SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS: Written in the YEAR 1679.  
Upon occasion of the PLOT, Together with the satire against Virtue, AND Some other PIECES by the same HAND.  
LONDON: Printed for joseph Hindmarsh, at the Black Bull in Cornhill. 1681.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
THE Author might here (according to the laudable custom of Prefaces) entertain the Reader with a Discourse of the Original, Progress, and Rules of satire, and let him understand, that he has lately Read Casaubon, and several other Critics upon the Point, but at present he is minded to wave it, as a vanity he is in no wise fond of. His only intent now is to give a brief account of what he Publishes, in order to prevent what censures he foresees may colourably be passed thereupon: And that is, as followeth:  
What he calls the Prologue, is in imitation of Persius, who has prefixed somewhat by that Name before his Book of Satyrs, and may serve for a pretty good Authority. The first satire he drew by Sylla's Ghost in the great Johnson, which may be perceived by some strokes and touches therein, however short they come of the Original. In the second, he only followed the swing of his own Genius. The Design, and some passages of the third were taken out of the Franciscan of Buchanan. Which Ingenuous confession he thinks fit to make, to show he has more modesty than the common Padders in Wit of these times. He doubts, there may be some few mistakes in Chronology therein, which for want of Books he could not inform himself in. If the skilful Reader meet with any such, he may the more easily pardon them upon that score. Whence he had the hint of the fourth, is obvious to all, that are any thing acquainted with Horace. And without the Authority of so great a Precedent, the making of an Image speak, is but an ordinary Miracle in Poetry. He expects, that some will tax him of Buffoonery, and turning holy things into ridicule. But let them Read, how severely Arnobius, Lactantius, Minutius Felix, and the gravest Fathers, have raillyed the fopperies and superstitions of the Heathen, and then consider, whether those, which he has chosen for his Argument, are not as worthy of laughter. The only difference is, that they did it in Prose, as he d●es in Verse, where perhaps 'tis the more allowable.  
As for the next Poem (which is the most liable to censure) though the World has given it the Name of the satire against Virtue, he declares 'twas never designed to that intent, how apt soever some may be to wrest it. And this appears by what is said after it, and is discernible enough to all, that have the sense to understand it. 'Twas meant to abuse those, who valued themselves upon their Wit and Parts in praising Vice, and to show, that others of sober Principles, if they would take the same liberty in Poetry, could strain as high rants in Profaneness as they. At first he intended it not for the public, nor to pass beyond the privacy of two or three Friends, but seeing it had the Fate to steal abroad in Manuscript, and afterwards in Print, without his knowledge; he now thinks it a justice due to his own Reputation, to have it come forth without those faults, which it has suffered from Transcribers and the Press hitherto, and which make it a worse satire upon himself, than upon what it was designed.  
Something should be said too of the last Trifle, if it were worth it. 'Twas occasioned upon Reading the late Translations of Ovid's Epistles, which gave him a mind to try what he could do upon a like Subject. Those being already forestalled, he thought fit to make choice of this of the same Poet, whereon perhaps he has taken too much liberty. Had he seen Mr. Sandys his Translation before he begun, he never durst have ventured: Since he has, and finds reason enough to despair of his undertaking. But now 'tis done, he is loath to burn it, and chooses rather to give somebody else the trouble. The Reader may do as he pleases, either like it, or put it to the use of Mr. Jordan's Works. 'Tis the first attempt, he ever made in this kind, and likely enough to be the last, his vein (if he may be thought to have any) lying another way.   

SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS.  

PROLOGUE.  
FOr who can longer hold? when every Press,  
The Bar and Pulpit too has broke the peace?  
When every scribbling Fool at the alarms  
Has drawn his Pen, and rises up in Arms?  
And not a dull Pretender of the Town,  
But vents his gall in pamphlet up and down?  
When all with licence rail, and who will not,  
Must be almost suspected of the PLOT,  
And bring his Zeal, or else, his parts in doubt?  
In vain our Preaching Tribe attack the Foes,  
In vain their weak Artillery oppose:  
Mistaken honest Men, who gravely blame,  
And hope that gentle Doctrine should reclaim.  
Are Texts and such exploded trifles fit  
T' impose and shame upon a jesuit?  
Would they the dull Old Fishermen compare  
With mighty Suarez and great Escobar?  
Such threadbare proofs and stale Authorities  
May Us poor simple Heretics suffice:  
But to a seared Ignatian's conscience,  
Hardened, as his own Face, with Impudence,  
Whose faith is contradiction-bore, whom lies,  
Nor nonsense, nor impossibilities,  
Nor shame, nor death, nor damning can assail;  
Not these mild fruitless methods will avail.  
'Tis pointed satire and the sharps of wit  
For such a prize are th' only weapons fit:  
Nor needs these art or genius here to use,  
Where indignation can create a muse:  
Should Parts and Nature fail, yet very spite  
Would make the arrantest Wild, or Withers write.  
It is resolved: henceforth an endless War,  
I and my Muse with them and theirs declare;  
Whom neither open malice of the Foes,  
Nor private daggers, nor Saint Omer's dose,  
Nor all that Godfrey felt, or Monarch's fear,  
Shall from my vowed and sworn revenge deter.  
Sooner shall false Court favourites prove just  
And faithful to their King's and Country's trust:  
Sooner shall they detect the tricks of State,  
And knav'ry suits and bribes and flattery hate:  
Bawds shall turn Nuns, Salt D— s grow chaste,  
And paint and pride and lechery detest:  
Popes shall for King's supremacy decide,  
And Cardinals for Huguenots be tried:  
Sooner (which is the great'st impossible)  
Shall the vile brood of Loyola and Hell  
Give o'er to Plot, be villains, and rebel;  
Than I with utmost spite and vengeance cease  
To persecute and plague their cursed race.  
The rage of Poets damned, of Woman's Pride  
Contemned and scorned, or proffered lust denied:  
The malice of religious angry Zeal,  
And all cashiered resenting statesmen feel:  
What prompts dire Hags in their own blood to write,  
And sell their very souls to Hell for spite:  
All this urge on my rank envenomed spleen,  
And with keen satire edge my stabbing Pen:  
That its each home-set thrust their blood may draw,  
Each drop of Ink like Aquafortis gnaw.  
Red hot with vengeance thus, I'll brand disgrace  
So deep,, no time shall e'er the marks deface:  
Till my severe and exemplary doom  
Spread wider than their guilt, till I become  
More dreaded than the Bar, and frighten worse  
Than damning Popes anathemas and curse.    

satire I. Garnet's Ghost addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Cabal just after the Murder of Godfrey.  
BY hell 'twas bravely done! what less than this?  
What sacrifice of meaner worth & price  
Could we have offered up for our success?  
So fare all they, who'd provoke our hate,  
Who by like ways presume to tempt their fate;  
Fare each like this bold meddling Fool, and be  
As well secured, as well dispatched as he:  
Would he were here, yet warm, that we might drain  
His reeking gore, and drink up every vein!  
That were a glorious sanction, much like thine,  
Great Roman! made upon a like design:  
Like thine? we scorn so mean a Sacrament,  
To seal and consecrate our high intent,  
We scorn base blood should our great league cement:  
Thou didst it with a slave, but we think good  
To bind our Treason with a bleeding God.  
Would it were His (why should I fear to name,  
Or you to hear't?) at which we nobly aim!  
Lives yet that hated en'my of our cause?  
Lives He our mighty projects to oppose?  
Can His weak innocence and Heaven's care  
Be thought security from what we dare?  
Are you then jesuits? are you so for nought?  
In all the Catholic depths of Treason taught?  
In orthodox and solid poisoning read?  
In each profounder art of kill bread?  
And can you fail, or bungle in your trade?  
Shall one poor life your cowardice upbraid?  
Tame dastard slaves! who your profession shame,  
And fix disgrace on our great Founder's name.  
Think what late Sect'ries (and ignoble crew,  
Not worthy to be ranked in sin with you)  
Inspired with lofty wickedness, durst do:  
How from his throne they hurled a Monarch down,  
And doubly eased him of both Life and Crown:  
They scorned in covert their bold act to hide,  
In open face of heaven the work they did,  
And braved its vengeance, and its powers defied.  
This is his Son, and mortal too like him,  
Durst you usurp the glory of the crime;  
And dare ye not? I know, you scorn to be  
By such as they outdone in villainy,  
Your proper province; true, you urged them on,  
Were engines in the fact, but they alone  
Share all the open credit and renown.  
But hold! I wrong our Church and Cause, which need  
No foreign instance, nor what others did:  
Think on that matchless Assassin, whose name  
We with just pride can make our happy claim;  
He, who at killing of an Emperor,  
To give his poison stronger force and power  
Mixed a God with't, and made it work more sure:  
Blessed memory! which shall through Age to come  
Stand sacred in the lists of Hell and Rome.  
Let our great Clement, and Ravillac's name,  
Your Spirits to like heights of sin inflame;  
Those mighty Souls, who bravely chose to die  
T' have each a Royal Ghost their company:  
Heroic Act! and worth their tortures well,  
Well worth the suffering of a double Hell,  
That they felt here, and that below they feel.  
And if these cannot move you, as they should,  
Let me and my example fire your blood:  
Think on my vast attempt, a glorious deed,  
Which durst the Fates have suffered to succeed,  
Had rivalled Hell's most proud exploit and boast,  
Even that, which would the King of fates deposed,  
Cursed be the day, and ne'er in time enrolled,  
And cursed the Star, whose spiteful influence ruled  
The luckless Minute, which my project spoiled:  
Curse on that Power, who, of himself afraid,  
My glory with my brave design betrayed:  
Justly he feared, lest I, who struck so high  
In guilt, should next blow up his Realm and Sky:  
And so I had; at least I would have dared,  
And failing, had got off with Fame at worst.  
Had you but half my bravery in Sin,  
Your work had never thus unfinished been:  
Had I been Man, and the great act to do;  
he'd died by this, and been what I am now,  
Or what His Father is: I would leap Hell  
To reach His Life, though in the midst I fell,  
And deeper than before.—  
Let rabble Souls of narrow aim and reach  
Stoop their vile Necks, and dull Obedience preach:  
Let them with Slavish awe (disdained by me)  
Adore the purple Rag of Majesty,  
And think't a sacred Relic of the Sky:  
Well may such Fools a base Subjection own,  
Vassals to every Ass, that loads a Throne:  
Unlike the soul, with which proud I was born,  
Who could that sneaking thing a Monarch scorn,  
Spurn off a Crown, and set my foot in sport  
Upon the head, that wore it, trod in dirt.  
But say, what is't, that binds your hands? does fear  
From such a glorious action you deter?  
Or is't Religion? but you sure disclaim  
That frivolous pretence, that empty name:  
Mere bugbare-word, devised by Us to scare  
The senseless rout to slavishness and fear,  
ne'er known to awe the brave, and those that dare.  
Such weak and feeble things may serve for checks▪  
To reign and curb base-mettled Heretics;  
Dull creatures, whose nice boggling consciences  
Startle, or strain at such slight crimes as these;  
Such, whom fond inbred honesty befools,  
Or that old musty piece of the Bible gulls:  
That hated Book, the bulwark of our foes,  
Whereby they still uphold their tottering cause.  
Let no such toys misled you from the road  
Of glory, nor infect your Souls with good:  
Let never bold encroaching Virtue dare  
With her grim holy face to enter there,  
No, not in very Dream: have only will  
Like Fiends and Me to covet and act ill:  
Let true substantial wickedness take place,  
Usurp and Reign; let it the very trace  
(If any yet be left) of good deface.  
If ever qualms of inward cowardice  
(The things, which some dull sots call conscience rise)  
Make them in steams of Blood & slaughter drown,  
Or with new weights of guilt still press 'em down  
Shame, faith, religion, honour, loyalty,  
Nature itself, whatever checks there be  
To lose and uncontrolled impiety,  
Be all extinct in you; own no remorse  
But that you've balked a sin, have been no worse,  
Or too much pity shown.—  
Be diligent in mischief's Trade, be each  
Performing as a devil; nor stick to reach  
At Crimes most dangerous; where bold despair,  
Mad lust and heedless blind revenge would ne'er  
Even look, march you without a blush, or fear,  
Inflamed by all the hazards, that oppose,  
And firm, as burning Martyrs, to your Cause.  
Then you're true jesuits, then you're fit to be  
Disciples of great Loyola and Me:  
Worthy to undertake, worthy a Plot  
Like this, and fit to scourge an Huguenot.  
Plagues on that Name! may swift confusion  
And utterly blot out the cursed Race:  
Thrice damned be that Apostate Monk, from whom seize,  
Sprung first these Enemies of Us and Rome:  
Whose poisonous Filth dropped from engendering Brain,  
By monstrous Birth did the vile Infects spawn,  
Which now infest each Country; and defile  
With their o'respreading swarms this goodly I'll.  
Once it was ours, and subject to our Yoke,  
Till a late reigning Witch th' Enchantment broke:  
It shall again: Hell and I say't: have ye  
But courage to make good the Prophecy:  
Not Fate itself shall hinder.—  
Too sparing was the time, too mild the day,  
When our great Mary bore the English sway:  
Unqueen-like pity marred her Royal Power,  
Nor was her Purple died enough in Gore.  
Four or five hundred, suchlike petty sum  
Might fall perhaps a Sacrifice to Rome,  
Scarce worth the naming: had I had the Power,  
Or been thought fit t' have been her Councillor,  
She should have raised it to a nobler score.  
Big Bonfires should have blazed and shone each day,  
To tell our Triumphs, and make bright our way:  
And when 'twas dark, in every Lane and Street  
Thick flaming Heretics should serve to light  
And save the needless Charge of Links by night:  
Smithfield should still have kept a constant fire,  
Which never should be quenched, never expire,  
But with the lives of all the miscreant rout,  
Till the last gasping breath had blown it out.  
So Nero did, such was the prudent course  
Taken by all his mighty successors,  
To tame like Heretics of old by force:  
They scorned dull reason and pedantic rules  
To conquer and reduce the hardened Fools▪  
Racks, gibbets, halters were their arguments,  
Which did most undeniably convince:  
Grave bearded Lions managed the dispute,  
And reverend Bears their doctrines did confute▪  
And all, who would stand out in stiff defence,  
They gently clawed and worried into sense:  
Better than all our Sorbon dotards now,  
Who would by dint of words our Foes subdue.  
This was the riged discipline of old,  
Which modern sots for Persecution hold:  
Of which dull Annalists in story tell  
Strange legends, and huge bulky volumus swell  
With Martyred Fools, that lost their way to hell.  
From these, our Church's glorious Ancestors,  
We've learned our arts & made their methods ours:  
Nor have we come behind, the least degree,  
In acts of rough and manly cruelty:  
Converting faggots and the powerful stake  
And Sword resistless our Apostles make.  
This heretofore Bohemia felt, and thus  
Were all the numerous proselytes of Huss  
Crushed with their head: So Waldo's cursed rout,  
And those of Wickliff here were rooted out,  
Their names scarce left. Sure were the means, we chose,  
And wrought prevailingly: Fire purged the dross  
Of those foul heresies, and sovereign Steel  
Lopped off th' infected limbs the Church to heal.  
Renowned was that French Brave, renowned his deed,  
A deed, for which the day deserves its red  
Far more than for a paltry Saint, that died:  
How goodly was the Sight! how fine the Show!  
When Paris saw through all its Channels flow  
The blood of Huguenots; when the full Sein,  
Swelled with the flood, its Banks with joy o'reran!  
He scorned like common Murderers to deal  
By parcels and piecemeal; he scorned Retail  
I'th' Trade of Death: whole Myriads died by th' great,  
Soon as one single life; so quick their Fate,  
Their very Prayers and Wishes came too late.  
This a King did: and great and mighty 'twas,  
Worthy his high Degree, and Power, and Place,  
And worthy our Religion and our Cause:  
Unmatched 't had been, had not Macquire arose,  
The bold Macquire (who, read in modern Fame,  
Can be a Stranger to his Worth and Name?)  
Born to outsin a Monarch, born to Reign  
In Gild, and all Competitors disdain:  
Dread Memory! whose each mention still can make  
Pale Heretics with trembling Horror quake.  
T'undo a Kingdom, to achieve a crime  
Like his, who would not fall and die like him?  
Never had Rome a nobler service done,  
Never had Hell; each day came thronging down  
Vast shoals of Ghosts, and mine was pleased & glad,  
And smiled, when it the brave revenge surveyed.  
Nor do I mention these great Instances  
For bounds and limits to your wickedness:  
Dare you beyond, something out of the road  
Of all example, where none yet have trod,  
Nor shall hereafter: what mad Catiline  
Durst never think, nor's madder Poet feign.  
Make the poor baffled Pagan Fool confess,  
How much a Christian Crime can conquer his:  
How far in gallant mischief overcome,  
The old must yield to new and modern Rome,  
Mix Ills past, present, future, in one act;  
One high, one brave one great, one glorious Fact,  
Which Hell and very I may envy—  
Such as a God himself might wish to be  
A Complice in the mighty villainy  
And barter's heaven, and vouchsafe to die.  
Nor let Delay (the bane of Enterprise)  
Marr yours, or make the great importance miss.  
This fact has waked your Enemies and their fear;  
Let it your vigour too, your haste, and care.  
Be swift, and let your deeds forestall intent,  
Forestall even wishes ere they can take vent,  
Nor give the Fates the leisure to prevent.  
Let the full Clouds, which a long time did wrap  
Your gathering thunder, now with sudden clap  
Break out upon your Foes; dash and confound,  
And scatter wide destruction all around.  
Let the fired City to your Plot give light;  
You razed it half before, now raze it quite.  
Do't more effectually; I'd see it glow  
In flames unquenchable as those below.  
I'd see the Miscreants with their houses burn,  
And all together into ashes turn.  
Bend next your fury to the cursed Divan,  
That damned Committee, whom the Fates ordain  
Of all our well-laid Plots to be the bane.  
Unkennel those State-Foxes, where they lie  
Working your speedy fate and destiny.  
Lug by the ears the doting Prelates thence,  
Dash Heresy together with their Brains  
Out of their shattered heads. Lop off the Lords  
And Commons at one stroke, and let your Swords  
Adjourn 'em all to th' other world—  
Would I were blest with flesh and blood again,  
But to be Actor in that happy Scene!  
Yet thus I will be by, and glut my view;  
Revenge shall take its fill, in state I'll go  
With captive Ghosts t'attend me down below.  
Let these the Handsells of your vengeance be,  
Yet stop not here, nor flag in cruelty.  
Kill like a Plague or Inquisition; spare  
No Age, Degree, or Sex; only to wear  
A Soul, only to own a Life, be here  
Thought crime enough to lose't: no time nor place  
Be Sanctuary from your outrages.  
Spare not in Churches kneeling Priests at prayer,  
Though interceding for you, slay even there.  
Spare not young Infants smiling at the breast,  
Who from relenting Fools their mercy wrest:  
Rip teeming Wombs, tear out the hated Brood  
From thence, & drown 'em in their Mother's blood.  
Pity not Virgins, nor their tender cries,  
Though prostrate at your feet with melting eyes  
All drowned in tears; strike home as 'twere in lust,  
And force their begging hands to guide the thrust.  
Ravish at th'Altar, kill when you have done,  
Make them your Rapes the Victims to atone.  
Nor let grey hoary hairs protection give  
To Age, just crawling on the verge of Life:  
Snatch from its leaning hands the weak support,  
And with it knocked into the grave with sport;  
Brain the poor Cripple with his Crutch, then cry,  
You've kindly rid him of his misery.  
Seal up your ears to mercy, lest their words  
Should tempt a pity, ram 'em with your Swords  
(Their tongues too) down their throats; let 'em not dare  
To mutter for their Souls a gasping prayer,  
But in the utterance choked, and stab it there.  
'Twere witty handsome malice (could you do't)  
To make 'em die, and make 'em damned to boot.  
Make Children by one fate with Parents die,  
Kill even revenge in next Posterity:  
So you'll be pestered with no Orphans cries,  
No childless Mothers curse your memories.  
Make Death and Desolation swim in blood  
Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the flood  
But slaughtered Carcases; till the whole Isle  
Become one tomb, become one funeral pile;  
Till such vast numbers swell the countless sum,  
That the wide Grave and wider Hell want room.  
Great was that Tyrant's wish, which should be mine,  
Did I not scorn the leave of a sin;  
Freely I would bestow't on England now,  
That the whole Nation with one neck might grow,  
To be sliced off, and you to give the blow.  
What neither Saxon rage could here inflict,  
Nor Danes more savage, nor the barbarous Pict;  
What Spain nor Eighty eight could ere devise,  
With all its fleet and fraught of cruelties;  
What ne'er Medina wished, much less could dare,  
And bloodier Alva would with trembling hear;  
What may strike out dire Prodigies of old,  
And make their mild and gentler acts untold.  
What heavens Judgements, nor the angry Stars,  
Foreign Invasions, nor Domestic Wars,  
Plague, Fire, nor Famine could effect or do;  
All this and more be dared and done by you.  
But why do I with idle talk delay  
Your hands, and while they should be acting, stay?  
Farewell—  
If I may waste a prayer for your success,  
Hell be your aid, and your high projects bless!  
May that vile Wretch, if any here there be,  
That meanly shrinks from brave Iniquity;  
If any here feel pity or remorse,  
May he feel all I've bid you act, and worse!  
May he by rage of Foes unpitied fall,  
And they tread out his hated Soul to Hell.  
May's Name and Carcase rot, exposed alike to be  
The everlasting mark of grinning infamy.   

satire II.  
NAy, if our sins are grown so high of late,  
That Heaven no longer can adjourn our fate;  
May't please some milder vengeance to devise  
Plague, Fire, Sword, Dearth, or any thing but this.  
Let it rain scalding showers of Brimstone down,  
To burn us, as of old the lustful Town:  
Let a new deluge overwhelm again,  
And drown at once our Land, and Lives, and Sin.  
Thus gladly we'll compound, all this we'll pay,  
To have these worst of Ills removed away.  
Judgements of other kinds are often sent  
In mercy only, not for punishment:  
But where these light, they show a Nations fate  
Is given up and passed for reprobate.  
When God his stock of wrath on Egypt spent,  
To make a stubborn Land and King repent,  
Sparing the rest, had he this one Plague sent;  
For this alone his People had been quit,  
And Pharaoh circumcised a Proselyte.  
Wonder no longer why no cure like these  
Was known or suffered in the primitive days:  
They never sinned enough to merit it,  
'Twas therefore what Heavens just power thought fit,  
To scourge this later and more sinful age  
With all the dregs and squeesing of his rage.  
Too dearly is proud Spain with England quit  
For all her loss sustained in Eighty eight;  
For all the Ills our warlike Virgin wrought,  
Or Drake or Raleigh her great Scourges brought.  
Amply was she revenged in that one birth,  
When Hell for her the Biscain Plague brought forth;  
Great Counter-plague! in which unhappy we  
Pay back her sufferings with full usury:  
Than whom alone none ever was designed  
T'entail a wider curse on Human kind,  
But he who first begot us, and first sinned.  
Happy the World had been, and happy Thou,  
(Less damned at least, and less accursed than now)  
If early with less guilt in War th'hadst died,  
And from ensuing mischiefs Mankind freed.  
Or when thou view'dst the Holy Land and Tomb,  
Th'hadst suffered there thy brother Traitor's doom.  
Cursed be the womb that with the Firebrand teemed,  
Which ever since has the whole Globe inflamed;  
More cursed that ill-aimed Shot, that basely missed  
That maimed a limb, but spared thy hated breast,  
And made th' at once a Cripple and a Priest.  
But why this wish? The Church if so might lack  
Champions, Good works, and Saints for the Almanac.  
These are the janissaries of the Cause,  
The Life Guard of the Roman Sultan, chose  
To break the force of Huguenots and Foes.  
The Churches Hawkers in Divinity,  
Who 'stead of Lace and Ribbons, Doctrine cry:  
Rome's Strowlers, who survey each Continent,  
Its trinkets and commodities to vent.  
Export the Gospel like mere ware for sale,  
And trucked for Indigo and Cutchineal.  
As the known Factors here the Brethren once  
Swopt Christ about for Bodkins, Rings, and Spoons.  
And shall these great Apostles be contemned,  
And thus by scoffing Heretics defamed?  
They by whose means both Indies now enjoy  
The two choice blessings Pox and Popery;  
Which buried else in ignorance had been,  
Nor known the worth of Beads and Bellarmine,  
It pitied holy Mother Church to see  
A world so drowned in gross Idolatry.  
It grieved to see such goodly Nations hold  
Bad Errors, and unpardonable Gold.  
Strange! what a godly zeal can Coin infuse!  
What charity Pieces of Eight produce!  
So you were chose the fittest to reclaim  
The Pagan World, and give't a Christian Name.  
And great was the success; whole Myriads stood  
At Font, and were baptised in their own blood.  
Millions of Souls were hurled from hence to burn  
Before their time, be damned before their turn.  
Yet these were in compassion sent to Hell,  
The rest reserved in spite, and worse to feel,  
Compelled instead of Fiends to worship you,  
The more inhuman Devils of the two.  
Rare way and method of conversion this,  
To make your Votaries your Sacrifice!  
If to destroy be Reformation thought,  
A Plague as well might the good work have wrought  
Now see we why your Founder weary grown,  
Would lay his former Trade of Killing down;  
He found 'twas dull, he found a Gown would be  
A fitter case and badge of cruelty.  
Each snivelling Hero Seas of Blood can spill,  
When wrongs provoke, and Honour bids him kill.  
Each tiny Bully Lives can freely bleed,  
When pressed by Wine or Punk to knock o'th' head:  
Give me your through-paced Rogue, who scorns to be  
Prompted by poor Revenge or Injury,  
But does it of true inbred cruelty:  
Your cool and sober Murderer, who prays  
And stabs at the same time, who one hand has  
Stretched up to Heaven, t'other to make the Pass.  
So the late Saints of blessed memory,  
Cut throats in godly pure sincerity:  
So they with lifted hands and eyes devout  
Said Grace, and carved a slaughtered Monarch out.  
When the first Traitor Cain (too good to be  
Thought Patron of this black Fraternity)  
His bloody Tragedy of old designed,  
One death alone quenched his revengful mind,  
Content with but a quarter of Mankind:  
Had he been jesuit, had he but put on  
Their savage cruelty, the rest had gone:  
His hand had sent old Adam after too,  
And forced the Godhead to create anew.  
And yet 'twere well, were their foul guilt but thought  
Bare sin: 'tis something even to own a fault.  
But here the boldest flights of wickedness  
Are stamped Religion, and for currant pass.  
The blackest, ugliest, horrid'st, damnedest deed,  
For which Hell flames, the Schools a little need,  
If done by Holy Church is sanctified.  
This consecrates the blessed Work and Tool,  
Nor must we ever after think 'em foul.  
To undo Realms, kill Parents, murder Kings,  
Are thus but petty trifles, venial things,  
Not worth a Confessor; nay Heaven shall be  
Itself invoked t'abet th' impiety.  
" Grant, gracious Lord, (Some reverend Villain prays)  
" That this the bold Assertor of our Cause  
" May with success accomplish that great end,  
" For which he was by thee and us designed.  
" Do thou t'his Arm and Sword thy strength impart,  
" And guide 'em steady to the Tyrant's heart.  
" Grant him for every meritorious thrust  
" Degrees of bliss above among the Just;  
" Where holy Garnet and S. Guy are placed,  
" Whom works like this before have thither raised.  
" Where they are interceding for us now;  
" For sure they're there. Yes questionless, and so  
Good Nero is and Dioclesian too,  
And that great ancient Saint Herostratus,  
And the late godly Martyr at Tholouse.  
Dare something worthy Newgate and the Tower,  
If you'll be canonised and Heaven ensure.  
Dull primitive Fools of old! who would be good?  
Who would by virtue reach the blessed abode?  
Far other are the ways found out of late,  
Which Mortals to that happy place translate:  
Rebellion, Treason, Murder, Massacre,  
The chief Ingredients now of Saintship are,  
And Tyburn only stocks the Calendar.  
Unhappy judas, whose ill fate or chance  
Threw him upon gross times of ignorance;  
Who knew not how to value or esteem  
The worth and merit of a glorious crime!  
Should his kind Stars have let him acted now,  
he'd died absolved, and died a Martyr too.  
Hearest thou, great God, such daring blasphemy,  
And lettest thy patient Thunder still lie by?  
Strike and avenge, lest impious Atheists say,  
Chance guides the world, & has usurped thy sway;  
Lest these proud prosperous Villains too confess,  
thou'rt senseless, as they make thy Images.  
Thou just and sacred Power! wilt thou admit  
Such Guests should in thy glorious presence sit?  
If Heaven can with such company dispense,  
Well did the Indian pray, Might he keep thence.  
But this we only feign, all vain and false,  
As their own Legends, Miracles, and Tales;  
Either the groundless calumnies of spite,  
Or idle rants of Poetry and Wit.  
We wish they were: but you hear Garnet cry,  
" I did it, and would do't again; had I  
" As much of Blood, as many Lives as Rome  
" Has spilt in what the Fools call Martyrdom;  
" As many Souls as Sins; I'd freely stake  
" All them and more for Mother Church's sake.  
" For that I'll stride o'er Crowns, swim through a Flood,  
" Made up of slaughtered Monarch's Brains and Blood.  
" For that no lives of Heretics I'll spare,  
" But reap 'em down with less remorse and care  
" Than Tarquin did the poppy-heads of old,  
" Or we drop beads, by which our prayers are told.  
Bravely resolved? and 'twas as bravely dared  
But (lo!) the Recompense and great Reward,  
The wight is to the Almanac preferred.  
Rare motives to be damned for holy Cause,  
A few red letters, and some painted straws.  
Fools! who thus truck with Hell by Mohatra  
And play their Souls against no stakes away.  
'Tis strange with what an holy impudence  
The Villian caught, his innocence maintains:  
Denies with oaths the fact until it be  
Less guilt to own it then the perjury:  
By th' Mass and blessed Sacraments he swears,  
This Mary's Milk, and t'other Mary's Tears;  
And the whole musterroll in Calendars.  
Not yet swallow the Falsehood? if all this  
Won't gain a resty Faith; he will on's Knees  
The Evangelists and lady's Psalter kiss  
To vouch the Lie: nay more, to make it good  
Mortgage his Soul upon't, his Heaven and God.  
Damned faithless Heretics, hard to convince,  
Who trust no Verdict, but dull obvious Sense.  
Unconscionable Courts, who Priests deny  
Their Benefit o'th' Clergy, Perjury.  
Room for the Martyred Saints! behold they come!  
With what a noble Scorn they meet their Doom?  
Not Knights o'th' Post, nor often carted Whores  
Show more of Impudence, or less Remorss.  
O glorious and heroic Constancy!  
That can forswear upon the Cart, and die  
With gasping Souls expiring in a Lye.  
None but tame Sheepish Criminals repent,  
Who fear that idle Bugbear Punishment:  
Your Gallant Sinner scorns that Cowardice,  
The poor regret of having done amiss:  
Brave he, to his first Principles still true,  
Can face Damnation, Sin with Hell in view:  
And bid it take the Soul, he does bequeath  
And blow it thither with his dying Breath.  
Dare such as these profess Religions Name?  
Who, should they own't, and be believed, would shame  
Its Practice out o'th' World, would Atheists make  
Firm in their Creed, and vouch it at the Stake?  
Is Heaven for such, whose Deeds make Hell too good  
Too mild a Penance for their cursed Brood?  
For whose unheard-of Crimes and damned Sake  
Fate must below new sorts of Torture make,  
Since, when of old it framed that place of Doom,  
'Twas thought no Gild like this could thither come  
Base recreant Souls! would you have Kings trust you?  
Who never yet kept your Allegiance true  
To any but Hell's Prince? who with more ease  
Can swallow down most solemn Perjuries  
Than Bullies common Oaths and canting Lies?  
Are the French Harry's Fates so soon forgot?  
Our last blessed Tudor? or the Powder-Plot?  
And those fine Streamers that adorned so long  
The Bridge and Westminister, and yet had hung,  
Were they not stolen, and now for Relics gone?  
Think Tories loyal, or Scotch Covenanters;  
Robbed Tigers gentle; courteous, fasting Bears,  
Atheists devout, and thrice-wracked Mariners:  
Take Goats for chaste, and cloistered Marmosites,  
For plain and open two-edged Parasites:  
Believe Bawds mod●st, and the shameless Stews,  
And binding Drunkard Oaths, and Strumpet's Vows:  
And when in them these Contradictions meet,  
Then hope to find 'em in a Loyolite:  
To whom, though gasping, should I credit give,  
I'd think 'twere Sin, and damned like unbelief.  
Oh for the Swedish Law enacted here!  
No Scarecrow frightens like a Priest Gelder:  
Hunt them, as Beavers are, force them to buy  
Their Lives with Ransom of their Lechery.  
Or let that wholesome Statute be revived,  
Which England heretofore from Wolves relieved:  
Tax every Shire instead of them to bring  
Each Year a certain Tale of jesuits in:  
And let their mangled Quarters hang the I'll  
To scare all future Vermin from the Soil.  
Monsters avaunt! may some kind Whirlwindsweep  
Our Land and drown these Locusts in the deep:  
Hence ye loathed Objects of our Scorn and Hate,  
With all the Curses of an injured State:  
Go foul Impostors, to some duller Soil,  
Some easier Nation with your Cheats beguile:  
Where your gross common Gulleries may pass,  
To slur and top on bubbled Consciences:  
Where Ignorance and th' Inquisition Rules,  
Where the vile Herd of poor Implicit Fools  
Are damned contentedly, where they are led  
Blindfold to Hell, and thank and pay their Guide.  
Go where all your black Tribe, before are gone,  
Follow Chastel, Ravillac, Clement down,  
Your Catesby, Faux, and Garnet, thousands more,  
And those, who hence have lately raised the Score.  
Where the Grand Traitor now and all the Crew  
Of his Disciples must receive their Due:  
Where Flames and Tortures of Eternal Date  
Must punish you, yet ne'er can expiate:  
Learn duller Fiends your unknown Cruelties,  
Such as no Wit, but yours could ere devise,  
No Gild but yours deserve; make Hell confess  
Itself out done, its Devils damned for less.   

satire III. Loyola's Will.  
LOng had the famed Impostor found Success,  
Long seen his damned Fraternities increase,  
In Wealth and Power, Mischief and Guile improved  
By Popes, and Pope-rid Kings upheld and loved:  
Laden with Years, and Sins, and numerous Scars,  
Got some it'h Field, but most in other Wars,  
Now finding Life decay, and Fate draw near,  
Grown ripe for Hell, and Roman Calendar,  
He thinks it worth his Holy Thoughts and Care,  
Some hidden Rules and Secrets to impart,  
The Proofs of long Expecience, and deep Art,  
Which to his Successors may useful be  
In conduct of their future Villainy.  
Summoned together, all th' Officious Band  
The Orders of their Bedrid Chief attend;  
Doubtful, what Legacy he will bequeath,  
And wait with greedy Ears his dying Breath.  
With such quick Duty Vassal Fiends below  
To meet commands of their Dread Monarch go.  
On Pillow raised, he does their Entrance greet,  
And joys to see the Wished Assembly meet:  
They in glad Murmurs tell their Joy aloud,  
Then a deep Silence stills th' expecting Crowd,  
Like Delphic Hag of old by Fiend possessed,  
He swells, wild Frenzy heaves his panting Breast,  
His bristling Hairs stick up, his Eyeballs glow,  
And from his Mouth long flakes of Drivel flow:  
Thrice with due Reverence he himself doth cross,  
Then thus his Hellish Oracles disclose.  
Ye firm Associates of my great Design,  
Whom the same Vows, and Oaths, and Order join,  
The faithful Band, whom I, and Rome have chose,  
The last Support of our declining Cause:  
Whose Conquering Troops I with Success have led  
'Gainst all Opposers of our Church, and Head;  
Who e'er to the mad Germane owe their Rise,  
Geneva's Rebel, or the hot brained Swiss;  
Revolted Heretics, who late have broke,  
And durst throw off the long-worn Sacred Yoke:  
You, by whose happy Influence Rome can boast  
A greater Empire, than by Luther lost:  
By whom wide Nature's far-stretched Limits now,  
And utmost Indieses to its Crosier Bow:  
●o on, ye mighty Champions of our Cause,  
Maintain our Party, and subdue our Foes:  
Kill Heresy, that rank and poisonous Weed,  
Which threatens now the Church to overspread:  
Fire Calvin, and his Nest of Upstarts out,  
Who tread our Sacred Mitre under Foot;  
Strayed Germany reduce; let it no more  
Th' incestuous Monk of Wittenburge adore:  
Make Stubborn England once more stoop its Crown,  
And Fealty to our Priestly Sovereign own:  
Regain our Church's Rights, the Island clear  
From all remaining Dregs of Wickliff there.  
Plot, enterprise, contrive, endeavour: spare  
No toil nor Pains: no death nor Danger fear:  
Restless your Aims pursue: let no defeat  
Your sprightly Courage, and Attempts rebate,  
But urge to fresh and bolder, ne'er to end  
Till the whole world to our great Califf bend:  
Till he through every Nation every where  
Bear Sway, and Reign as absolute as here:  
Till Rome without Control and Contest be  
The Universal Ghostly Monarchy.  
Oh! that kind Heaven a longer Thread would give,  
And let me to that happy Juncture live:  
But 'tis decreed!— at this he paused and wept,  
The rest alike time with his Sorrow kept:  
Then thus continued he— Since unjust Fate  
Envies my race of Glory longer date;  
Yet, as a wounded General, ere he dies,  
To his sad Troops, sighs out his last Advice,  
Who tho' they must his fatal Absence moan,  
By those great Lessons conquer when he's gone;  
So I to you my last Instructions give,  
And breath out Counsel with my parting Life:  
Let each to my important words give Ear,  
Worth your Attention, and my dying Care.  
First, and the chiefest thing by me enjoined.  
The Solemn'st tie, that must your Order bind,  
Let each without demur, or scruple pay  
A strict Obedience to the Roman Sway:  
To the unerring Chair all Homage Swear,  
Although a Punk, a Witch, a Fiend sit there:  
Who e'er is to the Sacred Mitre reared,  
Believe all Virtues with the place conferred:  
Think him established there by Heaven, tho' he  
Has Altars robbed for Bribes the choice to buy,  
Or pawned his Soul to Hell for Simony:  
Tho' he be Atheist, Heathen, Turk, or jew,  
Blasphemer, Sacrilegious, Perjured too:  
Tho' Pander, Bawd, Pimp, Pathic, Buggerer,  
What e'er Old Sodoms Nest of Lechers were:  
Tho' Tyrant, Traitor, Pois'oner, Parricide,  
Magician, Monster, all that's bad beside:  
Fouler than Infamy; the very Lees,  
The Sink, the Jakes, the Common-shore of Vice:  
Straight count him Holy, Virtuous, Good, Devout,  
chaste, Gentle, Meek, a Saint, a God, what not?  
Make Fate hang on his Lips, nor Heaven have  
Power to Predestinate without his leave:  
None be admitted there, but who he please,  
Who buys from him the Patent for the Place.  
Hold these amongst the highest rank of Saints,  
Whom e'er he to that Honour shall advance,  
Tho' here the Refuse of the Jail and Stews,  
Whom Hell itself would scarce for lumber choose:  
But count all Reprobate, and Damned, and worse,  
Whom he, when Gout, or Phthisic Rage, shall curse▪  
Whom he in anger Excommunicates  
For Friday Meal and abrogating Sprats,  
Or in just Indignation spurns to Hell▪  
For jeering holy Toe and Pantofle.  
What e'er he says esteem for Holy Writ,  
And text Apocryphal if he think fit:  
Let arrant Legends, worst of Tales and Lies,  
Falser than Capgraves and Voragines,  
Than Quixot, Rabelais, Amadis de Gaul,  
If signed with Sacred Lead, and Fisher's Seal,  
Be thought Authentic and Canonical.  
Again, if he ordained in his Decrees,  
Let very Gospel for mere Fable pass:  
Let Right be Wrong, Black White, and Virtue Vice,  
No Sun, no Moon, nor no Antipodes:  
Forswear your Reason, Conscience, and your Creed,  
Your very Sense, and Euclid, if he bid.  
Let it be held less heinous, less amiss,  
To break all God's Commands, than one of his:  
When his great Missions call, without delay,  
Without reluctance readily Obey,  
Nor let your Inmost Wishes dare gainsay:  
Should he to Bantam, or japan command,  
Or farthest Bounds of Southern unknown Land,  
Farther than Avarice its Vassals drives,  
Through Rocks and Dangers, loss of Blood and Lives;  
Like great Xavier's be your Obedience shown,  
Outstrip his Courage, Glory and Renown;  
Whom neither yawning Gulfs of deep Despair,  
Nor scorching Heats of Burning Lime could scare:  
Whom Seas nor Storms, nor Wracks could make refrain  
From propagating Holy Faith and Gain.  
If he but nod Commissions out to kill,  
But beckon Lives of Heretics to spill;  
Let th' Inquisition rage, fresh Cruelties  
Make the dire Engines groan with tortured Cries:  
Let Campo Flori every Day be showed,  
With the warm Ashes 〈◊〉 ●●e Lutheran Brood:  
Repeat again Bohemian Slaughters o'er,  
And Piedmont Vall●●s dro●n with floating Gore:  
Swifter than Murdering Angels, when they fly  
On Errands of avenging Destiny.  
Fiercer than Storms let loose, with eager haste,  
Lay Cities, Countries, Realms, whole Nature waste.  
Sack, ravish, burn, destroy, slay, massacre,  
Till the same Grave their Lives and Names inter.  
These are the Rights to our great Mufty due,  
The sworn Allegience of your Sacred Vow:  
What else we in our Votaries require,  
What other Gifts next follows to inquire.  
And first it will our great Advice befit,  
What Soldiers to your Lists you ought admit,  
To Natures of the Church and Faith, like you,  
The foremost rank of Choice is justly due  
Amongst whom the chiefest place assign to those,  
Whose Zeal has mostly Signalised the Cause.  
But let not Entrance be to them denied,  
Who ever shall desert the adverse Side:  
Omit no Promises of Wealth and Power,  
That may inveigled Heretics allure:  
Those whom great learning, parts, or wit renowns  
Cajole with Hopes of Honours, Scarlet Gowns,  
Provincialships, and Palls, and Triple Crowns.  
This must a Rector, that a Provest be,  
A third succeed to the next Abbacy:  
Some Prince's Tutors, others Confessors  
To Dukes, and Kings, and Queens, and Emperors:  
These are strong Arguments, which seldom fail,  
Which more than all your weak disputes prevail.  
Exclude not those of less d●●●rt, decree  
To all Revolters your Foundation free:  
To all whom Gaming, Drunkenness, or Lust  
To Need and Popery shall have reduced:  
To all, whom slighted Love, Ambition crossed,  
Hopes often bilked, and Sought Preferment lost,  
Whom Pride, or Discontent, Revenge or Spite,  
Fear, Frenzy, or Despair shall Proselyte:  
Those Powerful Motives, which the most bring in,  
Most Converts to our Church and Order win.  
Reject not those, whom Gild and Crimes at home  
Have made to us for Sanctuary come:  
Let Sinners of each Hue, and Size, and Kind  
Here quick admittance, and safe Refuge find:  
Be they from Justice of their Country fled  
With Blood of Murders, Rapes, and Treasons died:  
No Varlet, Rogue, or Miscreant refuse,  
From Galleys, Jails, or Hell itself Broke loose.  
By this you shall in Strength and Members grow  
And shoals each day to your thron'gd Cloisters flow:  
So Rome's and Mecca's first great Founders did,  
By such wise Methods may their Churches spread.  
When shaved Crown, and hallowed Girdle's Power  
Has dubbed him Saint, that Villain was before;  
Entered, let it his first Endeavour be  
To shake off all remains of Modesty,  
Dull sneaking Modesty, not more unfit  
For needy flattering Poets, when they writ,  
Or trading Punks, than for a jesuit:  
If any Novice feel at first a blush,  
Let Wine, and frequent converse with the Stews  
Reform the Fop, and shame it out of Use,  
Unteach the puling Folly by Degrees,  
And train him to a well-bred Shamefulness.  
Get that great Gift and Talent, Impudence,  
Accomplished Mankind's highest Excellence:  
'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great,  
Confers alone Wealth, Titles, and Estate:  
Gains Place at Court, can make a Fool a Peer,  
An Ass a Bishop, can vilest Blockheads rear  
To wear Red Hats, and sit in porphyry Chair.  
'Tis Learning, Parts, and Skill, and Wit, and Sense,  
Worth, Merit, Honour, Virtue, Innocence.  
Next for Religion, learn what's fit to take,  
How small a Dram does the just Compound make.  
As much as is by Crafty Statesmen worn  
For Fashion only, or to serve a turn:  
To bigot Fools its idle Practice leave,  
Think it enough the empty Form to have:  
The outward Show is seemly, cheap and light,  
The Substance Cumbersome, of Cost and Weight:  
The Rabble judge by what appears to th' Eye,  
None, or but few the Thoughts within Descry.  
Make't you an Engine to ambitious Power  
To stalk behind, and hit your Mark more sure:  
A Cloak to cover well-hid Knavery,  
Like it when used, to be with ease thrown by:  
A shifting Card, by which your Course to steer,  
And taught with every changing Wind to veer.  
Let no nice, holy, Conscientious Ass  
Amongst your better Company find place,  
Me and your great Foundation to disgrace:  
Let Truth be banished, ragged Virtue fly,  
And poor unprofitable Honesty;  
Weak Idols, who their wretched Slaves betray;  
To every Rook, and every Knave a Prey:  
These lie remote and wide from Interest,  
Farther than Heaven from Hell, or East from West,  
Far as they e'er were distant from this breast.  
Think not yourselves t' Austerities confined,  
Or those strict Rules, which other Orders bind:  
To Capuchins, Carthusians, Cordeliers  
Leave Penance, meager abstinence, and Prayers:  
In lousy rags let begging Friars lie,  
Content on straw, or Board's to mortify:  
Let them with Sackcloth discipline their Skins,  
And scourge them for their madness and their Sins:  
Let pining Anchorets in Grottoes starve,  
Who from the Liberties of Nature swerve:  
Who make't their chief Religion not to eat,  
And placed in nastiness and want of Meat:  
Live you in Luxury and pampered Ease,  
As if whole Nature were your Cateress.  
Soft be your Beds, as those, which Monarch's Whores  
Lie on, or Gouts of Bedrid Emperors:  
Your Wardrobes stored with choice of Suits, more Dear  
Than Cardinals on High Processions wear:  
With Dainties load your Board, whose every Dish,  
May tempt cloyed Gluttons, or Vitellius' Wish,  
Each fit a longing Queen: let richest Wines  
With Mirth your Heads Inflame with Lust you● Veins:  
Such as the Friends of Dying Popes would give  
For Cordials to prolong their gasping Life.  
Never let the Nazarene, whose Badge and Name  
You wear, upbraid you with a Conscious Shame  
Leave him his slighted Homilies and Rules,  
To stuff the Squabbles of the wrangling Schools:  
Disdain that he and the poor angling Tribe,  
Should Laws and Government to you prescribe:  
Let none of those good Fools your Patterns make;  
Instead of them, the mighty judas take.  
Renowned Iscariot, sit alone to be  
Th' Example of our great Society:  
Whose daring Gild despised the common Road,  
And scorned to stoop at Sin beneath a God.  
And now 'tis time I should Instructions give,  
What Wiles and Cheats the Rabble best deceive:  
Each Age and Sex their Different Passions wear,  
To suit with which requires a prudent Care:  
Youth is Capricious, Headstrong, Fickle, Vain,  
Given to Lawless Pleasure, Age to gain:  
Old Wives in Superstition overgrown,  
With Chimney Tales and Stories best are won:  
'Tis no mean Talon rightly to descry,  
What several Baits to each you ought apply.  
The Credulous, and easy of Belief,  
With Miracles, and well framed Lies deceive.  
Empty whole Surius, and the Talmud drain,  
Saint Francis and Saint Mahomet's Alcoran:  
Sooner shall Popes and Cardinals want Pride,  
Than you a Stock of Lies and Legends need.  
Tell how blessed Virgin to come down was seen,  
Like Playhouse Punk descending in Machine:  
How she writ Billets Doux, and Love-Discourse,  
Made Assignations, Visits, and Amours:  
How Hosts distressed, her Smock for Banner bore,  
Which vanquished Foes, and murdered at twelve Score.  
Relate how Fish in Conventicles met,  
And Mackril with Bait of Doctrine caught:  
How Cattle have judicious Hearers been,  
And Stones pathetically cried Amen:  
How consecrated Hive with Bells was hung,  
And Bees kept Mass, and Holy Anthems Sung:  
How Pigs to th' Rosary kneeled, and sheep were taught  
To bleat te Deum and Magnificat:  
How Fly-Flap of Church-Censure, Houses rid  
Of Infects, which at Curse of Friar died:  
How travelling Saint, well mounted on a Switches,  
Rid journeys through the Air, like Lapland Witch:  
And ferrying Cowls Religious Pilgrims bore  
O'er waves without the help of Sail or Oar.  
Nor let Xaviers great Wonders pass concealed,  
How Storms were by th' Almighty Wafer quelled;  
How zealous Crab the sacred Image bore,  
And Swum a Catholic to the distant Shore.  
With sham's like these, the giddy Rout misled,  
Their Folly and their Superstition feed.  
'Twas found a good and gainful Art of Old  
(And much it did our Church's Power uphold)  
To feign Hobgobling, Elves and walking Spirits,  
And Fairs dancing Salenger a Nights:  
White Sheets for Ghosts, and Will-a-wisps have passed  
For Souls in Purgatory unreleast.  
And Crabs in Church-Yards crawled in Masquerade,  
To cheat the Parish, and have Masses said.  
By this our Ancestors in happier Days,  
Did store of Credit and Advantage raise:  
But now the Trade is fallen, decayed and Dead,  
Ere since contagious Knowledge has o'er spread  
With Scorn the grinning Rabble now hear tell  
Of Hecla, Patrick's hole, and Mongibel;  
Believed no more than Tales of Troy, unless  
In Countries drowned in Ignorance like this.  
Henceforth be wary how such things you feign,  
Except it be beyond the Cape, or Line:  
Execpt at Mexico, Brazile, Peru,  
At the Molacco's, Goa, or Pegu,  
Or any distant or remoter Place,  
Where they may currant and unquestioned pass:  
Where never poaching Heretics resort,  
To spring the Lie, and make't their Game and Sport.  
But I forget (what should be mentioned most)  
Confession our chief Privilege and Boast:  
That Staple beware which ne'er returns in vain,  
ne'er balks the Trader of expected Gain▪  
'Tis this that spies through Court-intrigues and brings  
Admission to the Cabinets of Kings:  
By this we keep proud Monarches at our Becks,  
And make our Foot-stools of their Thrones and Necks:  
Give 'em Commands, and if they Disobey,  
Betray them to th' Ambitious Heir a Prey:  
Hound the Officious Curs on Heretics,  
The Vermin which the Church infest and vex:  
And when our turn is served, and Business done,  
Dispatch'em for Reward, as useless grown:  
Nor are these half the Benefits and Gains,  
Which by wise Manag'ry accrue from thence:  
By this w' unlock the Miser's hoarded Chests,  
And Treasure, though kept close as statesmen's Breasts:  
This does rich Widows to our Nets decoy,  
Le's us their Jointers, and themselves enjoy:  
To us the Merchant does his Customs bring,  
And pays our Duty though he cheats his King:  
To us Court-Ministers refund, made great  
By Robbery and Bankrupt of the State:  
Ours is the Soldier's Plunder, Padders Prize,  
Gabels on Lechery, and the Stews Excise:  
By this our Colleges in Riches shine,  
And vy with Becket's and Loretto's Shrine.  
And here I must not grudge a word or two  
(My younger Votaries) of Advice to you:  
To you whom beauty's Charms and generous Fire  
Of boiling Youth to sports of Love inspire:  
This is your Harvest, here secure and cheap  
You may the Fruits of unbought Pleasure reap:  
Riot in free and uncontroulled Delight,  
Where no dull Marriage clogs the Appetite.  
Taste every dish of Lust's variety,  
Which Popes, and Scarlet Lechers dearly buy,  
With Bribes and Bishoprics, and Simony.  
But this I ever to your care commend,  
Be wary how you openly Offend:  
Lest scoffing lewd Buffoons descry our shame,  
And fix disgrace on the great Orders fame.  
When the ungarded Maid alone repairs  
To ease the burden of her Sins and cares;  
When youth in each, and privacy conspire  
To kindle wishes, and befriend desire;  
If she has Practised in the Trade before,  
(Few else of Proselytes to us brought o'er)  
Little of Force, or artifice will need  
To make you in the victory succeed:  
But if some untaught Innocence she be,  
Rude, and unknown in the mystery;  
She'll cost more labour to be made comply.  
Make her by Pumping understand the sport,  
And undermine with secret trains the Fort.  
Sometimes, as if you'd blame her gaudy dress,  
Her Naked Pride, her Jewels, Point, and Lace;  
Find Opportunity her Breasts to Press:  
Oft feel her Hand, and whisper in her ear,  
You find the secret marks of lewdness there:  
Sometimes with naughty sense her blushes raise,  
And make 'em guilt, she never knew, confess:  
" Thus (may you say) with such a leering smile,  
" So Languishing a look you hearts beguile:  
" Thus with your foot, hand, eye, you tokens speak,  
" These Signs deny, these Assignations make:  
" Thus 'tis you clip, with such a fierce embrace  
" You clasp your Lover to your Breast and Face:  
" Thus are your hungry lips with Kisses cloyed,  
" Thus is your Hand, and thus your Tongue employed.  
Ply her with talk like this; and, if she incline,  
To help devotion give her Aretine  
Instead ' o'th' Rosary: never despair,  
She, that to such discourse will lend an Ear,  
Tho' chaster than cold cloistered Nuns she were,  
Will soon prove soft and pliant to your use,  
As Strumpets on the Carnaval let loose.  
Credit experience; I have tried 'em all,  
And never found th' unerring methods fail:  
Not Ovid, tho' 'twere his chief Mastery,  
Had greater Skill in these Intrigues, than I:  
Nor Nero's learned Pimp, to whom we owe  
What choice Records of Lust are extant now.  
This heretofore, when youth, and sprightly Blood  
Ran in my Veins, I tasted and enjoyed:  
Ah those blessed days!— (here the old Lecher smiled,  
With sweet remembrance of past pleasure filled)  
But they are gone! Wishes alone remain,  
And Dreams of joy ne'er to be felt again:  
To abler Youth I now the Practice leave,  
To whom this counsel, and advice I give.  
But the dear mention of my gayer days  
Has made me farther, than I would, digress:  
'Tis time we now should in due Place expound,  
How guilt is after shrift to be atoned:  
Enjoin no sour Repentance, Tears and Grief;  
Eyes weep no cash, and you no profit give:  
Sins, tho' of the first rate, must punished be,  
Not by their own, but th' Actor's Quality:  
The Poor, whose purse cannot the Penance bear,  
Let whipping serve, bear feet, and shirts of hair:  
The richer Fools to Compostella send,  
To Rome, Monserrat, or the Holy Land:  
Let Pardons, and th' Indullgence-Office drain  
Their Coffers, and enrich the Pope's with gain:  
Make 'em build Churches, Monasteries found,  
And dear bought Masses for their crimes compound.  
Let Law and Gospel rigid precepts set,  
And make the paths to Bliss rugged and straight:  
Teach you a smooth and easier way to gain  
Heavn's joys, yet sweet and useful sin retain:  
With every frailty, every lust comply,  
T' advance your Spiritual Realm and Monarchy:  
Pull up weak virtue's fence, give scope, and space  
And Purlieus to out-lying Consciences:  
Show that the Needle's eye may stretch, and how  
For largest Camel-vices to go through.  
Teach how the Priests Pluralities may buy,  
Yet fear no odious Sin of Simony,  
While Thoughts and Ducats well directed be:  
Let Whores adorn his exemplary life,  
But no lewd heinous Wife a Scandal give.  
Sooth up the Gaudy Atheist, who maintains  
No Law, but Sense, and owns no God, but Chance.  
Bid Thiefs rob on, the Boisterous Ruffian tell,  
He may for Hire, Revenge, or Honour kill:  
Bid Strumpets preseverse, absolve 'em too,  
And take their deuce in kind for what you do:  
Exhort the painful and Industrious Bawd  
To Diligence and Labour in her Trade:  
Nor think her innocent Vocation ill,  
Whose income does the sacred Treasure fill:  
Let Griping Usurers Extortion use,  
No Rapine, Falsehood, Perjury refuse,  
Stick at no Crime, which covetous Popes would scarce  
Act to enrich themselves and Bastard-Heirs:  
A small Bequest to th' Church can all atone,  
Wipes off all scores, and Heaven and all's their own.  
Be these your Doctrines, these the Truths you preach,  
But no forbidden Bible come in reach:  
Your cheats and Artifices to Impeach.  
Lest thence lay-Fools Pernicious knowledge gets  
Throw off Obedience, and your Laws forget:  
Mak'em beliveed a spell more dreadful far  
Than Bacon, Haly or Albumazar.  
Happy the time, when th' unpretending Crowd  
No more, than I, its Language understood.  
When the wormeaten Book, linked to a chain,  
In dust lay moulding in the Vatican;  
Despised, neglected, and forgot, to none,  
But poring Rabbis, or the Sorbon known:  
Then in full power our Sovereign Prelate swayed,  
By Kings and all the Rabble-world Obeyed:  
Here humble Monarch at his feet kneeled down,  
And begged the Alms and Charity of a Crown:  
There, when in Solemn State he pleased to ride,  
Poor Sceptered slaves ran Henchboys by his side:  
None, tho' in thought, his Grandeur durst Blaspheme,  
Nor in their very sleep a Treason Dream.  
But since the broaching that mischievous Piece,  
Each Alderman a Father Lombard is:  
And every Cit dares impudently know  
More than a Council, Pope and Conclave too.  
Hence the late Damned Friar, and all the crew  
Of former Crawling Sects their poision drew:  
Hence all the Troubles, Plagues, Rebellions bre●d,  
We've felt, or feel, or may hereafter dread:  
Wherefore enjoin, that no Lay-coxcomb dare  
About him that unlawful Weapon wear;  
But charge him chiefly not to touch at all  
The dangerous Works of that old Lollard, Paul;  
That arrant Wickliffist, from whom our Foes  
Take all their Batteries to attack our Cause;  
Would he in his first years had Martyred been,  
Never Damascus nor the Vision seen;  
Then he our Party was, stout, vigorous,  
And fierce in chase of Heretics like us:  
Till he at length by th' Enemies seduced,  
Forsook us, and the hostile side espoused.  
Had not the mighty julian missed his aims,  
These holy Shreds had all consumed in flames:  
But since th' immortal Lumber still endures,  
In spite of all his industry and ours;  
Take care at least it may not come abroad,  
To taint with catching Heresy the Crowd:  
Let them be still kept low in sense, they'll pay  
The more respect, more readily obey.  
Pray that kind Heaven would on their hearts dispense  
A bounteous and abundant Ignorance,  
That they may never swerve, nor turn awry  
From sound and orthodox Stupidity.  
But these are obvious things, easy to know,  
Common to every Monk as well as you:  
Greater Affairs and more important wait  
To be discussed, and call for our debate:  
Matters that depth require, and well befit  
Th'Address and Conduct of a jesuit.  
How Kingdoms are embroiled, what shakes a Throne,  
How the first seeds of Discontent are sown  
To spring up in Rebellion; how are set  
The secret snares that circumvent a State:  
How bubbled Monarches are at first beguiled,  
Trepanned and gulled, at last deposed and killed.  
When some proud Prince, a Rebel to our Head,  
For disbelieving Holy Church's Creed,  
And Peter-pences is Heretic decreed;  
And by a solemn and unquestioned Power  
To Death, and Hell, and You, delivered o'er:  
Choose first some dexterous Rogue well tried and known,  
(Such by Confession your Familiars grown;)  
Let him by Art and Nature fitted be  
For any great and gallant Villainy,  
Practised in every Sin, each kind of Vice,  
Which deepest Casuists in their searches miss,  
Watchful as Jealousy, wary as Fear,  
Fiercer than Lust, and bolder than Despair,  
But close as plotting Fiends in Council are.  
To him in firmest Oaths of Silence bound,  
The worth and merit of the Deed propound:  
Tell of whole Reams of Pardon new come o'er,  
Indies of Gold, and Blessings endless store:  
Choice of Preferments, if he overcome,  
And if he fail, undoubted Martyrdom:  
And Bills for Sums in Heaven, to be drawn  
On Factors there, and at first sight paid down.  
With Arts and Promises like these allure,  
And make him to your great design secure.  
And here to know the sundry ways to kill,  
Is worth the Genius of a Machiavelli:  
Dull Northern Brains in these deep Arts unbred,  
Know nought but to cut Throats or knock o'th' Head.  
No slight of Murder of the subtlest shape,  
Your busy search and observation scape:  
Legerdemain of Killing, that dives in,  
And juggling steals away a Life unseen:  
How gaudy Fate may be in Presents sent,  
And creep insensibly by Touch or Scent:  
How Ribbons, Gloves, or Saddle Pommel may  
An unperceived but certain Death convey;  
Above the reach of Antidotes, above the power  
Of the famed Pontic Mountebank to cure.  
What ere is known to acquaint Italian spite,  
In studied Poisoning skilled and exquisite:  
What e'er great Borgia or his Sire could boast,  
Which the Expense of half the Conclave cost.  
Thus may the business be in secret done,  
Nor Authors nor the Accessaries known,  
And the slurred guilt with ease on others thrown.  
But if ill Fortune should your Plot betray,  
And you to mercy of your Foes a prey;  
Let none his Crime by weak confession own,  
Nor shame the Church, while he'd himself atone.  
Let varnished Guile and feigned Hypocrisies,  
Pretended Holiness and useful Lies,  
Your well-dissembled Villainy disguise.  
A thousand wily Turns and Doubles try,  
To foil the Scent, and to divert the Cry:  
Cog, shame, outface, deny, equivocate,  
Into a thousand shapes yourselves translate:  
Remember what the crafty Spartan taught,  
" Children with Rattles, Men with Oaths are caught:  
Forswear upon the Rack, and if you fall,  
Let this great comfort make amends for all,  
Those whom they damn for Rogues next Age shall see  
Made Advocates i'th' Church's Litany.  
Who ever with bold Tongue or Pen shall dare  
Against your Arts and Practices declare;  
What Fool shall e'er presumptuously oppose,  
Your holy Cheats and godly Frauds disclose;  
Pronounce him Heretic, Firebrand of Hell,  
Turk, jew, Fiend, Miscreant, Pagan, Infidel;  
A thousand blacker Names, worse Calumnies,  
All Wit can think, and pregnant Spite devise:  
Strike home, gash deep, no Lies nor Slanders spare;  
A Wound though cured, yet leave behind a Scar.  
Those whom your Wit and Reason can't decry,  
Make scandalous with Loads of Infamy:  
Make Luther Monster, by a Fiend begot,  
Brought forth with Wings, and Tail, and Cloven Foot:  
Make Whoredom, Incest, worst of vice and shame,  
Pollute and foul his Manners, Life, and Name.  
Tell how strange Storms ushered his fatal end,  
And Hell's black Troops did for his Soul contend.  
Much more I had to say, but now grow faint,  
And strength and Spirits for the Subject want:  
Be these great Mysteries I here unfold,  
Amongst your Order Institutes enroled:  
Preserve them sacred, close, and unrevealed;  
As ancient Rome her Sibyl's Books concealed.  
Let no bold Heretic with saucy eye  
Into the hidden unseen Archives pry;  
Lest the malicious flouting Rascals turn  
Our Church to Laughter, Raillery, and Scorn.  
Let never Rack or Torture, Pain or Fear,  
From your firm Breasts th'important Secrets tear.  
If any treacherous Brother of your own  
Shall to the World divulge & make them known,  
Let him by worst of Deaths his Gild atone.  
Should but his Thoughts or Dreams suspected be,  
Let him for safety and prevention die,  
And learn i'th' Grave the Art of Secrecy.  
But one thing more, and then with joy I go,  
Nor ask a longer stay of Fate below:  
Give me again once more your plighted Faith,  
And let each seal it with his Dying Breath:  
As the great Carthaginian heretofore  
The bloody reeking Altar touched, and swore  
Eternal Enmity to th' Roman Power:  
Swear you (and let the Fates confirm the same)  
An endless Hatred to the Lutheran Name:  
Vow never to admit or League, or Peace,  
Or Truce, or Commerce with the cursed Race:  
Now through all Age, when Time or Place soe'er  
Shall give you power, wage an immortal War:  
Like Theban Feuds let yours yourselves survive,  
And in your very Dust and Ashes live.  
Like mine, be your last Gasp their Curse— At this  
They kneel, and all the Sacred Volume kiss;  
Vowing to send each year an Hecatomb  
Of Huguenots an Offering to his Tomb.  
In vain he would continue— Abrupt Death  
A Period puts, and stops his impious Breath:  
In broken Accents he is scarce allowed  
To falter out his Blessing on the Crowd.  
Amen is echoed by Infernal Howl,  
And scrambling Spirits seize his parting Soul.   

THE Fourth satire Upon the JESUITS.   

satire IU. S. Ignatius his Image brought in, discovering the Rogueries of the Jesuits, and ridiculous Superstition of the Church of Rome.  
ONce I was common Wood, a shapeless Log,  
Thrown out a Pissing-post for every Dog:  
The Workman yet in doubt what course to take,  
Whether I'd best a Saint or Hog-trough make,  
After debate resolved me for a Saint,  
And thus famed Loyola I represent:  
And well I may resemble him, for he  
As stupid was, as much a Block as I.  
My right Leg maimed at halt I seem to stand,  
To tell the Wounds at Pampelune sustained.  
My Sword and Soldier's Armour here had been,  
But they may in Monserrats' Church be seen:  
Those there to blessed Virgin I laid down  
For Cassock, Surcingle, and shaved Crown,  
The spiritual Garb in which I now am shown.  
With due Accoutrements and fit disguise  
I might for Centinel of Corn suffice:  
As once the well-hung God of old stood guard,  
And the invading Crows from Forage scared.  
Now on my Head the Birds their Relics leave,  
And Spiders in my mouth their Arras wove:  
And persecuted Rats oft find in me  
A Refuge and religious Sanctuary.  
But you profaner Heretics, who ere  
The Inquisition and its vengeance fear,  
I charge stand off, at peril come not near:  
None at twelve score untruss, break wind, or piss;  
He enters Fox his Lists that dares transgress:  
For I'm by Holy Church in reverence had,  
And all good Catholic Folk implore my aid.  
These Pictures which you see my Story give,  
The Acts and Monuments of me alive:  
That Frame wherein with Pilgrim's weeds I stand,  
Contains my Travels to the Holy Land.  
This me and my Decemvirate at Rome,  
When I for Grant of my great Order come.  
There with Devotion rapt I hang in Air,  
With Dove (like Mahomet's) whispering in my ear.  
Here Virgin in Galesh of Clouds descends,  
To be my safeguard from assaulting Fiends.  
Those Tables by, and Crutches of the lame,  
My great Achievements since my death proclaim:  
Pox, Ague, Dropsy, Palsy, Stone, and Gout,  
Legions of Maladies by me cast out,  
More than the College know, or ever fill  
Quacks Wiping Paper and the Weekly Bill.  
What Peter's shadow did of old, the same  
Is fancied done by my all powerful Name;  
For which some wear't about their Necks and Arms,  
To guard from Dangers, Sicknesses, and Harms;  
And some on Wombs the barren to relieve,  
A Miracle I better did alive.  
Oft I by crafty jesuit am taught  
Wonders to do, and many a juggling Feat.  
Sometimes with Chaffing Dish behind me put,  
I sweat like Clapped Debauch in Hot House shut,  
And drip like any Spitchcocked Huguenot.  
Sometimes by secret Springs I learn to stir,  
As Paste-board Saints dance by miraculous Wire  
Then I Tradescant's Rarities outdo,  
Sands Waterworks and Germane Clockwork too,  
Or any choice Device at Barthol'mew.  
Sometimes I utter Oracles by Priest,  
Instead of a Familiar possessed.  
The Church I vindicate, Luther confute,  
And cause Amazement in the gaping Rout.  
Such holy Cheats, such Hocus Tricks as these,  
For Miracles amongst the Rabble pass.  
By this in their Esteem I daily grow,  
In Wealth enriched, increased in Votaries too.  
This draws each year vast Numbers to my Tomb,  
More than in Pilgrimage to Mecca come.  
This brings each week new Presents to my Shrine,  
And makes it those of Indian Gods outshine.  
This gives a Chalice, that a Golden Cross,  
Another massy Candlesticks bestows:  
Some Altar clothes of costly work and price,  
Plush, Tissue, Ermine, Silks of noblest Dies,  
The Birth and Passion in Embroideries:  
Some Jewels, rich as those th' Egyptian Punk  
In Jellies to her Roman Stallion drunk.  
Some offer gorgeous Robes, which serve to wear  
When I on Holydays in state appear;  
When I'm in pomp on high Processions shown,  
Like Pageants of Lord Mayor or Skimmington.  
Lucullus could not such a Wardrobe boast,  
Less those of Popes at their Election cost;  
Less those, which Sicily's Tyrant heretofore  
From plundered Gods and Jove's own Shoulders tore.  
Hither as to some Fair the Rabble come,  
To barter for the Merchandise of Rome;  
Where Priests like Mountebanks on Stage appear,  
T'expose the Frippery of their hallowed Ware:  
This is the Lab'ratory of their Trade,  
The Shop where all their staple Drugs are made;  
Prescriptions and Receipts to bring in Gain,  
All from the Church Dispensatories ta'en.  
The Pope's Elixir, Holy Water's here,  
Which they with Chemic Art distilled prepare:  
Choice above Goddards Drops, and all the Trash  
Of modern Quacks; this is that Sovereign Wash  
For fetching Spots and Morphew from the Face,  
And scouring dirty clothes and Consciences.  
One drop of this, if used, had power to fray  
The Legion from the Hogs of Gadara:  
This would have silenced quite the Wiltshire Drum,  
And made the prating Fiend of Mascon dumb.  
That Vessel consecrated Oil contains,  
Kept sacred as the famed Ampoulle of France;  
Which some profaner Heretics would use  
For liquoring Wheels of Jacks, and Boots, and Shoes:  
This makes the Chrism, which mixed with Snot of Priests,  
Anoints young Catholics for the Church's lists;  
And when they're crossed, confessed, and die; by this  
Their launching Souls slide off to endless Bliss:  
As Lapland Saints when they on Broomsticks fly,  
By help of Magic Unctions mount the Sky.  
You Altar-Pix of Gold is the Adobe  
And safe Repository of their God.  
A Cross is fixed upon't the Fiends to fright,  
And Flies which would the Deity beshit;  
And Mice, which oft might unprepared receive,  
And to lewd Scoffers cause of scandal give.  
Here are performed the Conjure and Spells,  
For Christening Saints, and Hawks and Carriers Bells;  
For hallowing Shreds, and Grains, and Salt, and Bawms,  
Shrines, Crosses, Medals, Shells, and Waxen Lambs:  
Of wondrous virtue all (you must believe)  
And from all sorts of Ill preservative;  
From Plague, Infection, Thunder, Storm, and Hail,  
Love, Grief, Want, Debt, Sin, and the Devil and all.  
Here Beads are blest, and Pater nosters framed,  
(By some the Tallies of Devotion named)  
Which of their Prayers and Orisons keep tale,  
Lest they and Heaven should in the reckoning fail.  
Here Sacred Lights, the Altars graceful Pride,  
Are by Priest's breath perfumed and sanctified;  
Made some of Wax, of Heretics Tallow some;  
A Gift which Irish Emma sent to Rome:  
For which great Merit worthily (we're told)  
She's now amongst her Country Saints enrolled.  
Here holy Banners are reserved in store,  
And Flags, such as the famed Armado bore:  
And hallowed Swords and Daggers kept for use  
When resty Kings the Papal Yoke refuse:  
And consecrated Ratsbane, to be laid  
For Heretic Vermin which the Church invade.  
But that which brings in most of Wealth and Gain,  
Does best the Priest's swollen Tripes and Purses strain;  
Here they each week their constant Auctions hold  
Of Relics, which by Candle's Inch are sold:  
Saints by the dozen here are set to sale,  
Like Mortals wrought in Gingerbread on Stall.  
Hither are loads from emptied Charnels brought,  
And Voiders of the Worms from Sextons bought,  
Which serve for Retail through the World to vent,  
Such as of late were to the Savoy sent:  
Hair from the Skulls of dying Strumpets shorn,  
And Felons Bones from rifled Gibbets torn;  
Like those which some old Hag at midnight steals,  
For Witchcrafts, Annulets, and Charms, and Spells,  
Are passed for sacred to the cheap'ning Rout;  
And worn on Fingers, Breasts, and Ears about.  
This boasts a Scrap of me, and that a Bit  
Of good S. George, S. Patrick, or S. Kit.  
These Locks S. Bridgets were, and those S. Clares;  
Some for S. Catharines' go, and some for hers  
That wiped her Saviour's feet, washed with her tears.  
Here you may see my wounded Leg, and here  
Those which to China bore the great Xavier.  
Here may you the grand Traitor's Halter see,  
Some call't the Arms of the Society:  
Here is his Lantern too, but Faux his not,  
That was embezled by the Huguenot.  
Here Garnet's Straws, and Becket's Bones and Hair,  
For murdering whom some Tails are said to wear,  
As learned Capgrave does record their fate,  
And faithful British Histories relate.  
Those are S. Laurence Coals exposed to view,  
Strangely preserved and kept alive till now.  
That's the famed Wildefortis wondrous Beard,  
For which her Maidenhead the Tyrant spared.  
Yond is the Baptist's Coat, and one of's Heads,  
The rest are shown in many a place besides;  
And of his Teeth as many Sets there are,  
As on their Belts six Operators wear.  
Here Blessed Mary's Milk, not yet turned sour,  
Renowned (like Ass') for its healing power,  
Ten Holland Kine scarce in a year give more.  
Here is her Manteau, and a Smock of hers,  
Fellow to that which once relieved Poitiers;  
Besides her Husband's Utensils of Trade,  
Wherewith some prove that Images were made.  
Here is the Soldier's Spear, and Passion Nails,  
Whose quantity would serve for building Paul's:  
Chips some from Holy Cross, from Tyburn some,  
Honoured by many a jesuits Martyrdom:  
All held of special and miraculous Power,  
Not Tabor more approved for Agues cure:  
Here Shoes, which once perhaps at Newgate hung,  
Angled for Charity that passed along,  
Now for S. Peter's go, and th' Office bear  
For Priests, they did for lesser Villains there.  
These are the Father's Implements and Tools,  
Their gaudy Trangums for inveigling Fools:  
These serve for Baits the simple to ensnare,  
Like Children spirited with Toys at Fair.  
Nor are they half the Artifices yet,  
By which the Vulgar they delude and cheat:  
Which should I undertake, much easier I  
Much sooner might compute what Sins there be  
Wiped off and pardoned at a jubilee.  
What Bribes every the Datary each year,  
Or Vices treated on by Escobar:  
How many Whores in Rome profess the Trade,  
Or greater numbers by Confession made.  
One undertakes by Scale of Miles to tell  
The Bounds, Dimensions, and Extent of Hell;  
How far and wide th'Infernal Monarch reigns,  
How many Germane Leagues his Realm contains:  
Who are his Ministers, pretends to know,  
And all their several Offices below:  
How many Chaudrons he each year expends  
In Coals for roasting Huguenots and Fiends:  
And with as much exactness states the case,  
As if he'd been Surveyor of the place.  
Another frights the Rout with rusul Stories,  
Of wild Chimaeras, Limbo's, Purgatories,  
And bloated Souls in smoky durance hung,  
Like a Westphalia Gammon or Neat's Tongue,  
To be redeemed with Masses and a Song.  
A good round Sum must the Deliverance buy,  
For none may there swear out on poverty.  
Your rich and bounteous Shades are only eased,  
No Fleet or King's Bench Ghosts are thence released.  
A third the wicked and debauched to please,  
Cries up the virtue of Indulgences,  
And all the rates of Vices does assess;  
What price they in the holy Chamber bear,  
And Customs for each Sin imported there:  
How you at best advantages may buy  
Patents for Sacrilege and Simony.  
What Tax is in the Leach'ry-Office laid  
On Panders, Bawds, and Whores, that ply the Trade:  
What costs a Rape, or Incest, and how cheap  
You may an Harlot or an Ingle keep;  
How easy Murder may afforded be  
For one, two, three, or a whole Family;  
But not of Heretics, there no Pardon lacks,  
'Tis one o'th' Churches meritorious Acts.  
For venial Trifles less and slighter Faults,  
They ne'er deserve the trouble of your thoughts.  
Ten Ave Maries mumbled to the Cross  
Clear scores of twice ten thousand such as those:  
Some are at sound of christened Bell forgiven,  
And some by squirt of Holy Water driven:  
Others by Anthems played are charmed away,  
As men cure Bites of the Tarantula.  
But nothing with the Crowd does more enhance  
The value of these holy Charlatans',  
Than when the Wonders of the Mass they view,  
Where spiritual Jugglers their chief mastery show  
hay jingo, Sirs! What's this? 'tis Bread you see;  
Presto be gone! 'tis now a Deity.  
Two grains of Doughty, with Cross and stamp of Priest,  
And five small words pronounced, make up their Christ.  
To this they all fall down, this all adore,  
And straight devour what they adored before:  
Down goes the tiny Saviour at a bit,  
To be digested, and at length beshit:  
From Altar to Close Stool or Jakes preferred,  
First Wafer, next a God, and then a—  
'Tis this that does th'astonished Rout amuse,  
And Reverence to shaved Crown infuse:  
To see a silly, sinful, mortal Wight  
His Maker make, create the Infinite.  
None boggles at th'impossibility;  
Alas, 'tis wondrous heavenly Mystery!  
None dares the mighty God-maker blaspheme,  
Nor his most open Crimes and Vices blame:  
Saw he those hands that held his God before,  
Straight grope himself, and by and by a Whore;  
Should they his aged Father kill or worse,  
His Sisters, Daughters, Wife, himself too force.  
And here I might (if I but durst) reveal  
What pranks are played in the Confessional:  
How haunted Virgins have been dispossessed,  
And Devils were cast out to let in Priest:  
What Fathers act with Novices alone,  
And what to Punks in shriving Seats is done;  
Who thither flock to Ghostly Confessor,  
To clear old debts, and tick with Heaven for more.  
Oft have I seen these hallowed Altars stained  
With Rapes, those Pews with Buggeries profaned:  
Not great Cellier, nor any greater Bawd,  
Of Note and long experience in the Trade,  
Has more and fouler Scenes of Lust surveyed.  
But I these dangerous Truths forbear to tell,  
For fear I should the Inquisition feel.  
Should I tell all their countless Knaveries,  
Their Cheats, and Shamms, and Forgeries, and Lies.  
Their Cringing, Cross, Censing, Sprinkling, Chrisms,  
Their Conjure, and Spells, and Exorcisms;  
Their motley Habits, Manciples, and Stoles,  
Albs, Ammits, Rochets, Chimers, Hoods, and Cowls.  
Should I tell all their several Services,  
Their Trentals, Masses, Dirges, Rosaries;  
Their solemn Pomp's, their Pageants, and Parades,  
Their holy Masques, and spiritual Cavalcades,  
With thousand Antic Tricks and Gambols more;  
'Twould swell the sum to such a mighty score,  
That I at length should more volum'nous grow,  
Than Crabb, or Surius, lying Fox, or Stow.  
Believe what e'er I have related here,  
As true as if 'twere spoke from porphyry Chair.  
If I have feigned in aught or broached a Lie,  
Let worst of Fates attend me, let me be  
Pist on by Porter, Groom, and Oyster-whore,  
Or find my Grave in Jakes and Common-shore:  
Or make next Bonfire for the Powder-plot,  
The sport of every sneering Huguenot.  
There like a Martyred Pope in Flames expire,  
And no kind Catholic dare quench the Fire.   

A satire AGAINST VIRTUE.  
Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris aut carcere dignum Si vis esse aliquis— Juven. Sat.  
LONDON, Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, 1680.   

TO THE READER.  
THIS had never seen the Light, but that the Publisher does propose Gain to himself by it; and Interest you know governs the World. It cannot, I am sure, do much hurt, for that there are but few will understand it; and for the more ingenious, I hope, they will make better use of it.  
T. A.   

A POEM: Supposed to be spoken by a Town-Hector.  
PINDARIC, In imitation of Mr. Cowley.  

NOW Curses on ye all, ye virtuous Fools,  
Who think to fetter freeborn souls,  
And tie 'em up to dull morality and rules.  
The Stagyrite be damned, and all the Crew  
Of Learned Idiots, who his steps pursue;  
And those more silly Proselytes whom his fond precepts drawn  
Oh, had his Ethics been with their wild Author drowned,  
Or a like Fate which these lost Writings found,  
Which that grand Plagiary doomed to fire,  
And made by unjust Flames expire:  
They ne'er had then seduced Morality,  
ne'er lasted to debauch the world with their lewd Pedantry.  
But damned and more (if Hell can do't) be that their cursed name,  
Who ere the Rudiments of Law designed;  
Who e'er did the first model of Religion frame,  
By nought before but their own power or will confined:  
Now quite abridged of all their Primitive Liberty  
And slaves to each capricious Monarch's Tyranny.  
More happy Brutes who the great Rule of Sense observe,  
And ne'er from their first Charter swerve.  
Happy whose lives are merely to enjoy,  
And feel no sting of sin which may their bliss annoy.  
Still unconcerned at Epithets of ill or good,  
Distinctions, unadulterate Nature never understood.   

2.  
Hence hated Virtue from our godly Isle,  
No more our joys beguile,  
No more with thy loathed presence plague our happy state,  
Thou enemy to all that's brisk, or gay, or brave, or great.  
Be gone with all thy pious meager Train,  
To some unfruitful unfrequented Land,  
And there an Empire gain,  
And there extend thy rigorous command:  
There where illiberal Nature's nigardise  
Has set a Tax on Vice.  
Where the lean barren Region does enhance  
The worth of dear intemperance.  
And for each pleasurable sin exacts excise,  
We (thanks to Heaven) more cheaply can offend,  
And want no tempting Luxuries,  
No good convenient sinning opportunities,  
Which natures bounty could bestow, or Heaven's kindness lend.  
Go follow that nice Goddess to the Skies,  
Who here too sore disgusting at increasing Vice,  
Disliked the world, and thought it too profane,  
And timely hence retired, and kindly ne'er returned again.  
Hence to those airy Mansions rove,  
Converse with Saints and holy folks above;  
Those may thy presence woe,  
Whose lazy case assords them nothing else to do:  
Where haughty scornful I,  
And my great Friends will ne'er vouchsafe thee company.  
Thou'st now a hard unpracticable good,  
Too difficult for flesh and blood:  
Were I all soul, like them, perhaps, I'd learn to practise thee.   

3.  
Virtue, thou solemn grave impertinence,  
Abhorred by all the men of wit and sense.  
Thou damned fatigue, that clogst life's journey here,  
Though thou no weight of wealth or profit bear;  
Thou puling fond Green-sickness of the mind,  
That makest us prove to our own selves unkind,  
Whereby, we Coals and Dirt for diet choose,  
And, Pleasure, better food, refuse.  
Cursed ill, that leadest deluded Mortals on,  
Till they too late do find themselves undone,  
Choosed by a Dowry in reversion.  
The greatest Votary thou e'er couldst boast,  
Pity so brave a Soul, was on thy service lost;  
What wonders he in wickedness had done,  
Whom thy weak power could so inspire alone!  
There long with fond amours he courted thee,  
Yet dying, did recant his vain Idolatry.  
At length, though late, he did repent with shame,  
Forced to confess thee nothing but an empty name.  
So was that Lecher gulled whose haughty love,  
Designed a Rape on the Queen Regent of the Gods above.  
When he a Goddess thought he had in chase,  
He found a gaudy vapour in the place,  
And with thin Air beguiled his starved embrace.  
Idly he spent his vigour, spent his blood,  
And tired himself to oblige an unperforming Cloud.   

4.  
If Human bind to thee, 'ere worship paid,  
They were by ignorance misled,  
That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made.  
None haply in the World's rude untaught infancy,  
Before it had out-grown its childish innocence.  
Before it had arrived at sense,  
Or watched the manhood and discretion of Debauchery;  
None in those ancient godly duller times,  
When crafty Pagans had ingross'd all crimes▪  
When Christian fools were obstinately good,  
Nor yet their Gospel freedom understood.  
Tame easy Fops who could so prodigally breed,  
To be thought Saints, and die a Calendar with red:  
No prudent Heathen e'er seduced could be,  
To suffer Martyrdom for thee.  
Only that errand Ass whom the false Oracle called wise;  
No wonder if the Devil uttered lies.  
That snivelig Puritan who in spite of all the mode,  
Would be unfashionably good,  
And exercised his whining gifts to rail at Vice;  
Him all the Wits of Athens damned.  
And justly with Lampoons defamed.  
But when the mad Fanatic could not silencd be,  
From broaching dangerous Divinity;  
The wise Republic made him for prevention die,  
And sent him to the Gods and better company.   

5.  
Let fumbling Age be grave and wise,  
And Virtues poor contemned Idea prize,  
Who never knew, or now are past the sweets of Vice,  
While we whose active pulses beat  
With lusty youth and vigorous heat,  
Can all their Bards— and Morals too despise,  
While my plump veins are filled with lust and blood.  
Let not one thought of her intrude,  
Or dare approach my breast,  
But know its all possessed  
By a more welcome guest.  
And know I have not yet the leisure to be good.  
If ever unkind destiny,  
Shall force long life of me;  
If 'ere I must the curse of dotage bear,  
Perhaps I'll dedicate those dregs of Time to her,  
And come with crutches her most humble votary.  
When sprightly Vice retreats from hence,  
And quits the ruin of decayed sense,  
She'll serve to usher in a fair pretence,  
And banish with the name, a well dissembled impotence.  
When Ptisick, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies seize,  
And all the Bills of Maladies,  
Which Heaven to punish overliving Mortals sends;  
Then let her enter with the numerous infirmities,  
Herself the greatest plague, which wrinkles and grey hairs attends.   

6.  
Tell me, ye Venerable Sots, who court her most,  
What small advantage can she boast,  
Which her great Rival hath not in a greater score engrossed.  
Her quiet calm and peace of mind,  
In Wine and Company we better find.  
Find it with pleasure to combine.  
In mighty Wine, where we our senses steep,  
And Lull our Cares and Consciences asleep,  
But why do I that wild Chimaera name?  
Conscience! that giddy airy Dream,  
Which does from brainsick heads and ill-digesting stomaches steam.  
Conscience! the vain fantastic fear  
Of punishments, we know not when nor where:  
Projects of crafty Statesmen to support weak Law,  
Whereby they slavish Spirits awe,  
And dastard Souls to forced obedience draw.  
Grand wheedle which our Gowned Impostors use,  
The poor unthinking Rabble to abuse.  
Scarecrow to fright's from the forbidden fruit of vice,  
Their own beloved Paradise:  
Let those vile Canter's wickedness decry,  
Whose Mercenary tongues take pay  
For what they say;  
And yet commend in practice what their words deny,  
While we discerning Heads, who furthest pry  
Their holy Cheats, deny  
And scorn their frauds,  
And scorn their sanctified Cajoulery.   

7.  
None but dull Souls discredit vice,  
Who act their wickedness with an ill grace;  
Such their profession scandalise,  
And justly forfeit all that praise:  
All that esteem that credit and applause,  
Which we by our wise manage from a sin can raise.  
A true and brave transgressor ought  
To sin with the same spirit Caesar fought:  
Mean Souls! offenders now no honours gain,  
Only debaucher of the noble strain.  
Vice well improved yields bliss and fame beside,  
And some for sinning have been deified:  
Thus the lewd Gods of old did move,  
By those brave methods, to their seats above.  
ere jove himself the Sovereign Deity,  
Father and King of the immortal Progeny,  
Ascended to that high Degree;  
By crimes beyond the reach of weak Mortality,  
He Heaven one large Seraglio made,  
Each Goddess turned a glorious Punk o'th'▪ trade;  
And all that Sacred place  
Was filled with Bastard Gods of his own race:  
Almighty Lechery got his first repute,  
And everlasting whoring was his chiefest Attribute.   

8.  
How gallant was that wretch whose happy guilt,  
A Fame upon the Ruins of a Temple built!  
Let fools, said he, now quietly allege,  
And urge the no great fault of Sacrilege:  
I'll set the Sacred Pile on flame,  
And in its Ashes write my lasting Name,  
My name which thence shall be  
Deathless as its own Deity.  
Thus the vainglorious Charon I'll outdo,  
And Egypt's proudest Monarch too;  
Those lavish Prodigals who idly did consume  
Their Lives and Treasures to erect a Tomb,  
And only great, by being buried, would become,  
At cheaper rates than they I'll buy Renown.  
So spoke the daring Hector, so did Prophesy,  
And so it proved, in vain did envious Fate  
By fruitless methods try  
To raze his well-built Fame and Memory  
Amongst Posterity:  
The Boutefeu can now Immortal write,  
While the inglorious Founder is forgotten quite.   

9  
Yet greater was that mighty Emperor;  
A greater crime befitted his high Power,  
Who sacrificed a City to a Jest,  
And showed he knew the grand intrigues of humour best.  
He made all Rome a Bonfire for loud Fame,  
And Sung, and played and danced amidst the Flame;  
Bravely begun! yet pity there he stayed,  
One step, to Glory, more he should have made:  
He should have heaved the noble frolic higher,  
And made the People on that Funeral expire,  
Or, providently, with their blood put out the Fire.  
Had this been done,  
The utmost of glory he had run;  
No greater Monument could be  
To consecrate him to eternity,  
Nor should there need another Herald of his praise but me.   

10.  
And thou yet greater Faux, the glory of our Isle,  
Whom baffled Hell esteems its chiefest Foil;  
'Twere injury should I omit thy name,  
Whose actions merit all the breath of Fame.  
Methinks, I see the trembling shades below,  
All round, in humble reverence bow;  
Doubtful they seem, whether, to pay their Loyalty  
To their dread Monarch, or to thee:  
No wonder he grew jealous of thy feared success,  
Envied Mankind the honour of thy wickedness,  
And spoiled that brave attempt which should have made his grandeur less.  
How e'er regret not, mighty Ghost,  
Thy Plot by treacherous fortune crossed,  
Nor think thy well deserved glory lost.  
Thou the full praise of Villainy shalt ever share,  
And all will judge thou art complete enough, when thou couldst dare,  
So thy great Master fared, whose high disdain,  
Contemned that Heaven, where he could not Reign,  
When he with bold ambition strove,  
T' usurp the Throne above,  
And led against the Deity an armed Train,  
Though from his vast designs he fell,  
O're-powered by his Almighty Foe,  
Yet gained he Victory in his overthrow.  
He gained sufficient Triumph that he durst Rebel,  
And 'twas some pleasure to be thought the greatest one in Hell.   

11.  
Tell me, you great Triumvirate, what shall I do  
To be illustrious as you?  
Let your example move me with a generous fire,  
Let them into my daring thoughts inspire  
Somewhat completely wicked, some vast Gyant-crime,  
Unthought, unknown, unpatterned by all past and present time.  
'Tis done, 'tis done, I think I feel the powerful charms,  
And a new heat of sin my spirit warms;  
I travel with a glorious mischief, for whose birth,  
My Soul's too narrow, and weak fate too feeble to bring forth.  
Let the unpitied vulgar tamely go  
And stalk for company, the wide Plantation below:  
Such their vile Souls for viler Barter sell,  
Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell.  
We are his Grandees, and expect as high preferments there,  
For our good Service, as on earth we share.  
In them, sin is but a mere privative of good,  
The frailty and defect of flesh and blood:  
In us 'tis a perfection, who profess  
A studied and elaborate wickedness.  
We are the great Royal Society of Vice,  
Whose Talents are to make discoveries,  
And advance Sin like other Arts and Sciences.  
It's I the bold Columbus, only I,  
Who must new Worlds in Vice descry,  
And fix the pillars of unpassable iniquity.   

12.  
How sneaking was the first debauch we find,  
Who for so small a sin sold humane kind.  
How undeserving that high place,  
To be thought Parent of our sin and race,  
Who by low guilt our nature doubly did debase:  
Unworthy was he to be thought  
Father of th' firstborn Cain, which got  
The noble Cain, whose bold and gallant act  
Proclaimed him of more high extract.  
Unworthy me,  
And all the braver part of his Posterity.  
Had the just Fates designed me in his stead,  
I had done some great and unexampled deed;  
A deed which should decry  
The Stoics dull Equality,  
And show that sin admits transcendency:  
A deed wherein the Tempter should not share  
Above what Heaven could punish, and above what he could dare  
For greater c●imes than this I would have fell,  
And acted somewhat which might merit more than Hell.   

An Apology for the preceding Poem, by way of Epilogue, to be annexed.  
MY part is done, and you'll, I hope, excuse  
Th' extravagance of a repenting Muse,  
Pardon what e'er she hath too boldly said,  
She only acted here in Masquerade.  
For the slight Arguments she did produce,  
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce.  
So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose,  
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous.  
When she an Hector for her Subject had,  
She thought she must be Termagant and mad.  
That made our Spark like a lewd punk o'th' Town,  
Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown,  
Has learned the Mode to cry all Virtue down.  
But now the Vizards off, she changes Scene,  
And turns a modest civil Girl again.  
Our Poet has a different taste of Wit,  
Nor will to th' Common Vogue himself submit.  
Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie  
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy,  
He swears, he cannot with those terms dispense,  
Nor will be damned for the repute of sense.  
Wit's name was never to profaneness due,  
For than you see he could be witty too:  
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,  
But that he's Loyal, and knows better things,  
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.  
He likes not Wit which can't a Licence claim,  
To which the Author dares not set his Name.  
Wit should be open, court each Readers eye,  
Not lurk in sly unprinted privacy.  
But Criminal Writers, like dull Birds of Night,  
For weakness, or for shame avoid the light;  
May such a Jury for the Audience have,  
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive.  
May they the Tower for their due merits share,  
And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel, wear:  
He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times,  
In what they dearly love: Damned placket Rhimes,  
Such as our Nobles write—  
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher  
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire.  
So lewd they spend at quill you'd justly think,  
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.  
But he still that little Wit, or none,  
Which a just modesty must never own,  
And a mere Reader with a Blush at one.  
If Ribaldry deserved the praise of Wit,  
He must resign to each illiterate Citt,  
And Prentices and Carmen challenge it.  
Even they too can be smart and witty there;  
For all men on that Subject Poets are.  
Henceforth he vows, if ever more he find  
Himself to th' busy itch of Verse inclined,  
If e'er he's given up so far to write,  
He never means to make his end delight:  
Should he do so, he must despair success,  
For he's not now debauched enough to please,  
And must be damned for want of wickedness.  
He'll therefore use his Wit another way,  
And next the ugliness of Vice display.  
Though against Virtue once he drew his Pen,  
He'll ne'er for aught, but her defence again.  
Had he the Genius and Poetic rage,  
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age.  
Were he all Gall, and armed with store of spite,  
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write;  
To noble satire he'd direct his aim,  
And bite Mankind, and Poetry reclaim,  
And shoot his Quill just like a Porcupine  
At Vice, and make it stab in every Vein,  
The world should learn to blush,  
And dread the Vengeance of his— Wit,  
Which more than their own Consciences should fright,  
And should think him for Heavens just Plague designed  
To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind.    

THE PASSION OF BYBLIS IN Ovid's Metamorphosis Imitated in English.  
LONDON, Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, 1681.   

THE Passion of Byblis OUT OF Ovid's Metamorphosis, B. 9 F. 11. Beginning at Byblis in exemplo est, ut ament concessa puellae. And ending with — Modumque Exit, & infelix committit saepe repelli.  
YOU heedless Maids, whose young and tender hearts  
Unwounded yet, have scaped the fatal darts;  
Let the sad tale of wretched Byblis move,  
And learn by her to shun forbidden Love.  
Not all the plenty, all the bright resort  
Of gallant Youth, that graced the Carian Court,  
Could charm the haughty Nymphs disdainful heart,  
Or from a Brother's guilty Love divert;  
Caunus she loved, not as a Sister ought,  
But Honour, Shame and Blood alike forgot:  
Caunus alone takes up her Thoughts and Eyes,  
For him alone she wishes, grieves and sighs.  
At first her newborn Passion owns no name,  
A glimmering Spark scarce kindling into flame;  
She thinks it no offence, if from his Lip  
She snatched an harmless bliss, if her fond clip  
With loose embraces oft his Neck surround,  
And Love is yet in debts of Nature drowned.  
But Love at length grows naughty by degrees,  
And now she likes, and strives herself to please:  
Well-dressed she comes and arms her Eyes with darts,  
Her Smiles with charms and all the studied arts,  
Which practised Love can teach to vanquish hearts.  
Industrious now she labours to be fair,  
And envies all whoever fairer are.  
Yet knows she not, she loves, but still does grow,  
Insensibly that thing she does not know:  
Strict honour yet her checked desires does bind,  
And modest thoughts on this side wish confined:  
Only within she soothes her pleasing flames,  
And now the hated terms of Blood disclaims:  
Brother sounds harsh; she the unpleasing word  
Strives to forget and oftener calls him Lord:  
And when the name of Sister grates her ear,  
Could wished unsaid, and rather Byblis hear:  
Nor dare she yet with waking Thoughts admit  
A wanton hope: but when returning night  
With Sleeps soft gentle spell her Senses charms,  
Kind Fancy often brings him to her Arms:  
In them she oft does the Loved Shadow seem  
To grasp, and joys, yet blushes too in Dream.  
She wakes, and long in wonder silent lies,  
And thinks on her late pleasing Ecstasies:  
Now likes and now abhors her guilty flame,  
By turns abandoned to her Love and Shame:  
At length her struggling thoughts an utterance sinned,  
And vent the wild disorders of her mind.  
" Ah me! (she cries) kind Heaven avert! what means  
" This boding form, that nightly rides my dreams?  
" Grant 'em untrue! why should lewd hope divine?  
" Ah! why was this too charming Vision seen?  
" 'Tis true, by the most envious wretch that sees,  
" He's owned all fair and lovely, owned a prize  
" Worthy the conquest of the brightest eyes:  
" A prize that would my highest ambition fill,  
" All I could wish;— but he's my Brother still!  
" That cruel word for ever must disjoin,  
" Nor can I hope, but thus, to have him mine.  
" Since then I waking never must possess,  
" Let me in sleep at least enjoy the bliss,  
" And sure nice Virtue can't forbid me this:  
" Kind sleep does no malicious spies admit,  
" Yet yields a lively semblance of delight:  
" Gods! what a scene of joy was that! how fast  
" I clasped the Vision to my panting breast!  
" With what fierce bounds I sprung to meet my bliss,  
" While my wrapped soul flew out in every kiss!  
" Till breathless, faint and softly sunk away,  
" I all dissolved in reeking pleasures lay!  
" How sweet is the remembrance yet! though night  
" Too hasty fled, drove on by envious light.  
" O that we might the Laws of Nature break!  
" How well could Caunus me an Husband make!  
" How well to Wife might he his Byblis take!  
" Would God in all things we had partners been  
" Besides our Parents and our fatal Kin:  
" Would thou wert nobler, I more meanly born,  
" Then guiltless I despaired and suffered scorn:  
" Happy that Maid unknown, whoever shall prove  
" So blessed, so envied, to deserve thy love.  
" Unhappy me! whom the same womb did join,  
" Which now forbids me ever to be thine:  
" Cursed fate! that we alone in that agree,  
" By which we ever must divided be.  
" And must we be? what meant my Visions then?  
" Are they and all their dear presages vain?  
" Have dreams no credit but with easy love?  
" Or do they hit sometimes and faithful prove?  
" The Gods forbid! yet those whom I invoke,  
" Have loved like me, have their own Sisters took:  
" Great Saturn and his greater Offspring jove,  
" Both stocked their Heaven with incestuous love:  
" Gods have their privilege; why do I strive  
" To strain my hopes to their Prerogative?  
" No, let me banish this forbidden fire,  
" Or quench it with my blood, and with't expire:  
" Unstained in honour, and unhurt in fame,  
" Let the same Grave bury my Love and Shame:  
" But when at my last hour I gasping lie,  
" Let only my kind Murderer be by:  
" Let him, while I breathe out my soul in sighs,  
" Or gazeed away, look on with pitying eyes:  
" Let him (for sure he can't deny me this)  
" Seal my cold Lips with one dear parting Kiss.  
" Besides, 'twere vain should I alone agree  
" To what another's will must ratify:  
" Could I be so abandoned to consent,  
" What I have passed for good and innocent,  
" He may perhaps as worst of Crimes resent.  
" Yet we amongst our race examples sinned  
" Of Brothers, who have been to Sister's kind:  
" Famed Canace could thus successful prove,  
" Could crown her wishes in a Brother's love.  
" But whence could I these instances produce?  
" How ' came I witty to my ruin thus?  
" Wither will this mad frenzy hurry on?  
" Hence, hence, you naughty flames, far hence be gone,  
" Nor let me ere the shameful Passion own.  
" And yet should he address I should forgive,  
" I fear, I fear, I should his suit receive:  
" Shall therefore I, who could not love disown  
" Offered by him, not mine to him make known?  
" And canst thou speak? can thy bold tongue declare?  
" Yes, Love shall force:— and now methinks I dare.  
" But lest fond modesty at length refuse,  
" I will some sure and better method choose:  
" A Letter shall my secret flames disclose,  
" And hide my Blushes, but reveal their cause.  
This takes, and 'tis resolved as soon as said,  
With this she raised herself upon her bed,  
And propping with her hand her leaning head:  
" Happen what will (says she) I'll make him know  
" What pains, what raging pains I undergo:  
Ah me! I rave! what tempests shake my breast?  
" And where? O where will this distraction rest?  
Trembling, her Thoughts indite, and oft her Eye  
Looks back for fear of conscious spies too nigh:  
One hand her Paper, t'other holds her Pen,  
And Tears supply what Ink her Lines must drain.  
Now she begins, now stops, and stopping frames  
New doubts, now writes, and now her Writing damns.  
She writes, defaces, altars, likes and blames:  
Oft throws in haste her Pen and Paper by,  
Then takes 'em up again as hastily:  
Unsteady her resolves, fickle and vain,  
No sooner made, but straight unmade again:  
What her desires would have she does not know,  
Displeased with all what e'er she goes to do:  
At once contending, shame and hope and fear  
Wrack her tossed mind, and in her looks appear.  
Sister was wrote; but soon mis-giving doubt  
Recals it, and the guilty word blots out:  
Again she pauses, and again begins,  
At length her Pen drops out these hasty Lines.  
" Kind health, which you and only you can grant,  
" Which, if denied, she must for ever want;  
" To you your Lover sends: ah! blushing shame  
" In silence bids her Paper hide her name:  
" Would God the fatal message might be done  
" Without annexing it, nor Byblis known,  
" ere blessed success her hopes and wishes crown.  
" And had I now my smothered grief concealed,  
" It might by tokens past have been revealed:  
" A thousand proofs were ready to impart  
" The inward anguish of my wounded heart:  
" Oft, as your sight a sudden blush did raise,  
" My blood came up to meet you at my face:  
" Oft (if you call to mind) my longing Eyes  
" Betrayed in looks my souls too thin disguise:  
" Think how their Tears, think how my heaving Breast  
" Oft in deep sighs some cause unknown confessed:  
" Think how these Arms did oft with fierce embrace,  
" Eager as my desires, about you press:  
" These Lips too (when they could so happy prove,  
" Had you but marked) with close warm kisses striven  
" To whisper something more than Sister's love:  
" And yet, though rankling grief my mind distressed,  
" Though raging flames within burnt up my breast,  
"" Long time I did the mighty pain endure,  
" Long strove to bring the fierce disease to cure:  
" Witness the cruel Powers, who did inspire  
" This strange, this fatal, this resistless fire,  
" Witness what pains (for you alone can know)  
" This helpless wretch to quenched did undergo:  
" A thousand Racks, and Martyrdoms, and more  
" Than a weak Virgin can be thought, I bore:  
" O'rematched in power at last I'm forced to yield,  
" And to the conquering God resign the field:  
" To you, dear cause of all, I make address,  
" From you with humble prayers I beg redress:  
" You rule alone my arbitrary fate,  
" And life and death on your disposal wait:  
" Ordain, as you think fit; deny, or grant,  
" Yet know no stranger is your suppliant.  
" But she, who, though to you by Blood allied  
" In nearest bonds, in nearer would be tied.  
" Let doting age debate of Law and Right,  
" And gravely state the bounds of just and fit;  
" Whose wisdom's but their envy, to destroy  
" And bar those pleasures which they can't enjoy:  
" Our blooming years, more sprightly and more gay,  
" By Nature were designed for love and play:  
" Youth knows no check, but leaps weak Virtue's fence,  
" And briskly hunts the noble chase of sense:  
" Without dull thinking we enjoyment trace,  
" And call that lawful, whatsoever does please.  
" Nor will our guilt want instances alone,  
" 'Tis what the glorious Gods above have done:  
" Let's follow where those great examples went,  
" Nor think that Sin, where Heaven's a precedent.  
" Let neither awe of Father's frowns, nor shame  
" For aught that can be told by babbling fame,  
" Nor any ghastlier fantom, fear can frame,  
" Frighten or stop us in our way to bliss,  
" But boldly let us rush on happiness:  
" Where glorious hazards shall enhance delight,  
" And that, that makes it dangerous make it great.  
" Relation too, which does our fault increase,  
" Will serve that fault the better to disguise;  
" That lets us now in private often meet  
" Blessed opportunities for stolen delight:  
" In public often we embrace and kiss,  
" And fear no jealous, no suspecting eyes.  
" How little more remains for me to crave!  
" How little more for you to give! O save  
" A wretched Maid undone by love and you,  
" Who does in tears and dying accents sue;  
" Who bleeds that Passion she had ne'er revealed,  
" If not by love, almighty love compelled:  
" Nor ever let her mournful Tomb complain,  
" Here Byblis lies, killed by your cold disdain.  
Here forced to end, for want of room, not will  
To add, her lines the crowded Margin fill,  
Nor space allow for more: she trembling, folds  
The Paper, which her shameful message holds;  
And sealing, as she wept with boding fear,  
She wet her Signet with a falling Tear.  
This done, at trusty Messenger she called,  
And in kind words the whispered Errand told:  
" Go, carry this with faithful care, she said,  
" To my dear,— there she paused a while, and stayed,  
And by and by— Brother— was heard to add:  
As she delivered it with her commands,  
The Letter fell from out her trembling hands,  
Dismayed with the ill Omen, she anew  
Doubted success, and held, yet bade him go.  
He goes, and after quick admission got  
To Caunus hands the fatal secret brought:  
Soon as the doubtful Youth a glance had cast  
On the first lines, and guest by them the rest,  
Straight horror and amazement filled his breast:  
Impatient with his rage he could not stay  
To see the end, but threw't half read away.  
Scarce could his hands the trembling wretch forbear,  
Nor did his tongue these angry threatenings spare:  
" Fly hence, nor longer my chafed fury trust,  
" Thou cursed Pander of detested lust;  
" Fly quickly hence, and to thy swiftness owe  
" Thy life, a forfeit to my vengeance due:  
" Which, had not danger of my Honour crossed,  
" Thou'dst paid by this, and been sent back a ghost.  
He the rough orders straight obeys, and bears  
The kill news to wretched Byblis ●●rs;  
Like striking thunder the 〈…〉 g stun,  
And to her heart quicker 〈…〉 t'ning run:  
The frighted blood forsakes her ghastly face,  
And a short death does every member seize:  
But soon as sense returns, her frenzy too  
Returns, and in these words breaks forth anew.  
" And justly served;— for why did foolish I  
" Consent to make this rash discovery?  
" Why did I thus in hasty lines reveal  
" That dangerous secret, Honour would conceal?  
" I should have first with art disguised the hook,  
" And seen how well the gaudy bait had took,  
" And found him hung at least, before I struck:  
" From shore I should have first descried the wind,  
" Whether 'twould prove to my adventure kind,  
" ere I to untried Seas myself resigned:  
" Now dashed on Rocks unable to retire,  
" I must i'th' wreck of all my hopes expire,  
" And was not I by tokens plain enough  
" Forewarned to quit my unauspicious Love?  
" Did not the Fates my ill success foretell,  
" When from my hands th' unhappy Letter fell?  
" So should my hopes have done, and my design,  
" That, or the day should then have altered been;  
" But rather the unlucky day; when Heaven  
" Such ominous proofs of its dislike had given:  
" And so it had, had not mad Passion swayed,  
" And Reason been by blinder Love misled.  
" Besides (alas!) I should myself have gone,  
" Nor made my Pen a proxy to my Tongue;  
" Much more I could have spoke, much more have told,  
" Than a short Letters narrow room would hold:  
" He might have seen my Looks, my wishing Eyes,  
" My melting Tears, and heard my begging Sighs;  
" About his Neck I could have flung my Arms,  
" And been all over Love, all over Charms;  
" Grasped and hung on his Knees, and there have died,  
" There breathed my gasping Soul out if denied:  
" This and ten thousand things I might have done  
" To make my Passion with advantage known;  
" Which if they each could not have bend his mind,  
" Yet surely all had forced him to be kind.  
" Perhaps he whom I sent was too in fault,  
" Nor rightly timed his Message, as he oug●●,  
" I fear he went in some ill-chosen hour,  
" When cloudy weather made his temper lour.  
" Not those calm seasons of the mind, which prove  
" The fittest to receive the seeds of love.  
" These things have ruined me; for doubtless he  
" Is made of humane flesh and blood like me;  
" He sucked no Tygress sure, nor Mountain Bear,  
" Nor does his breast relentless Marble wear.  
" He must, he shall consent, again I'll try,  
" And try again, if he again deny:  
" No scorn, no harsh repulse, or rough defeat  
" Shall ever my desires, or hopes rebate.  
" My earnest suits shall never give him rest,  
" While Life, and Love more durable, shall last:  
" Alive I'll press, till breathe in prayers be lost,  
" And after come a kind beseeching ghost.  
" For, if I might, what I have done, recall,  
" The first point were, not to have done't at all;  
" But since 'tis done, the second to be gained  
" Is now to have, what I have sought, attained:  
" For he, though I should now my wishes quit,  
" Can never my unchaste attempts forget:  
" Should I desist, 'twill be believed that I  
" By slightly ask, taught him to deny;  
" Or that I tempted him with wily fraud,  
" And snares for his unwary Honour laid:  
" Or, what I sent (and the belief were just)  
" Were not th' efforts of Love, but shameful Lust.  
" In fine, I now dare any thing that's ill;  
" I've writ, I have solicited, my will  
" Has been debauched; and should I thus give out,  
" I cannot chaste and innocent be thought:  
" Much there is wanting still to be fulfilled,  
" Much to my wish, but little to my guilt.  
She spoke; but such is her unsettled mind,  
It shifts from thought to thought, like veering wind,  
Now to this point and now to that inclined:  
What she could wish had unattempted been,  
She straight is eager to attempt again:  
What she reputes, she acts; and now le's lose  
The reins to Love, nor any bounds allows:  
Repulse upon repulse unmoved she bears,  
And still sues on, while she her suit despairs.  
FINIS.   

A satire UPON A WOMAN, Who by her Falsehood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.  
Written in the Year, 1678.  
LONDON, Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, 1681.   

A satire Upon a WOMAM, who by her Falsehood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.  
NO she shall ne'er escape, if Gods there be,  
Unless they perjured grow and false as she;  
Though no strange judgement yet the murd'ress seize  
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:  
Though no revenging lightning yet has flashed  
From thence, that might her criminal beauty's blast:  
Though they in their old lustre still prevail  
By no disease, nor guilt itself made pale.  
Gild, which blackest Moors themselves but own,  
Would make through all their night new blushes down:  
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blessed,  
Thither too soon by her unkindness chased:  
(Where may it be her smallest and lightest doom,  
(For that's not half my curse) never to come;)  
Though he, when prompted by the highest despair,  
ne'er mentioned her without an Hymn or Prayer,  
And could by all her scorn be forced no more  
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.  
Who, had he cursed her with his dying breath,  
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:  
Though ill-made ●aw no Sentence has ordained  
For her, no Statute has her Gild arraigned.  
(For 〈◊〉, women's scorn, and Doctor's 〈◊〉,  
All by a 〈◊〉 way of murder kill.)  
Though she from justice of all these go free,  
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,  
'Twas but a little h●●●●less perjury:  
Yet thinks she not she still secure shall prove,  
Or that none dare avenge an injured love:  
I rise in judgement, am to be to her  
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:  
Armed with dire satire, and resentful spite,  
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.  
My ink unbid starts out, and flies on her  
Like blood upon some touching murderer:  
And should that fail, rather than want, I would  
Like Hags, to curse her, write in my own blood.  
Ye spiteful powers (if any there can be,  
That boast a worse and keener spite than I)  
Assist with malice, and your mighty aid  
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhyme her dead:  
Grant I 〈…〉 Infamy,  
So plain, so deeply graved on her, that she,  
Her Skill, Patches, nor Paint, all joined can hide,  
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:  
Grant my rank hate may such strong poison cast,  
That every breath may taint, and rot and blast,  
Till one large gang'renes quite o'erspread her fame  
With foul contagion, till her odious name  
Spit at and cursed by every mouth like mine,  
Be terror to herself and all her line.  
Vil'st of that viler Sex, who damned us all!  
Ordained to cause and plague us for our fall!  
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said  
But Mummy by some Devil inhabited:  
Not made in Heaven's Mint, but basely coined,  
She wears an humane image stamped on fiend;  
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,  
Is Witch by Law, and that a mere compact:  
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)  
By Hell was breathed into her in a lie,  
And its whole stock of falsehood there was lent,  
As if hereafter to be true it meant:  
Bawd Nature taught her jilting, when she made,  
And by her make designed for the trade:  
Hence 'twas she daubed her with a painted Face,  
That she at once might better cheat and please  
All those gay charming looks that court the eye,  
Are but an ambush to hid treachery;  
Mischief adorned with pomp and smooth disguise,  
A painted skin stuffed full of guile and lies,  
Within a gaudy Case, a nasty Soul,  
Like T— of quality in a gilt Close-stool:  
Such on a Cloud those flattering colours are,  
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.  
So men upon this Earth's fair surface dwell,  
Within are Fiends, and at the centre Hell:  
Court-promises, the Leagues which Statesmen make  
With more convenience and more ease to break,  
The Faith a Jesuit in Allegiance swears,  
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,  
Are firm and certain all compared with hers:  
Early in falsehood, at her Font she lied,  
And should even then for perjury been tried:  
Her Conscience stretched, and open as the Stews,  
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows,  
And at her mouth swallows down perjured breath,  
More glib than bits of lechery beneath:  
Less serious known when she doth most protest,  
Than thoughts of arrantest Bustoons in jest:  
More cheap than the vile mercenariest Squire,  
That plies for Half-crown F●es at Westminster;  
And trades in staple Oaths, and Swears to hire:  
●●ss g●●lt than hers, less b●●●ch of Oath and Word  
Has stood aloft, and looked through 〈◊〉 ●ancebo●●d;  
And he that trus●s her in a Death-bed-Prayer,  
Has 〈◊〉 to m●rit and save any thing but her.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 her gilt d●scription does out go,  
〈…〉 it outstrip my Curses too;  
Curses, which may they equal my just hate,  
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,  
Each heard like Prayers, and Heaven make 'em fate.  
First for her Beauties, which the mischief brought,  
May she affected, they be borrowed thought,  
By her own hand not that of Nature wrought:  
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those  
Prove light and frail as her broken Faith and Vows:  
Some base unnamed Disease, her Carcase foul,  
And make her Body ugly as her Soul.  
Cankers and Ulcers eat her till she be  
Shunned like Infection, loathed like Infamy.  
Strength quite expired, may she alone retain,  
The snuff of life, may that unquenched remain,  
As in the damned to keep her fresh for pain:  
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride  
On that, this ever scorned, as that denied:  
Ache, anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame  
Pursue at once her body, soul and fame:  
If e'er the Devil-love must enter her  
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)  
May she a just and true tormenter find,  
And that like an ill-conscience rack her mind:  
Be some diseased and ugly wretch her fate,  
She doomed to love of me, whom all else hate.  
May he hate her, and may her destiny  
Be to despair, and yet love on and die;  
O●●o invent some wittier punishment,  
May he to plague her, out of spite consent;  
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,  
Have strength to give her Claps, but no delight:  
May he of her unjustly jealous be  
For one that's worse and uglier far than he:  
May's impotence balk and torment her lust,  
Yet scarcely her to dreams or wishes trust:  
Forced to be chaste, may she suspected be,  
Share none o'th' pleasure, all the infamy.  
In fine, that I all curses may complete  
(For I've but cursed in jest and rallied yet)  
whate'er the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,  
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;  
whate'er great favourites turned out of doors,  
Shamed Cullies, bilked and disappointed Whores,  
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e'er  
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:  
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,  
Till spite can't think, nor Heaven inflict anew:  
May then (for once I will be kind and pray)  
No madness take her use of Sense away;  
But may she in full strength of reason be,  
To feel and understand her misery;  
Plagued so, till she think damning a release,  
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:  
Yet may not all these sufferings here atone  
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,  
Tick up in Perjury, and run o'th' score,  
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more:  
Then may the stupid and repentless die,  
And Heaven itself forgive no more than I,  
But so be damned of mere necessity.  
FINIS.   

ERRATA.  
PAge 2. line 19 read there, p. 4. l. 16. r. it, p. 7. l. 1. r. an, p. 25. l. 3. r. curse, p. 30. l. 2. r. Title, p. 35, l. 18. r. bantring, p. 44. l. 14. r. meals, p. 46. l. 2. r. line, l. 9 r strowed, p. 47. l. 5. r. Natives, p. 48. l. 19 r. Numbers. p. 49. l. 2. r. made, l. 8. r. write, l. 14. r. shamelesness, p. 5●. l. 1. were is wanting, p 59 l. 8. r. unknowing▪ p. 94. l. 7. r. Maniples, p. 9 l 7. r. vile, l. 8. r. with, p. 98. l. 3. r. Mortality, l. 5. r. thrice cursed, p. 99 l. ●. r. goodly, l. 14. r. to providence, p. 100 l. 2. r. heretofore disgusted, p. 101. l. 7. r. jilt, l. 14. r. though, p. 102. l. 8. r. Humane kind, l. 11. & 1. r. known, l. 14. r. reached, p. 104. l. 6. r. Beards, l. 14. r. on, p. 105. l. 2. r Ruins, l. 4. r. varnish with her, l 13. r. Quiet and, l. 15. r. too combined, p. 106. l 8. r. Project, p. 107. l. 5. r. defy, l. 8. r. dull unbred Fools, l. 15. height of spirit, l. 16. mean soul'd Offenders, l. 17. Debauches, p. 108. l. 3. r. Even jove, l. 15. r. Impiety, p. 109. l 3. r. Carian, l. 4. Monarches, l. 10. r. Spite, p. 110. l. 3. r. to his, l 11. Pitch is wanting. p. 111. l. 4. r. Around, l. 7. r. grown, l. 9 thy Act, p. 112. l. 5. r. great'st in Hell, l. 8. r. Examples, l. 11. r. Unknown, unheard, unthought of, l. 12. r. methinks, p. 113. l. 2. r. Stock for company the wide Plantations down, l. 17. r. that sinned, l. 18. r. Crime, p. 114. l. 5. r. he begot, p. 115. l. 11. r. her speak. p. 117 l. 9 thought is wanting. l. 18. r. the base Itch, p. 118. l. 10. r. a Genius, l. 15. r. by't, l. 16. r. He'd shoot his Quills, next l. r. them, p. 119. l. 1. p●inted is wanting. l. 3. r. And all should think him heavens.