THE PRESBYTERY. A satire.  Turba gravis paci placidoque inimico quieti. 

AS Alexander's hastened death did bring  
Each of his captains to be made a King,  
Even so our Bishop's ruins did prefer  
Unto a bishopric each Presbyter;  
But the same dangers from their league arise,  
As ever did from th'others enmities;  
Yet here they differ, th'other did advance  
By their own worth, these by their ignorance;  
Th'other were great before, these till their reign  
Did first begin, were scarcely known for men;  
Th'other were fit to govern, so are these,  
As fit as milkmaids to wear Harnesses:  
Fine souls indeed! curdled of stench and dust,  
Borne for to break poor Chambermaids that rust  
For want of use, fine motley Prester-johns',  
Old Pharises in new Editions;  
Young blue-cap Jesuits, Religions daws,  
A Junto of Reformed Loyola's;  
Good Pulpit-Mountebankes, who with one breath  
Can either Quack a spiritual Cure, or Death;  
Antipodes of Rome, who though their feet  
Seem contrary, yet in one Centre meet;  
Spruce Christian Muftyes, but that Muftyes be  
Continued, these a severed quantity,  
Who out of many Beads one Bracelet rise,  
And (if they be not hanged up) make a noise;  
Most holy Gegawes, which make Elders dance,  
But you are struck by Scotch Musicians;  
Rattles of th'Gospel, which so active be,  
That deafen all the better harmony:  
Dodona's Grove, or whatsoever knocks  
Will say, yo'are nothing else but vocal blocks,  
And yet from every trunk we almost see,  
Arise an evangelic Mercury;  
Things, which in nothing but their lies come near  
The nature of the name they see me to bear;  
Serious Jack-Puddings of Religion,  
The Antimasque of Reformation;  
The Phosphors of new light, those spots that run  
(To stop, not clear the light) amidst the Sun;  
Genera friars, they (with submission) lie,  
That say we've rooted out all Popery;  
Their Capes preserve it, only that their hopes,  
Aspire unto plurality of Popes:  
That which poor Canterbury ne'er professed,  
Is now made good by every Parish-Priest,  
Brave times indeed! 'las whither are we hurled?  
What universal madness shakes the world?  
What is all space so empty, earth must come,  
And mount aloft to fill a Vacuum?  
Are our ears charmed, that now all sounds displease,  
But a Scotch bagpipe? 'las what days are these!  
Wolsey might be a Deacon, and here con  
A farther lesson of Ambition:  
Nay, Machiavel, if he were now alive,  
Would he but change Religion, might thrive;  
Religion! 'las it is a crazy frame,  
And somewhat like the Synod, only name,  
Which like the great Mogores renowned sway,  
The most are pleased to mention, none obey,  
Which like some glorious City ruined long,  
Does only live in Paper and the Tongue.  
Religion, which a blind man well might call  
Immense, but one that's deaf, not find at all,  
That which the world doth generally disguise,  
That stamp by which all knavery currant is;  
Art thou thyself, great Nymph? or else do some  
Deflower thee, nay force thee away from home,  
And make thee do their drudgery? O spleen,  
Couldst thou but rise as some lungs stretched ha' been,  
Thou mightst boil out more hot, then ere one brother  
Could to pronounce damnation on another.   

Erected snakes, could but my anger now  
So far degenerate as stoop to you,  
How could I thrash you and abuse you worse,  
Than you yourselves can a rich Poet curse,  
Worse than you censure Usurers, when you look  
On the lank reckonings of an Easter book:  
Alas, how could I daub you, worse than ere  
Hicks did his English Concordance besmear;  
Or a hot monk could with mouth-engines work  
Strange executions against the Turk?  
But I'll be still, a County Maior can soon  
Quaff all these vapours of Religion;  
What? quaff them say you; yes, they cannot be  
Surcharged with too much school-divinity;  
They do not feed on Fathers, them they hate,  
Both as a hard an undigested meat;  
Nay, those that know them, intimately say,  
They cannot Conjure by the Kabbala;  
Nay, most o'th' patriarchs would be to seek,  
To tell their new confession in Greek;  
But they who want all weapons, will not strike,  
But each prove a rhetorical Vandike,  
Worse than the running o'th'raines, which sense  
Tells only evil in the consequence;  
But this will be when th'King their Sermons hears,  
When Lesly reads, and Pryn regains his ears,  
When Edwards, that destroying Amurath,  
His Inquisitionary Swords shall sheathe  
That puny Hercules, who fiercely sweats,  
To slay the Monsters he himself begets;  
The English Cadmus, whose most conquering pen  
Sows dragon's teeth to raise up armed men,  
Who like the Maid to the great Victor sent,  
Makes poison now become his nourishment,  
Who lest the growing Sectaries should not live,  
Beats them like Walnut Trees to make them thrive,  
That Church Lycurgus, who to stop the sins  
Of waste and drunkenness, cut down the Vines,  
That venerable son of fury, that  
Makes modesty quite excommunicate,  
Which in the classic Ordinance must come in,  
As numbered for the six and thirtieth sin,  
By him you know the Brotherhood, this one  
In time may make a Brotherhood alone:  
But they are Planets that at distance run,  
And Vines looks like the picture of the Sun.   
FINIS.   

Printed in the year, 16●●