AN ANSWER TO The most envious, Scandalous, and Libellous Pamphlet, entitled, Mercury's MESSAGE. OR, The Copy of a Letter sent to William Laud, Archbishop of Canterbury now prisoner in the Tower.  
London Printed for T. B. in the Old Bayly. 1641.   

 portrait of Archbishop Laud   

An answer to the most envious, scandalous, and libellous Pamphlet, entitled, Mercury's MESSAGE.  

HOw now! what is't which I do vainly read,  
Aught which belongs to Popish Romish Creed?  
I am deceived, it is a Letter called,  
(At which I blushed) A hypocriticke scaled  
Which did affront true Protestatine heads.  
No whit belonging unto papal Beads.  
For such vain trifles, O the author's scorn,  
Although of Riches, yet not of truth forlorn.  
The Letter thus begins with Dash above,  
My Lord, as if the consequence were love.  
But read forward, and you shall truly find,  
No love at all, but a most envious mind.  
My Lord,  
I call you not what long ago you were,  
For now those golden days are past I fear,  
I fear, O sycophantic and base strain,  
Which for to name, a good man may disdain;  
He fears but what, Bishops will ne'er go down,  
Whose mature learning once did England crown:  
Suppose that some be bad, must therefore all?  
Let bad men suffer, but the just ne'er fall.  
Each railing line, I do not now intend  
To answer, lest they cry me the Pope's friend:  
Only to chiefest points I do reply,  
And that I'll do although for it I die.  
Are not we all by nature bad? why then  
Descended Christ so low for to save men?  
But there's a Sect i'th' world which dare to say,  
Their merits save them, what have they to pay,  
But such are Romanists, but w'have a Sect,  
Which have saintlike belief of which they crack.  
And such are those which we call schismatics,  
Which think to gain heaven by soothing tricks.  
And such a one was he which lately writ  
A libel, to divulge his zealous wit.  
Zealous said I? excuse me (Reader) pray,  
Expressing zealous I m not to stay.  
No zeal it is, maliciously to rail,  
Against a prisoner, suppose he were frail,  
Let Law condemn him, not each envious pen,  
Which sometimes will dispraise the best of men.  
I do not say that he was such a one,  
That God forbid, there I'll let him alone.  
Let Law pursue him, and God forbid again,  
That my rash pen should more augment his pain.  
Hence superstition, hence base Romish weeds,  
And hence I say all hypocriticke deeds.  
Suppose that he bowed vainly to the Altar,  
For that must he be hanged with inky halter?  
But he did Sermons hate, and those abuse,  
Which to preach often piously did use.  
Did he do so? in it he was too blame;  
Let justice still obscure his once bright fame.  
But he at name of (Jesus) still did bow,  
Why not? dot not the Scripture it allow?  
That at his name each knee should lowly bend;  
Hath Scripture erred and now at length amend?  
But 'tis the heart must bow, out outward knee.  
Did not God make them both? pray answer me?  
Why at his Name then should they not both bend,  
Which died for man, his deserved grief to end?  
Sure Antignist to me thou'lt subscribe,  
If thou in hope were't of a ten pound bribe,  
O such a gift would make thee for to falter,  
Thou've buy new shoes, and eke scrape to the Altar.  
What is thy answer libeler to this?  
I know there's nothing comes to thee amiss.  
Wert thou a Bishop, thou wouldst then believe,  
Nay swear no harm could be in a lawn sleeve.  
Thou wantedst money when thou writ'st thy Letter,  
And by thy scandal made thy state grow better;  
Thou art some Poet to the short haired crew,  
Who long since bid to honesty adieu:  
Thou wilt not swear, but lie, I know thou wilt,  
Thy actions are not pure, yet purely gilt,  
Did any one your Letter much applaud,  
Which you did dedicate to little Laud;  
Surely no wise man, and yet you railed well,  
Your tongue's not fit for Billingsgate, but hell.  
It did sell well, wouldst know the reason why?  
Each man desired to read thy knavery;  
I wonder much thy name thou durst not show,  
That all the world thy witty parts might know;  
It was your modesty I do suppose,  
Or else for fear, Brandon should get your hose,  
Had you but heard what thanks you had for it,  
Of all wise men, you'd curse your railing wit:  
O what an Age is't which we do live in?  
One doth offend, the other laughs at sin;  
Christ o'er Jerusalem did much lament,  
He sorry was for sin it should be shent;  
But man triumphs his brother being in thrall,  
nought more doth joy him than his brothers fall▪  
Archbishop Laud is lately fall'n, and we,  
Seem to rejoice at his sad misery;  
Me thinks for him that we should rather weep,  
Because by Satan he was lulled asleep:  
Than triumph at his fall, we ought to pray,  
Though Law his corpse, God may not his soul slay;  
O brawling libeler which lately writ,  
Mere blasphemy for to divulge thy wit:  
Some of thy lines I will peruse, and then  
A libeler prove to be the worst of men.  
Blessed were the man could light on such good hap.  
To beat out's eyes with's Babylonian Cap,  
With some quaint jeer to break your grace's pate,  
Our wits employed are early and late.  
We scorn says one, his vices to applaud,  
We know the devil must have little Laud.  
O says a second, he's a gallant prize,  
And by his fall young Gregory will rise.  
Me thinks your Honour, yea your honour's head,  
Hangs in the air by a small twisted thread.  
Which to heaven's praise, hell's joy, and London's wonder,  
No further read: eyestrings will burst asunder.  
For rage I'm filled, shivering amaze  
Commands me further not on's lines to gaze.  
(Blest were the man) if blessedness it were,  
Authority of time to stand in fear.  
See how he soothes the world, nay seems to pray,  
That it the life of Laud would snatch away;  
What is the Parliament of late grown dull,  
Bequeathing Justice unto this base gull!  
O far be such a sentence from my thought,  
I know with wisdom their heads still be fraught,  
But yet this Varlet (Mark what I shall say,)  
From them doth seem Justice to take away.  
O what a fiction doth he slily raise,  
For which he deserves more than poets' bays,  
A rope to boot, (He scorns vice to applaud)  
He knows the devil must have Bishop Laud,  
For so his meaning is, I dare to tell,  
He is no man but disguised Fiend of Hell:  
For mortal against mortal never had,  
Such d●mn'd expression, to answer which I'm sad:  
O sinful man, for if man so thou art,  
Where was thy charity, O where thy fleshy heart?  
What, all composed of malice? tho he was  
Perhaps thy enemy, what then? Alas,  
Thy Saviour thousands of foes had more,  
And yet to them did he show mercy store.  
He loved his foes, and for his foes did die:  
They 'gainst him, not he them, cried, crucify.  
He lost his life, perhaps thou liberty,  
His reason was, to cure man's misery.  
I grieve to read thy foolery, weep to see,  
How each line patched up is with mockery:  
Thou mayst report me to be Romanist,  
Because I strive for to dissolve thy mist  
Of ignorance; Hadst thou here thy own blame,  
Thou wouldst not show thyself for very shame;  
An Hypocrite of all men is the worst,  
Of all good men abhorred and held accursed.  
Judas will answer, Master is it I,  
When as his heart was full of treachery;  
Absalon his father flatter often did,  
And yet within his breast lay Treason hid:  
Saul made a show that he did David love,  
And yet his life he sought for to remove.  
Thou writ'st satyric: yet I do believe,  
Should he acquitted be and longer live;  
Thou wouldst most willingly his chaplain be,  
Hence, hence deceit, hence dambed hypocrisy.  
Ye are the Devils golden glittering baits,  
Your outsides fair, your inward base deceits.  
Wise men do shun such old o'er gilded walls,  
Which do triumph o'er fortune's Tennis balls.  
No Canterburian I, though Kentish borne,  
I shun his actions, and his censure scorn.  
Yet give me leave for to lament his case,  
Let me be sorry for his want of grace,  
Which once so gracious was, don't him deride,  
But draw example from his lofty pride.  
Let Justice take his corpse, but let all pray,  
His soul may go the narrow and straight way:  
Now libeler fare well, and the next time,  
Assault no prisoner with thy envious rhyme.   

An Acrosticall Caveat to beware of hypocrisy.  

Beware hereafter of this Hypocrite,  
Else will my satire strive him sure to bite.  
Was it desert that caused him brawl? it was.  
And yet me think: his grace desired a pause,  
Regard at length the greatness of his praise,  
Ela the highest note did crown his bays.   

Osee the humours of these biting times,  
For Hypocrites are best to paint forth crimes.   

He that can best dissemble can best write,  
Ye that do so can act the Hypocrite.  
PVll down from love of justice but a dram▪  
other extempore you all shall scan.  
critic inventions which your wit outran.  
Renowned actions, but shall every scum,  
inveigle thus the Commons like jack drum,  
Shall Sycophanticke fancy draw your ears,  
Into a Babel of confused fears?  
Elect some wit to scan the work, where he   

Is slain proved guilty of hypocrisy.  
'tis a mean fancy of a Bedlam brain,   

I care not (Says he) who shall read my strain.  
Sir let me tell the satire bawls too lawd,   

'twere far more fit that he in Ixion's cloud,  
Had hidden been, for he's a centaur sure,  
Else is my Muse grown blind▪ so doth endure.   

What is't you have old Barker, is't a fee,  
Amounting to the sum of thirty three.  
You must expect it, I'll assure you then,   

Tell it all o'er, and you'll come short often,  
of'at I could but see thy ill-made face.   

Hale them to Pluto▪ s flood as a disgrace.  
Extend it sure, for here we shall all find,  
Lent from a foul slave a satyric mind.   
THO. HERBERT.   
FINIS.