother;  
They are for Popery before any other.  
These are th' wide souls, that will be sworn, forsworn,  
Carry their Consciences in Pockets torn;  
Which Ostrich-like digest the hardest stones,  
Gulp down all Impositions, flesh and bones.  
Yes, and their Consciences so stretched are  
As full as wide as is from hence to Ware.  
Nay my men can wiredraw you very soon  
The limber-stuff as far as hence to Rome.  
Through which the Pope, the Turk and all the rest,  
May march with all their Squadrons in a breast.  
These acquaint, incarnate, and these visible Devils  
Do, do promote unseen, unfelt, our Evils.  
And into every cranny of the Town  
The Romish Flies do skulk it up and down;  
To see and hear and ope' their leathern Jaws;  
To drop each where a good word for the cause,  
If through one Protestant party the good Tool  
Can set a shoulder to run down the whole.  
He did his due, then to his God away:  
(I left an L out) to his Gold I'd say.  
Wretched Utensils, fit for nought else, ye sots,  
But to be made Belzebubs pissing-pots.  
Would I were Prophet now, and could presage,  
How th' Pope would pay you, who did so engage  
With him in's work; when you the work survive,  
Be kicked for useless Drones out of the hive:  
May he, led by the dictates of his reason  
Hang up the Traitors, though he hugs the Treason.  
Once more would I could prophesy, vile Imps,  
When you'd leave off to be the Devil's Pimps:  
This to your comfort though I can foretell,  
You'll be no Atheists, when you are in Hell.   


The tenth and last Babilonish Legion. And here is a complete Roman Army for you.  But what those Thin-gut Meagres I see there,  
Egypt's seven starveling Kine bring up the rear,  
'Tis well that these are made to back the rest,  
They are but base Backbiters at the best.  
These are Religions Rats, that gnaw and gnaw,  
Expecting still fat Boons drop in their Maw.  
And though they are crammed full, yet better featured  
They do not look, nor are they better natured.  
They writ and rail to feed, and turn their meat  
When 'tis got down to baneful Aconite,  
With which their Libels they bestrow, I think  
They use their own empoisoned gall for Ink;  
They break their brains, their rests and buttons too,  
For an envenomed Sacrcasm or two.  
They'll prostrate fall t' adore the Devil a year,  
If he'll supply them with a blackmouthed Jeer.  
And yet ofttimes though their work be so hard;  
So pitiful and sneakings their reward.  
Ere they stand out the Nibblers will and must  
Perk at a Bean, and nibble at a crust.  
Go wretched Snarls; voracious Varlets all,  
Made of Arch- Pluto's overflowing Gall.  
Hell's swarm of Crab-lice, sordid hangers on;  
To Lapland Demons, to your Pugs be gone.  
Wander not Incubuses in this sphere;  
Enough of Succubuses for you there.  
O may our God lay down at last his ire,  
And then cast you, his Rods, into the Fire!  
May you Horseleeches that for our blood so thirst,  
Suck but our bad; but with your own be burst!  
But I have made a very satire blush,  
To dwell so long upon such Impudent Trash:  
But I for this will now retreat the faster,  
And leave you and your Gang to your own Master.   

Good People I will tell and make you smile,  
What the whole Flock was doing all the while.  
Why truly there in order they had got  
Kettles and Cauldrons, Purgatory's pot,  
And Powdering Tubs, not the Meal-Tub I mean,  
That's Excommunicated quite and clean.  
They'd several Vessels there which they did fill  
With Hellish and abominable swill.  
A brackish liquor they still poured in,  
Which 'gainst Doomsday might pickle up their sin.  

They were busy at it.  What do they so, quoth I? A Neighbour saith,  
So they fill up the measure of their wrath.  
And truly whilst I stood in the same place  
The Vessels began to be filled apace.  
Modestly first they laved by Spoons and Shells;  
Now they ope' flood gates, and let in whole wells▪  
Buckets and Pails now were not big enough,  
To pour in still the horrid Stygian stuff.  

That damned thirst does always possess the Leeches.  A little Royal blood they wanted more,  
And few more Martyrs to complete the score.  
But God avert! yet how, I cannot tell,  
The liquor to the very brim did swell,  
And oh! as soon as th' Vessels did run o'er;  

'Tis time for it.  The whole World groaned, and Nature gave a roar.  
The Earth opened her Jaws again and did devour  
The whole Sheet in the minute of an hour.  
Swifter than Stones are to their Centre brought,  
Swifter than Eurus or a morning thought,  
Straight from the dread hiatus forth there broke  
In tumbling Mountains clouds of sulphurous Smoke,  
Which on its rolling sooty wings than bore  
The wretches parting shrieks from shore to shore;  
Whereat the Popish Monarches stood and gazed,  

And well they might.  Frightened, surprised, confounded and amazed;  
With aguish sinews and with simiting thighs,  
With trembling joints, sad hearts and watery eyes.  
And finding the chain burst, they thought did tie,  
And knit together all their policy;  
The series of the Intertexture torn:  
With violence; the remnant left forlorn:  
The Romish politics quite tumbled down,  
Which falsely they supposed upheld their own.  
They thought, since th' melting of the Papal Leads,  
Their Crowns had no sure footing on their heads,  
Therefore with bleeding hearts they howl and wail.  
Nor was this, wretched Princes, all their all.  
Long waiting Mercy now departs with groans,  
And roused Justice shakes their tottering Thrones.  
They had partaked with Rome in sin, and now  
'Tis just they should taste of their Judgements too.  
Of his due honour they had rob Christ,  
And Hecatombed it to the Romish Beast.  
Now's reckoning time for all that Sacrilege,  
Vengeance has drunk about, and they must pledge.  
The Merchants too, with all their gaudy ware,  
That had helped to keep up th' Italian Fair,  
With all; their Gugaws, Hobby-horses, Giggs,  

Come buy my Ceremonies, three for a penny.  Their pretty Trinkets, and their modish Jigs,  
Their Whistles, Babies, Puppets and their Bodkins,  
Their Fucus, Seruke, and their Whim-wham Dodkins,  
Their Farthingales, their Snipsnaps, and curled Wire  
That went to make the Romish Whores attire.  
Behold with anguish, terror, grief and rage,  
Their only Customers kicked off the Stage.  

Sure we shall have then another Mercurius Infernus, to know what Trading they have.  Therefore they pack up, and away they go  
To see what Custom was with them below:  
Indeed there was no need of Ware nor them  
For th' Protestant Religion Victress then,  
Sweet as the Rose, pure as the new blown Morn,  
Whom only her own sweetness does adorn;  
Nor need she more to captivate the eye,  
Than her own native pure Simplicity.  
But now I work, still musing on my Theme,  
Methoughts there was more in it than a Dream.   
FINIS.