BELLUM Presbyteriale. Or, as much said for the PRESBYTER As may be. TOGETHER WITH THEIR COVENANTS CATASTROPHE. Held forth in an Heroic Poem. By Matth. Stevenson, Gent.  Tantum Relligio potuit suadere malorum. 
LONDON, Printed for A. Rice, and are to be sold in St. Paul's Churchyard. 1661.   

To my very good Friend, DR. COLLINS.  
SIR,  
I Joy to hear of your Conformity, and think what comfort it must needs be to that Reverend Father, your Bishop. I wish you many and happy days in your Cassock and Surplice; nor am I less glad you have cast off your mourning Cloak of Presbytery, which I am sure S. Paul will never send you back to Troas for; Praestat recurrere quam malè currere. These twenty years has the Church, like another Rebecca, laboured of two Nations in her troubled womb; the Presbyterians endeavouring might and main to supplant the Bishops, and plant a company of stinking Elders in their places. But (God be thanked) the Confederates have missed their mark. My Title-page speaks of War, but peace to you:  
— Tu tantùm vivere pugna  
Inque pios dominae posse redire sinus.  
Which, for the better understanding of such as never arrived at Corinth, is thus:  
— Fight you to scape,  
And safe retreat into your Ladies Lap.  
But Sir, did not my good meaning hope for some Candour and acceptance, I should never have had the confidence to present your judicious eye with a Toy so beneath you. Sir, I wish you well; nay, more, that you were a Bishop: and that you may soon be so, is the hearty Prayer of him that was sometime a Member of yours, but still is, and ever shall be  
SIR, Your humble Servant, M. STEVENSON.   

BELLUM Presbyteriale.  

HAve ye not seen the Coals that lively burn,  
Of their own Ashes make themselves an Urn:  
And on occasion from their shady bed  
Make speedy resurrection from the Dead?  
Such are those Classic Glowing that long lie  
Raked up in Embers of Obscurity;  
Whose envious Sparks the Presbyterian locks  
In his close breast, as in a Tinderbox,  
And but the dread of just Revenge doth hinder,  
Would turn the Surplice & Lawn-sleeves to Tinder;  
Nay, for a little profit, or a Name,  
Set even the sacred Temple on a flame.  
His Spleen has its Dimensions so out-swoln,  
No man can think the fire from Heaven was stolen,  
Which, like those Lamps reserved from the Air  
Continue burning many hundred year.  
So Presbyterians age to age conceal  
The fiery bowels of their lurking zeal:  
As if the sulphurous Cakes of that deep Cell  
Were as eternal as the fire of Hell.  
They wrap the White Witch in a Cloud of night,  
Dark as the Curtains of false FAUX his light,  
Till mischief prompts them to't, then, then, they double  
Their flames, & make the Church & State their stubble;  
And would forestall (their fury is so fierce)  
The Conflagration of the Universe.   

Some smaller lights hover to and again,  
Which we call Will i'th' Wisp, or Lantern men,  
These like the Gloworm, that terrestrial star,  
Do sometimes glitter, sometimes disappear.  
Or like Joan's Candle else, this twinkling train  
Are out and in, and in and out again.  
These are those lights upon the Stage, we see  
Ye going now to act your Tragedy:  
Those Heresies I mean, those Schisms and Sects  
By you directed to those sad effects.  
You the Pyrites are; these sparks are some  
Of those that from your flinty bosoms come.  
You are the Stone, the Steel, Sulphur and Match,  
These only Tinder are, and apt to catch:  
In sum thus only differ your Conditions,  
You are the Aetna, these the Evomitions.  
And more than this, your actions vary not,  
One is the Canon, th' other the Case-shot.  
For, in a word, 'tis plain ye both conspire  
To set the Kingdom and the Church on fire.   

And to that end the furious brood of Smec  
Judging themselves too long kept under Deck;  
As eager Mastiffs that have long time lain  
Under restraint of a commanding chain,  
And now got loose, there's nothing in their way  
Which to their teeth shall not become a prey.  
So 'tis, these Classic Curs do nothing fear,  
But like Actaeon's Dogs their Master tear.  
Well had it been, and had I had my will,  
These Tigers should have been kept muzzled still.  
Foxes I say, that our Church-Vine deface,  
And plant their stinking Elders in the place.  
Which they begin, for now of late these Rabbis  
Have made Cathedrals like old wildred Abbeys,  
And with the Dragon with all fury press  
To drive the Church into the Wilderness.  
With their black brood of Angels, Sons of Hell,  
They help the Devil against St. Michael.  
There you may look before you and behind,  
And in the Windows read your envious mind.  
Which makes me wonder how that Clergy looks  
To have their Elders learned, and burn their Books!  
But this of all I do the strangest deem,  
That Presbyterians, who would Christians seem,  
Should so forget themselves as not afford  
A reverence to the shadow of their LORD;  
But he must suffer by the English Jew.  
As in his Person, so his Portrait too.  
Cause crucifying at Jerusalem  
Was not enough, he now is stoned by them;  
Nay, and his Mother that stands weeping by  
Must have her Scene too in the Tragedy.  
Like men possessed they dwell amongst the Tombs,  
And rifle Graves, and dead men's resting Rooms.  
Whom the blessed Virgin cannot exorcise  
With all the holy water of her Eyes.   

Pity us Heaven, that labour of a Curse,  
Were Hell broke loose we could not sure be worse:  
The Bishop doubtless with much quiet bears  
His losses, and forgives the Plunderers,  
Who in so Sacrilegious steps have trod,  
They have not spared the very House of God:  
And thus methinks I hear them check their Care,  
Can Servants better than their Master's fare?  
To rob the Church a sin is of that stature,  
Heathens abhorred it by the light of Nature.  
A numerous Army before Delphos fell,  
Though it were but the Devil's Oracle.  
With us the Case (to greater sin) does vary;  
For God's own House does need a Sanctuary.  
But this our shame, O may it ne'er be known!  
The hands that robbed our GOD have been our own.  
And what a vain excuse we do allege,  
Pull Idols down, and commit Sacrilege.  
Thus, PRESBYTERS, ye see what ye have done,  
Brought CHURCH and STATE into Confusion.  
EPISCOPACY (as it well appears)  
Has prospered in this Church a thousand years.  
Look back upon the Church, you may derive  
Its Institution from the Primitive.  
In sacred Scripture no where it appears,  
Titus and Timothy were PRESBYTERS.  
True, such there were with Bishops (if you'll have't)  
Contemporary, but subordinate.  
It were a fond Conceit, and overreached,  
To say the Ass was Balaam cause he preached.  
To rule without a King is to no boot:  
And shall the Church have neither Head nor Foot?  
What Order in the Church or State would be,  
We are convinced by our late ANARCHY;  
When, notwithstanding all the Lights ye boast,  
We were in Darkness, worse than Egypt, lost,  
Egyptians, Prince and Peasant, the Text saics,  
Arose not from their places in three days;  
Yet they knew where they were, which is much more  
Than we, I'm sure, could say this good while; for  
Every man with us is out of's place,  
The Servant now is where his Master was;  
Where the KING sat enthroned (under the Rose)  
The Beggar has advanced his COPPERNOSE.  
Now the CLOWN Lords it, and the Gentleman  
Sees that it will be so do what he can.  
Whose tailor's on his back, his thefts enchases  
In characters of Gold and silver laces.  
The Councillor is brought into disgrace,  
And for supply, the Fool is in his place.  
And now to see how times and seasons alter,  
The Thief condemns the Judge unto the Halter!  
Well may the Judge in admiration stand,  
And (as the Thief did once) hold up his hand;  
Yet strange not at this Metamorphosis,  
Holding up hands has been the cause of this.  
To the Exchequer whom would ye prefer,  
The Cheater is already Treasurer.  
Touching the Church, (O that it were a Dream!)  
The Crosier's turned into a Weavers beam.  
In the Dean's Pulpit is a Tailor heard,  
That measures Time, not by the Glass, but Yard.  
Weavers and Tailors? how's that understood?  
Are they to coat the Fathers? why that's good.  
Wolves in sheep's clothing preach unto their Dams,  
To have a care of their own tender Lambs.  
The Soldier preaches with his Sword by's side,  
As if therewith he would his Text divide,  
And open what he understandeth not,  
As Alexander did the Gordian knot.  
With infinite Inversions such as these;  
As if the whole were the Antipodes,  
Learning and Liberal Arts turned out of door,  
All were decried: Turcism commands no more.  
We put the BIBLE thus (Oh sin of Man!)  
In competition with the KORAN.  
A thing that falls to nothing, if she chance  
To crack the crazy Crutch of Ignorance:  
Thus in a maze they have bewildered us;  
None but our GOD can be our Daedalus.   

But this was their design, these their intents,  
To tear our Church in pieces for her Rents;  
A thing my hopes persuade shall never be,  
Maugre the handy-crafted Hierarchy.  
Those cursed Corahs', those Church-Catilines,  
The scue-bald Synod, and her Club-Divines,  
Hell's Ambuscado, nor a Scotish lurch  
Shall set a Kirk a tiptoes on our CHURCH,  
Which into heaps (I hope) shall ne'er be hurled,  
Until the second Chaos of the World,  
Under which (as by Record it appears)  
England has flourished many hundred years.  
Ye bend your bows though, and prepare to fight,  
Bishops the marks are, and Lawn sleeves the white.  
Instead of our Church-music ye suppose  
None like the twang of the Organic Nose.  
But yet if some (you ne'er shall know for certain,  
If I mean Burgess, and Sir Harry Marten)  
Had in their Stews met but with self-like choices,  
Their want of Noses had untuned their voices.  
The purity in Surplice signified,  
Ye, as the Whore of Bab'lons' Smock, deride.  
Goodness! how came this secret to be known?  
Did any sister measureed by her own?  
So likewise that Church-Ornamental Cope  
Ye call the outward Garment of the POPE,  
Forgetting these things only represent  
Paul's Decency, Order and Ornament.  
And fond you that Superstition make,  
Which wiser men but for distinction take.  
Of Bishops ye complain there's too great plenty,  
And yet for one ye strive to set up twenty;  
But better with Alcides trace the lists,  
Than Bryareus that has an hundred fists.  
Athens can tell you (with a doleful groan)  
That thirty Tyrant's oftener struck than one:  
In Church or State the difference we see  
MONARCHY is preferred to ANARCHY.  
But all the business whence they so displease  
Is only this, their Lands and Palaces.  
You therefore in deep policy think fit,  
Joseph for his gay Coat should to the Pit.  
Beloved you very impatient are  
To keep your breeches out of Moses Chair,  
Ye would so fain be sitting at the Helm,  
Though ye the Church should in the waves o'rwhelm  
O how ye tack about, still to enure  
The Needle to your Northern Cynosure.  
But this shall come to pass, would ye know when?  
At the Greek Calends, and soon enough then.   

Now let me give you but a Character  
Of a young Anglo-Scotic PRESBYTER:  
First he is one whose face with hair's thin thatched,  
One that in Scoggen's pied Crow's nest was hatched,  
Who not yet fleg his godly Mother set  
An Ordination of the KIRK to get,  
Wherein she soon prevailed, and at the grant  
He stretched his jaws, and gulpt the COVENANT;  
He knew not what Epicopacy was,  
And that indeed made him the better pass.  
Straight then outwent this new imbrothered Elf,  
And the next Village set up for himself.  
He called in th' Elders, and he chose out twelve;  
And now the Hatchet having got an Helve,  
He hewed down sin, and that same very year  
Most of the sisters backward fell for fear,  
Or else for love; for on a time being sifted,  
They found the man most able and well gifted;  
He often knocked the Fathers out of joint:  
No matter though, he still pressed home the point.  
The Elders Wives were every Sermon at,  
Yet were not constant Hearers for all that.  
When any Lawsuit in the Parish fell,  
He and his JURY judged ISRAEL.  
If any one without his leave should wed,  
They found his leaving when they went to bed:  
And more than this this Novice dares to do,  
Yet this is it ye bring the English to.  
But stay, though this of Scotish slaves be born,  
It is a thraldom English spirits scorn.  
When a Deacon shall a Sermon make,  
And for his Context all the Bible take;  
Here we might, may be, grant him our consents,  
If he were Register to both Testaments:  
But ramble how he please, he's in his Road,  
For in the Pulpit he still walks abroad;  
And if this hour he single out a Text,  
It is enough if they two meet the next.  
If he can but devoutly rail upon  
The pride of Prelates, all his work is done.  
Or if he can but tell the People how  
The Saints have given their Foes an Overthrow;  
It is no matter if he Nedham quotes:  
Thus a Diurnal serves him for his Notes.  
Men need not question the Analysis,  
His Sermon nothing but Division is.  
Once he preached Faith, the Publick-faith I mean,  
And that did work Repentance on most men;  
For what that old News-monger Nedham saith  
Was called the Public, proved the Punic faith,  
A kind of Philosophic faith, by which  
Scarce e'er was poor man saved, I'm sure no rich.  
But when ye pray, or rather when ye prate;  
For many times ye talk ye know not what.  
Then as if God forgot what went before,  
Ye to't again, and tell't him o'er and o'er.  
In terms impertinent, full of levity,  
Flatness, Confusion, and Obscurity,  
With Repetitions Vain, Ridiculous,  
Senseless, and too too often Blasphemous,  
So tedious, it does all men's patience wrong,  
May be some Females fancy what is long.  
If this the Spirit be, than I profess  
The Spirit leads ye into the Wilderness,  
Where you might lose yourself, but that no doubt,  
You know in prayer you are easily out.   

The Laver of Regeneration you  
Quite lay aside with the Baptismal Vow.  
The Eunuch (if amongst your Classic Cinders)  
Could not have said, here's water, than what hinders?  
What else would ye, but in your vast desire  
Forestall Christ's Office, and baptise with fire?   

When at the Table of the Lord we stay  
For Bread and Wine, ye send us empty away.  
Whom we must therefore worse than Papists call,  
For they give half, but you give none at all  
And with your Pharisaic Demagogs',  
Call it a giving children's bread to Dogs.  
Classicks' take heed, 'twill be remembered,  
Ye gave Christ's hungry people stones for bread.   

For Funerals, ye have brought us to that pass,  
No burial but the burial of an Ass:  
Methinks a word were sweet in such a place,  
Where Death even looks the People in the face.  
Through the Deceased's Coffin, such a sight  
Would of an ATHEIST turn a PROSELYTE.  
Nay, very Dreams do sometimes men convert,  
The Fancy turning Preacher to the Heart.  
When could your words pierce deeper, than impressed  
When Fear and Sorrow have possessed the breast?  
Dumb Dogs that from the House of Mourning sneak  
Leaving the more relenting stones to speak.  
Strange kind of Brethren! neither will give bread  
To those that live, nor bury those are dead.  
But what My Saviour said, so say I too.  
Forgive them, Lord, they know not what they do.   

But ye may see, if on your Schisms ye look,  
You dearly want our Divine Service-Book.  
In which is wrapped up such a Form of Prayer.  
As (next Christ's Pattern) does transcend compare,  
Nothing being in't but of approved worth,  
Nothing but what the Sacred Text holds forth,  
Even in its phrase and method signified  
In terms express, or at the least employed.  
It passed the persecution, 'twere a story  
Too dire and dismal for your DIRECTORY.  
This they have left us for the CHURCHES good,  
Sealed and delivered with their own hearts blood:  
A Heavenly Legacy; By my consent  
It shall be called, The Bishops TESTAMEMT.  
Which you that slight, were you your turns to take  
Ye would be brought (I doubt) as Bears to th' stake.  
Whilst for your IDOL none a Faggot kiss:  
Bishops have bled, Bishops have broiled for this.   

But Faction and Ambition were the cause,  
And not Religion, Conscience, or the Laws:  
The Mitre and the means belonging to't  
Was that which set this holy war on foot.  
And finding now the Spirits Sword to fail,  
The arm of flesh must help it to prevail.  
When Rebels draw the Sword upon their KING,  
Into the fire they must the Scabbard fling:  
No dallying now, down goes the Church's hedge,  
To make an open way for SACRILEGE,  
And the Scotch Boar forthwiths invited in  
To be partaker of the Prey and Sin:  
Who seeing in what strait our Classicks lay,  
Though he scarce patience had to keep away,  
But like a Garrison that must resign,  
On terms though ne'er so hard, rather than pine;  
Or as the Scythians that have never fled  
Their Country Confines, but for want of bread.  
So said these SCOTS, come, up, and let us go,  
There's Corn in Egypt, yea, and fleshpots too.  
But stay awhile, the Jews must Samson bind,  
Or we have Castles in the Air designed.  
They must take Strafford off, whose single worth  
Does weigh down all the Virtue of the North,  
Thus Wentworth died, whose Innocence was such,  
That all the Law in England could not touch.  
Thus fell the Church's Champion, hurried hence  
To leave the Temple void of a defence.   

Nor is this scum yet to assistance drawn,  
Till they to them their Souls in Covenant pawn.  
Hinc illae lachrymae, Hence these Traitors bring  
The Land infected with the cursed thing.  
This long time Loyal, Learned Church must bow  
To the Scotch Kirk, she is her Mistress now.  
The Copy's set, and ENGLAND it appears  
Must follow't though in bloody Characters.  
Now comes the Army, which, did you but see,  
You'd swear it were a goal-delivery.  
First came the Pedlar Lashley with his pack,  
Not of small wares, but Oatmeal at his back;  
Next came the Horse, which so beheltred were,  
A man would think them going to a Fair.  
The Trumpet sounded boote-sele long,  
But Deil a boot or Saddle in the throng,  
Except some Jockey, galled with a botch,  
Got a blue Cap to gratify his notch.  
I wonder they ne'er in the stirrup hung,  
For either foot was with a halter strung;  
By which it doth evidently appear,  
They came to do much execution here.  
Their boots were wisps they on their Legs did draw,  
Who then can say, they were not worth a straw?  
Thus on their Galloways while the Army jogs,  
Yeed swear their muckle Horse were Mastiff Dogs.  
On whose keen backs they did their bums endorse,  
As men condemned to ride the wooden horse.   

The Foot marched in such haste, as I suppose,  
Many a leg there was outran his hose.  
Their clothes so tattered were, one would have sworn  
That they had been in fight the day before;  
For every Suit so scolloped was with rags,  
Like Dung-hill-Rakers that had robbed their bags.  
O, had the Army stood a little still,  
What work had there been for a Paper-mill!  
But that in those so antiquated Cuts  
The 'Squiers of the body had their Huts;  
Of all the Shirts upon their backs, was found  
Scarce so much Lint would dress a single wound.  
I might march on, but here's enough of these:  
Volumes must speak their Bags and Baggages.   

Now Presbyterians view your proper studds,  
These are the Saints ye fetched for all our Goods,  
And because those were not enough, they sold  
Their Sovereign Lord and Master too for Gold.  
See now your Images, your golden Calves,  
With price and prayer procured in your behalves:  
And by vast sums it plainly does appear,  
That (truly) these have been your brethren dear.  
And certainly you here the Jews outdo,  
To give your earrings, and your Lop-ears too;  
Nay, such a false, such an impost'rous Crew  
Are yet to learn the way of meaning true.  
And have a form of fallacy in KIRK,  
Mecha would not accept it for her Turk.  
Thus in pretence to bring the Gospel to us,  
Ye thronged in swarms of Locusts to undo us,  
Panthers and Tigers, a ravenous race  
Of Harpies that forestall the saying Grace.  
Harpies? I do correct my hasty pen,  
These Miscreants had not the face of men.  
These are your friendly friends; indeed these are  
Saints, Canonised in Satan's Calendar.  
Dissension kindled Zealots that desire,  
Like Salamanders still to live in fire.  
Yet to these Vagrants have ye (as I said)  
Your KING, your Country, & your Church betrayed;  
This was the Crew wherewith ye England vexed:  
Doubtless ye mean to bring the Devil next.   

But wicked Wagg'ners, see what ye have done,  
Aspiring to the Chariot of the Sun;  
Like busy Flies ye at the Candle aim,  
And scorch yourselves to Cinders in the flame.  
Was it for this ye waded through a flood  
Of Widows tears, and a red Sea of blood?  
When to yourselves ye did propound whole Realms  
An INDEPENDENT all the plot o'rwhelms.  
And on the tropic of your trophies stands,  
Murdering your KING when you had bound his hands  
You that Malignant called the Cavalier:  
Who is Malignant now? JACK PRESBYTER.  
What have ye gotten, you and your Scotch Lion,  
That built up Babel, and demolished Zion?  
This Upstart Viper all the wealth does share,  
By you begotten on the womb of war.  
Thus they whose hopes had made them more than proud,  
For their so longed for Juno grasped a cloud;  
Nor is there Law more right, more just, more due,  
Than Plunder-Masters should be plundered too.  
Now they have left off action in this Nation,  
And are turned wholly into Contemplation,  
Which contradicts the Academic Art,  
Where Theory succeeds the practic part.  
Platonic Presbyters, how do their Fancies range  
For sights i'th' air, and prodigies more strange  
Than true! That Monster in the News books read,  
Of which the Parson brought the Wife to bed.  
This is a Fable, and was got ('tis plain)  
As Jove once got Minerva, of his brain.  
But if ye could not Treason, once a foot,  
Drive on with Arms, Bug-bears shall never do't.  
A rout of holy Hellhounds that have wrought  
Treason that others never durst have thought,  
For aggravation of whose punishment,  
God has not thought ye worthy to repent.  
As if it were a sin that (while ye live)  
Heaven never had intention to forgive.  
Or sure so mild, so merciful a PRINCE  
Might of your stubborness your hearts convince.  
But they (and often so it comes to pass)  
Whose hands were Iron, have their faces brass.  
Gild feeds the fire whose inward burning throws  
This cloud of smoke upon your dusky brows,  
And brands ye with Cain's mark, where e'er ye go  
Any man may a PRESBYTERIAN know.  
And without judging doubtless men may say't,  
It is a Prologue to your future fate,  
Who thus forestall the Office of the Shrieve,  
And hang yourselves in spite of a reprieve.    

THE EXECUTION OF THE COVENANT, Burnt by the Common Hangman Ed. Dun, Presbyter, May 22. 1661.  
THe news I pray! what doth this Throng infer?  
Do ye not know? DUN is turned Presbyter.  
Well then! I see the brethren in spite  
Of BISHOPS, have obtained a PROSELYTE;  
One that will soon be on the Rigid Score,  
And be a cause of turning many more.  
Make him an ELDER then! Indeed ye shall;  
For he is one that may Advance you all.  
That he is now a BROTHER you must grant,  
For I did see him take the COVENANT.  
Take it indeed; yet you must understand,  
'Twas but to give't the honour of his Hand:  
Which he vouchsafed with freedom and a smile,  
And straight commits it to the Funeral pile.  
In which he showed himself a CHRISTIAN right,  
To let the works of darkness come to light.  
Bark then fanatics, who, like Demophon,  
Glow in the shade, and freeze still in the Sun.  
Howl Millenaries, Independents too,  
And Anabaptists that Heretic Crew  
Of Presbyterian By-blows; If these flashes  
Be sacred to you, come and Urn the Ashes:  
For we esteem the Relics of these Sheets  
Too dirty and debauched to pave our streets.  
This Mouth-Granado from that Scotch Witch came  
To set three glorious Kingdoms in a flame.  
A Covenant? No, 'twas a Conspiracy,  
Plotted by Brethren in Iniquity.  
Treason, to which the acts of Catiline,  
Sylla and Marius were deemed Divine.  
Bold Assassins' that durst attempt all ill,  
And Hollocaust whole Kingdoms to Self-will.  
Mend, mend for shame, your Brother else will look,  
To hang the Authors as he burned the Book:  
But he presumes, or hopes ye'l rather turn,  
Than follow your black Juncto to the Urn.  
While I thus thinking am, who would desire  
(Were it to roast a RUMP) a fitter fire?  
In which it now hath pleased the Fates to grant  
The Dissolution of the COVENANT.  
FINIS.