A satire AGAINST separatists, OR, THE CONVICTION OF Chamber-Preachers, and other Chismatickes contrary to the Discipline of this our Protestant Profession. By A. C. GENEROSUS. LONDON, Printed for A. C. 1642. A satire Against separatists. I Have been where so many roundheads dwell, ●hat there are only more of them in Hell. Where silenced Ministers enough were met To make a Synod; And may make one yet. Their blessed liberty they've found at last And talked for all those years of silence past. Like some half-pined, and hunger starved man, Who when he next gets victells, surfeits then. Each Country of the World sen● us back some Like several winds which from all quarters come, To make a storm. As't haps its Sunday too, And the chief rabbis preach. To Church i'll go Where (●hat we men more patiently may hear Nonsense) to Heaven at first he speaks it, there He hums, than whispers straight, and next does roar, Now draws his long words, and now leaps them o'er, So various tones, that I admired, and said Sure all the Congregation in him prayed, 'Twas the most tedious soul the dullest he That ever came to Doctrines twenty three, And nineteen uses. How he draws his hum And quarters Haw, talks Poppy and Opium! No fever a man's eyes could open keep, All Argus body he'd have preached a sleep In half an hour. The Wauld O Lawd he cries lukewarmeness: And this melts the womens' eyes. They sob aloud, and straight aloud I snore Till a kind psalm tells me the dangers o'er. Flesed here with this escape, boldly toth'hall I venture, where I meet the brethren all. First there to the grave clergy I am led, By whatsoever style distinguished, Whether most reverend bachelors they be Of Art, or reverend Sophes of no degree. Next stand the wall-eyed Sisters in a row Nay their scaldheaded children they come too. And mingled 'mongst these stood a gaping there Those few laymen that not o'th' Clergy were, Now they discourse, some stories here relate Of bloody Popish plots against the State: Which by the spirit, and providence, no doubt, The man that made hath found most strangely out. Some blame the King, others more modest say he's a good Man himself, but led away: The women rip old wounds, and with their tears Recount the loss of the three worthies ears. Away you fools 'twas for the good o'th' men They ne'er were perfect roundheads until then. But against Bishops they all rail, But I Said boldly I'd defend the Hierarchy, Tothth' Hierarchy they meant no harm at all, But root, and branch, 'bout Bishops too't we fall, I like a fool with reason, and those men With wrested Scripture, a fly Deacon then Thrust in his ears, so speaks th'Apostle too: How speaks he friend? not i'the nose like you. Straight a she-zealot raging to me came And said, o'th' what d'ye call it part I am, Bishops are limbs of Antichrist she cries. Repent quoth I good woman, and be wise, The devil will have you els, that I can tell Believed, and poach those eges o'your eyes in hell. An hideous storm was ready to begin, When by most blessed fate the meat came in, But then so long, so long a grace is said, That a good Christian when he goes to bed Would be contented with a shorter Prayer. Oh how the Saints enjoyed the creatures there! Three Pasties in the minute of an hour, Large, and well wrought, they root and branch devour, As glibly as they'd swallowed down Church land, In vai●e the lesser Pies hope to withstand. On Geese, and Capons with what zeal they feed? And wondering cry▪ A goodly bird indeed! Their spirits thus warn●d all the jests from them came Upon the names of Land, Duck, Wren and lamb, Cannons and Bishops Seas, And one most wise I like this innocent mirth at dinner cries, Which now by one is done; and grace by two. The Bells ring, and again to Church we go, And now the Christian Bajaset begins; The suffering Pulpit groans for Israel's sins. Sins which in number many though they be And crying ones, are yet less loud than he: His stretched-out voice sedition spreads a far, Nor does he only teach but act a war: A sweats against the state▪ Church learning, sense, Resolving to gain hell with Violence. Down, down as low as earth must all things go There was some hope the Pulpit would down too. Work on, work on good zeal, but still I say Law forbids thrashing on the Sabbath Day. An hour lasts the two handed Prayer, and yet Not a kind syllable can heaven get Till to the Parliament he comes at last; Just at that blessed word his fury's past: And here he thanks God in a loving tone But Laurd; and then he mounts, All is not done: No would it were think I, for much I fear That all will not be done this two hours here: For now he comes too't, As you shall find it writ Repeats his text, and takes his leave of it, And strait to's Sermon in such furious wise He'as made it what 'tis called, an exercise. The Pulpit's his hot bath: the brethren's cheer Rost-beef Mince-py, and Capon reek out here. Oh how he whips about six years ago When superstitious decency did grow So much in fashion? Now he whets his fist Against the name of Altar, and of Priest, The very name in his outrageous heat Poor innocent Vox ad placitum he beat, Next he cuffs out set Prayer, even the Lords, And binds the spirit he says as 'twere with cords, Yea with whipcords; Next must authority go, Authoritie's a kind of binder too. First than he intends to breathe himself upon Church Government: have at the King anon. The thing's done straight, in poor six minutes space Titus, and Timothy have lost their place; Nay with th'Apostles too it e'en went hard, All their authority two thumps more had marred, Paul and St. Peter might expect their doom Knew but this frantic fool they'd been at Rome Now to the State he comes, talks an alarm, And ath' malignant party flings his arm, Defies the King, and thinks his Pulpit full As safe a place for't, as the Knight at Hull. What though no Magazeen laid in here be Scarce all the Guns can make more noise than he. Plots, plots he cries there's jealousies, and fears, The politic Saints shake their mysterious ears, Till time (long time which doth consume and wast All things) t'an end his Sermon brought at last. What would you have good soul, a reformation? Oh by all means; but how? o'th' newest fashion; A pretty slight religion, cheap, and free, I know not how, but you may furnished be At Ipswitch, amsterdam's a kingdom near Though to say truth you paid for that too dear, No matter what it costs we'll reform though The prentices themselves will have it so. They'll root out popery here what's' ever come. It is decreed nor shall thy fate O Rome Resist their Vow. They'll do't to a hair, for they Who if upon Shrove-tuesday or May-day Beat an old bawd, or fright poor whores they could, Thought themselves greater than their founder Lud, Have now vast thoughts, and scorn to set upon Any whore less than her of Babylon. they're mounted high, contemn the humble play Of trap, or football on an holiday In Finsbury Fields. No 'tis their brave intent Wisely t'advise the King, and Parliament, The work in hand they'll disaprove or back And cry i'th' reformation, What d'ye lack? Can they whole Shopbooks write, and yet not know If Bishops have a right divine or no? Or can they sweep their door, and shops so well, And for to cleanse a State as yet not tell? No, study and experience makes them wise, Why should they else watch late, or early rise: Their wit so flows, that when they think to take But Sermon notes, they oft new Sermons make, In Cheapside cross they Baal and Dagon see, Yet know 'tis gilt all ore as well as we. Besides since men did that gay idol rear God has not blessed the herbwives trading there. Go on brave Heroes, and perform the rest, Increase your fame each day ayard at least, Till your high names are grown as glorious full As the four London prentices at R●dbull: So may your goodly ears still prickant grow, And no bold hare increase to mar the show, So may your morefield's pastimes never fail, And all the rooms about keep mighty Ale, Ale your own spirits to raise, and cakes t'appease The hungry coyness of your mistresses, So may rare Pajents grace the lord-mayor's show And none find out that those are idols too. So may you come to sleep in Fur at last, And some Smectimnian when your days are past Your funeral Sermon of six hours rehearse, And Haywood sing your praise in lofty verse. But stay who have we next? mark and give room The women with a long petition come, Man's understanding is not half so great, Th'Aple of knowledge 'twas they first did eat. First than pluralities must be laid away Men may learn thence to keep two wives they say, Next scholarship and learning must go down Oh fie! your sex so cruel to the gown? You don't the kindness of some scholars know, The Cambridge women will not have it so, Learning's the Lamp o'th' Land that shines so bright Y'are not s'immodest to put out the light This is a Conventicle trick. What's next Oh with the Churches solemn form they're vexed, The sign o'th' cross the forehead must not bear 'Twas only they were borne to plant signs there. No Font to wash native concupiscence in You like that itch still of original sin. No solemn rights of burial must be shown, Pox take you, hang yourselves, & then you'll none. No organ idol with pure ears agree, Nor anthems, why? nay ask nor them nor me, there's new Church music found instead of those, The womens' sighs tuned to the teachers nose. No surplices, no? why? why none d'ye crave? they're rags of Rome. I think what you would have, You'd preach I trow, Why do so, there's no doubt A fitter preaching age you'll ne'er find out: You've got the spirit, you've fiery tongues it's true, And by your talk they should be double too. OH times, oh manners! when the Church is made A prey, nay worse a scorn to every trade. When every tiler in his popular rage (The Ages greatest Curse) informs the Age, When reason is for Popery suppressed And learning counted Jesuitism at least, When without books Divines must studious be, And without meat keep hospitality, When men 'gainst ancient Father's reverend says The many headed beast Smectimnius raise That Hydra which would grow still, and increase, But that at first he met an Hercules, When the base rout the kingdom's dirt, and sink, To cleanse the Church and purge the fountains think, Such as whilst they might living waters take Drink Belgian ditches, and the Lemnian lake, When th'th' Liturgy, which now so long hath stood Sealed by five reverend Bishops sacred blood Doth pass for nonsense, and but pottage thought, Pottage from heaven like that to Daniel brought, Their broths, have such weed mixed, and made so hot, The prophet's sons cry out, death's in the pot. Oh Times, oh manners! But methinks I stay Too long with them; Take thus much for this day: Hereafter more, far since we now begin You'll find we've Muses too as well as Prinn. FINIS.