THE Medal Reversed.  
A SATYR AGAINST PERSECUTION.  
By the Author Of AZARIA and HUSHAI.  — Laudatur ab his, Culpatur ab illis. 
LONDON: Printed for Charles Lee, Anno 1682.   

THE EPISTLE TO THE TORIES  
ACcording to a late pattern, we have dedicated also our Poem, not to our Friends, but Enemies, and I think I have not erred in the Portraiture I designed to draw of the Tories admired Persecution. If I have missed of some particular Works, Spots or Moles, it was because I durst not draw her so far to the life for fear of her Power and Indignation, else some of her grand Heroes, and such as you Tories worship and fall down before, had been shown in her face, as much to the life, as the pretended Whigs Hero most daubingly was lately aimed at, by the Author of the Medal. But like some pictures, I have seen, which at a distance show you the Faces of Men, if looked on thorough a perspective, expose to your view very perfectly twenty more Faces of their Relations, with in their own: This reversed Medal looked on thorough the perspective of Judgement, will to some clear Eyes show certain Images plain enough to be known to the Tories themselves, as Friends and Relations to Persecution. Tho I am not of Opinion that the Author of the Medal, and that of Absolom and Achitophel is one person, since the stile and painting is far different, and their Satyrs, are of a different hue, the one being a much slovenlier Beast than the other: yet since they desire to be thought so, let the one bear the Reproaches of the other. I cannot tell what immodesty the Whigs can be taxed with, for the desire of a Medal from a Friend, more than the Tories have shown in flattering draughts of impudent Traitors. Nor tax us I beseeeh you for pretending only the public Good, and a Veneration for the King; as yet. You have not detected those pretensions (as true as honest) of those you call Whiggs to be false; and certainly a Medal of the Tories Persecution, can be no scandal to the King, nor true picture of sedition. As for Pretences, the Whigs can see as well as others, and can as easily detect them as you, to be gross fallacies, and that 'tis most necessary for men in your Circumstances, to pretend both: For without them you could not deceive the King, nor draw after you many of the over zealous people, who suppose you work above ground, when all the while you are sapping and undermining the peace of the Nation. It is your common practice to slander or vilify others, your gross Libels swarm in the Streets, and fly in the Face of Magistracy itself, at such an impudent rate as is not to be parralleled, in the most licentious Commonwealths, and yet you have a Confidence to cry out of the whigs for their Clubs, whilst your dam Bullies hector and roar in every Coffey-house. Tories you are the persons who vilify the Government, and are indeed the Reproach of it both at home and abroad, some of you designedly, more of you ignorantly and foolishly. Your charges of the Whigs incensing the Multitude to assume Arbitrary Power is most false; and we justly return that Charge on yourselves, for you have tried all ways imaginable, to push on the people to a Rebellion, that you might have a pretence to cut their Throats, and compass your grand design; which lies hid under all. And when you see your Arts fail you, and that the Loyalty of the People, & love they bear to their sovereign (notwithstanding your false charge) make them steadfast, and not to be moved with your Libels, Affronts, Charges, and Reproaches, and that you are not able to stir them up to Rebellion, you feign plots and devises against them, that you might by Law cut off their heads, hang, or draw; and with Satyrs from the most witty of your hirelings, sow sedition thorough out the Nation, abusing not only a living part of the King, but even the King himself. And what means this new Persecution of Dissentors, in the midst of peace and quiet, but another irritation if possible, to some insurrection? but for aught I can see, the Loss of Goods, Religion, and Life itself, will not move those you call Whiggs to actual Rebellion against a Prince they love: Blame them not therefore, if sometimes their passions make them speak, they are Men, not Asses; are to be led by Laws, not driven at will and pleasure. We do not believe that the King intends to make use of Arbitrary Government, and we think well of some of his Ministers, but we also certainly know there are others, who endeavour all they can to make their own Fortunes, by unjust ways, and for Ends, that must tend to the Ruin of a Nation. If their designs were just and honest, would they live in so much fear of a Parliament, when so much the desire of the whole Nation? you Tories think you now have the better end of the staff, you have the Law, you have the great ones, you have Power, on your side; & therefore may do what you will, and abuse whom you please, the whigs must not open their mouths, and let them speak never so reverently of the King, all is blasphemy and canting in your Ears. You brag of your Poets and your Orators, and that all the wit lies on your side; be it so, we will not strive with you about it, we pretend to honesty and justice, that shall make amends for our ill Language and Verses. But if as the Author of the Medal says, his own verses were turned against him, and as he was made to satyrize himself, it shows there was some skill to beat him with his own weapon; & it shows success in the Camp, when the Enemy's Guns are taken and turned against themselves. And truly here we have but turned the Medal, to show you the Picture of yourselves, without stealing, or making any use of your Rhimes or Rail. If it does not please you I am not at all solicitous, for I am also of the Humour of your Poet, & as careless as he, what any of the Factious party says of me & have (I think) more reason to trust to the goodness of my Cause.   

THE MEDAL REVERSED.  
A satire Against Persecution.  

HOW easy 'tis to Sail with Wind and Tide?  
Small force will serve upon the stronger side:  
Power serves for Law, the wrong too oft's made right;  
And they are damned, who against power dare fight.  
Wit rides triumphant in Power's Chariot born,  
And depressed Opposites beholds with scorn.  
This well the Author of the Medal knew,  
When Oliver he for an Hero drew.  
He then Swum with the Tide; appeared a Saint,  
Garnished the Devil with Poetic Paint.  
When the Tide turned, then straight about he veers,  
And far the stronger side he still appears.  
Then in Heroics Courts the great, and high,  
And at th' Oppressed he lets his Satyrs fly.  
But he who stems the Tide, if ground he gains,  
Each stroke he makes must be with wondrous pains:  
If he bears up against the Current still,  
He shows at least he has some Art and Skill,  
When against Tide, Wind, Billows he does strive,  
And comes at last unto the shore alive.  
Huzza my Friends, let us our way pursue,  
And try what our Poetic Arms can do.  
This latter Age with wonders do abound,  
Our Prince of Poets has a Medal found,  
From whence his pregnant Fancy rears a piece,  
Esteemed to equal those of Rome and Greece.  
With piercing Eyes he does the Medal view,  
And there he finds, as he has told to you,  
The Hag Sedition, to the Life displayed,  
Under a Statesman's Gown; fancied or made,  
That is all one, he doth it so apply;  
At it th' Artillery of his Wit le's fly;  
Le's go his satire at the Medal straight,  
Whorries the whigs, and doth Sedition bait.  
Let him go on, the whigs the Hag forsake;  
Her Cause they never yet would undertake,  
But laugh to see the Poets fond mistake.  
But we will turn the Medal; there we see  
Another Hag, I think as bad as she:  
If I am not mistaken 'tis the same,  
Christians of old did Persecution name:  
That's still her Name, though now grown old and wise,  
She has new Names, as well as new disguise.  
Let then his satire with Sedition fight,  
And ours the whilst shall Persecution bite:  
Two Hags they are, who parties seem to make;  
'Tis time for Satyrs them to undertake.   

See her true Badge, a Prison or the Tower;  
For Persecution ever sides with Power.  
Our satire dares not worry those he should,  
But there are some felt, heard, and understood;  
Who Substantives of Power stand alone,  
And by all seeing men are too well known;  
What steps they tread, and whether 'tis they drive,  
What measures take, and by what Arts they thrive:  
But were these little Tyrants underfoot,  
How bravely o'er them could our satire strut!  
What Characters, and justly, could he give,  
Of men who scarcely do deserve to live!  
Yet these are they some flatterers can Court,  
Who now are Persecutions great support.  
We on the Medal see the fatal Tower;  
Truth must be silent, for we know their power;  
Whilst they, without control, can show their hate,  
And whom they please, with grinning Satyrs bait.  
This puts our satire into fume and chafe:  
He could bite soarly, could he do it safe.  
Since against such he dares not spend his breath,  
Th' Hag Persecution he will bait to death.   

Old as the world almost, as old as Cain,  
For by this Hag was righteous Abel slain;  
In Tyrant's Courts she ever doth abide,  
Accompanied with Power, with Lust and Pride.  
What she has done is to the world well known:  
She always made the best of men to groan▪  
Her bloody Arts are registered of old,  
And all her cruel Policies are told.  
All that is past our Muse shall let alone,  
Pass Foreign, and speak only of our own;  
Our own dear ugly Hag, who now has power,  
To send to Tyburn, Newgate, or the Tower.   

If Power be in the Multitude, not few,  
They show that they have Faith and Reason too,  
Leap not their bounds, nor do their power betray  
Since they to Laws, and Government obey.  
If other power they exercise, 'tis force,  
Or rage, that's seen in a wild headstrong Horse;  
The more he's spurred or reined, the more doth bound,  
And leaves not, till the Riders on the ground  
But far it seems from our Almighty Crowd,  
To boast their strength, or be of power proud:  
Their power they of old had fruitless tried,  
And therefore now take Reason for their guide.  
Nay Faith they have in their own juster Cause,  
In their dread Sovereign, and his righteous Laws;  
This makes them thus submit; all power lay by,  
For Right, for Law, for Peace they only cry:  
For this, by some, they are accounted Fools.  
So generous Horses are mistake for Mules;  
And some Court jockeys mount them in their pride,  
And with a Satyr's heel pur-gall their hide,  
Dull asses they suppose the People are,  
Made for their burdens, and not fit for War.   

All with the forewind of Religion Saile;  
It to all parties is the Common stale.  
I know you'll grant the Devil is no Fool,  
He can disguise in Surplice, Cloak, or Cool;  
But still he may be known without dispute,  
By Persecution; 'tis his Cloven Foot.  
Let him be Christian, Pagan, Turk, or jew,  
Pretends religious zeal, it can't be true,  
If't Persecution raises, or maintains,  
Or makes a Market of ungodly gains.  
When Rome had power here, and sat inchaired,  
How cruel and how bloody she appeared!  
Our Church Dissenters than did feel the same,  
Their Bodies served for fuel to the flame:  
And can this Church now got into the Chair,  
A Cruel Tyrant like to Rome appear?  
For bare Opinion do their Brother's harm,  
Plague, and Imprison, 'cause they can't Conform?  
But stay, our Church has Law upon its side:  
And so had Rome, that cannot be denied,  
And if these Iehu's, who so fiercely drive,  
In their sinister Arts proceed and thrive,  
We soon shall see our Church receive its doom,  
And feel again the Tyranny of Rome.  
To bar Succession is th' ungodly sin,  
So often broke, so often pieced ag'in.  
O may it here in England never cease,  
Could we but hope it would secure our peace!  
But men with different thoughts possessed are,  
We dread the effects of a new Civil War.  
We dread Rome's yoke, to us 'tis hateful grown,  
And Rome will seem a Monster in our Throne.  
How rarely will a Cope the Throne bedeck?  
A Bishop's Head, set on a Prince's Neck?  
Th' inherent Right lies in the Sovereign's sway,  
But then the Monarch must Rome's Laws obey.  
Head of the Church he must no longer be,  
But give that place unto Rome's holy See.  
Both of the Church, and him Rome will take care,  
The Throne must truckle under Papal Chair.   

King's can't do wrong, so does the maxim say,  
But Ministers of State, their servants, may.  
Tho Kings themselves do sit above the Law,  
Justice still keeps their Ministers in awe;  
For if they do not make the Law their guide,  
Great as they are, by Law they may be tried;  
Else we should subject be to every ill,  
And be made slaves to Arbitrary will.  
O happy Isle where each man Justice craves!  
King's can't be Tyrants, nor the subject's slaves.  
The Laws some great ones fear, who rule the State;  
When they can't new unto their wills create,  
They to their minds, with Cunning, try to mould,  
And, with new Images, to stamp the old:  
What against Dissenting Papists first was ben●,  
For Protestants now proves a Punishment.  
Law, La they Cry, and then their Brother smite,  
As well upon the left side as the right:  
To every Jail the Protestants they draw,  
And Persecution still is masqued with Law:  
We do not know but Rome may have its turn,  
And then it will be also Law to burn.   

This is not all, for some ill men there be,  
Who would the Laws use in a worse degree:  
Treason and Traitors, Plots against the State,  
To reach their Foes, they cunningly create:  
To Prison then the Innocent they draw,  
And if they could their Heads would take by Law;  
But Law is just, and Englishmen are good,  
And do not love to dip their hands in Blood  
Of Innocents': But this has raised the Rage  
Of some Politic Actors on our Stage,  
And spite of Justice, Law, and Reason too,  
Their wicked ends by other means pursue.  
Those men, whom they can neither hang nor draw,  
Freed by their Country, Justice, and the Law,  
They try to Murder with an Hirelings Pen,  
By making them the very worst of men.  
They have Orators and Poets at their will,  
Who with their venom, strive their Fames to kill.  
These rack the Laws, and holy Scriptures too,  
And fain would make all the old Treasons new:  
They will not let the Graves and Tombs alone,  
But Conjure up the Ghost of Forty One.  
With this they try the ignorant to scare,  
For men are apt the worst of things to fear,  
Tho that Ghost is no liker Eighty two,  
Than a good Christian like a Turk or jew.  
London, the happy Bulwark of our Isle,  
No smooth and oily words can thee beguile:  
Thou know'st thy Interest, that will never jye;  
Eternal as thyself, the men do die.  
'Tis Truth and Justice that do thee uphold,  
And richer in Religion than in Gold;  
Thy Piety has built thy Turrets higher  
Than e'er; in spite of Plague, of War, and Fire.  
Without a sigh we can't think on the flame,  
Nor by what hands, and from what heads it came.  
With envious Eyes they do thy riches view,  
When old ways fail, to spoil thee th●y find new:  
No Art's untried which may thy Coffers drain,  
For which the subtle Lawyer racks his Brain:  
Thy too old Charters they will new Arraign.  
Thou must not think thou canst in safety stand,  
Whilst the false Canaanite swarms in the Land.  
Some State-Physicians cry, that thou art sick,  
And on thee they would try some quacking trick:  
As yet their poy sonous drugs thou dost not need,  
Nor does thy Body want to purge or bleed.  
Thy Head we hope with Loyalty is Crowned,  
Thy Heart and Entrails we do know are found:  
Thy hands are open, honest, free, and straight,  
And all thy Members pliable and neat;  
All think you well in Health, and sound within,  
Tho some few spots appear upon your skin,  
They're but the purge of the sounder part,  
And are at a great distance from the Heart.  
The wealthy love to thrive the surest way,  
For gain perhaps they will like slaves obey,  
Give up their Charters, bend their necks, now free,  
To servile yokes, and stoop to that degree,  
As to submit to Rome's Cursed Tyranny.  
But sure the wise, and the Religious too,  
Will all the just and lawful ways pursue,  
To keep that freedom unto which they're born,  
And which so well doth English men adorn;  
Which our Forefathers did preserve with care,  
And which we, next our souls, do hold most dear.  
Let the hot Tories, and their Poet Curse,  
They spend in vain, and you are ne'er the worse.  
Alas! they seem as only made to damn,  
And then curse most when they have lost their shame;  
They are true Shimies, or the sons of Cham.  
Their Mouths are open Sepulchers, their Tongue  
With venom full is ever speaking wrong:  
With Oaths and Cursings, and with looking big,  
They seek to fright some harmless peaceful Whig;  
Then boast the Conquest, Hector, rant and tear,  
And cry God damn 'em Protestants they are▪  
All the fanatics are a cursed Crew,  
Worse than the Papists, or the Moor, or jew:  
The City is a Laystale full of mire,  
And aught again to be new purged with fire:  
All honesty, all godliness they hate,  
Love strife and War, contention and debate,  
These are the men from whom much mischief springs,  
Whilst their bad cause, they falsely make the Kings;  
These wrong the King, and then to make amends,  
With Oaths declare they are his only friends:  
But these are they, who Coleman would out do,  
Blow up both Kings and Kingly Power too.   

For why is all this Contest, and this strife?  
This struggling in the State, as 'twere for Life?  
When all men owned their enjoyed happiness,  
And daily did their belov'd Monarch bless?  
But these ill Men all common Roads forsake,  
O'er Hedges, and through standing Corn they break;  
Though ill success they have, they will not cease,  
Till they have spoiled the Nations happy peace.  
They see none to Rebellion are inclined,  
Yet Plots they make, where Plots they cannot find.  
But their Designs they did so idly frame,  
The Evil on their Heads returned with shame;  
And though they find their Evil Projects Cursed,  
They keep the Impudence they had at first:  
Against Honesty, Law, Reason, than they fight,  
And falsely cry, The King can have no right.  
The People of their Judgement they'd bereave,  
No proof, no Circumstance will they believe:  
Rebels and Traitors they will still Create,  
And are Men-Catchers of the highest rate.  
With Regal Rights these Men keep much ado;  
But, with that Stale, their own game they pursue:  
Their Monarch's Safety, Honour, Fame, Renown,  
The great Supports, and Jewels of the Crown;  
The People's Love, their Freedom, Liberties,  
Those they neglect, and these they do despise.  
What ere these Men pretend, the juggling feat  
Is plainly seen; 'tis to grow Rich, and Great,  
To Rule, to Sway, to Govern as they please:  
The People's Grievance, and the Lands Disease.  
All men that would oppose their power and sway,  
And will not them, like Galley-slaves, obey,  
They brand with odious Names, although they spring  
From Fathers ever Loyal to their King:  
Though they themselves Sons of the Church are known,  
Would with their Blood defend their Monarch's Throne,  
And ready are their Lives to sacrifice  
For all their King's just Rights, which much they prise.  
But O the Change that's now in England seen,  
They who are Loyal, and so ere have been,  
Because they will not serve sinister ends,  
Are Rebels called, at least called Traitors Friends.  
Thou wicked Hag, that now art armed with power,  
That wouldst men's Souls and Bodies both devour,  
That now dost show thy bloody armed paws,  
With Malice armed, and with too rigid Laws;  
With what Poetic Curse shall I thee paint,  
Who art a Devil, yet appear'st a Saint?  
But Vengeance for thee still in Heaven there's store,  
Though many Bless, and Thee the Beast adore,  
thou'rt died with Blood, and art the Scarlet Whore.  
O Persecution! thou'rt a Goddess blind,  
That never sparest any humane kind;  
In every Country thou dost footing gain,  
In all Religions thou desir'st to Reign,  
But never wast admitted in the True.  
Hence grow our Tears, that here thou shouldst renew  
Thy Strength and Power in this Happy Realm,  
Our Quiet, and our Peace to over-whelm;  
When for some years thou hast been banished,  
And Protestants believed thou hadst been dead;  
Or that at least, we never more should fear  
That thou shouldst live to show thy Power here:  
Unless (which Heaven avert) that thou shouldst come  
By force, brought in by the Cursed Power of Rome.  
But grieved we are, to see it in our Age,  
And fear it may a greater ill presage.  
Prisons and Fines the punishments are now,  
But who knows what at last it may come to?  
For this damned Hag longs still for Humane Food,  
Ne'er satisfied till she is gorged with Blood.  
Well may the Papists, when they have their turn,  
Rack and Imprison, Torture, Hang, and Burn;  
When Protestants to Protestants do show,  
That had they Power, themselves as much would do.  
But let the busy Ministers take care,  
They do but Vengeance for themselves prepare:  
For in all Ages it was ever known,  
That God his Vengeance on their Heads poured down.   

All but mere Fools may easily foresee  
What will the fatal end of these things be:  
If one bigoted in the Romish way,  
Should once again the English Sceptre sway;  
Then those who in the Pulpit are so loud,  
Preaching Succession to the Vulgar Crowd,  
Must change their Croaking Notes; their Coats must turn,  
Or, if prove Honest, fly the Land, or burn.  
Whom Benefit or Ignorance engage  
Now to the Party, then shall feel the Rage  
Of those fierce Tyrants, who now undermine,  
And hidden carry on their cursed Design.  
The proud usurping Priest, and Popish Knaves,  
Shall be your Lords, and all the English Slaves;  
The Nobles than must wear the Romish yoke,  
Or Heads submit unto the fatal stroke.  
Oppression will grow bold, the Tadpole-Priests,  
Shall lift above the Lords, their Priestly Crests.  
T'attempt or struggle then will be in vain,  
For Persecution will a Tyrant Reign;  
Her fatal power will then be understood,  
And she will glut herself with Martyrs Blood.  
The Pope's Supremacy shall then be shown,  
No other Head in England will be known:  
Then shall a general Curse flow through the Land,  
Lord against Lord, Friend against Friend shall stand,  
Till at the last the Crowd, in their defence,  
Provoked to Rage, Arm against their Popish Prince:  
With Words no longer, but with Arms they'll jar,  
And England will be spoiled with Civil War;  
True Peace and Happiness so long shall want,  
Till she shall get a Monarch Protestant.   

Thus Factious Men to Civil Broils engage,  
And with their ferment make the Crowd to rage:  
Their Madness, they in others would increase,  
Yet wipe their Mouths, and cry they are for Peace,  
For King, for Regal Rights, and true Succession,  
They in the people's ears still make profession;  
Yet for one Man, such Friends they are, so civil,  
They'd send almost Three Nations to the Devil.  
But there's no way these Mischiefs to prevent,  
Unless we have an Healing Parliament:  
Of that these faulty Men love not to hear,  
They've much transgressed, and much they have to fear.  
Until that day, England will find no rest,  
Though now she slumbers on her Monarch's breast;  
But then the Nation will be truly blest.   
FINIS.