Partridge's Advice To the PROTESTANTS of ENGLAND.  
NOW, to your cost, you see with grief and tears,  
The tricking sham's of the proceeding Years:  
You that now see, scorned to believe it then  
Imposed upon, even by the worst of Men.  
Now hang your Freedom on each Villain's Sword;  
Cheated yourselves, taking your Prince's Word.  
Thus folly still helps to compeeat your fate:  
And all that can be said, You Repent to late.  
But, come, cheer up, Heaven will relieve your need;  
'Tis from that Throne, your happy Fates decreed.  
He had his orders then to spare you too:  
A 〈◊〉 ●●●…ipping is the Scholars due.  
The troops of Gods are brought you to caress:  
The dextrous Arts of Priests and Idleness.  
Religion's scandal, to increase Rome 's store;  
Which Fools believe, and mad Men do adore.  
Tricks made by Priests, the Ignorant to surprise.  
Who Sacred Writ and Reason do despise:  
But you know better, and have oft been told  
Of those damned Cheats, you know they want your Gold.  
Preserve your Faith, your Ancestors have won:  
You know the Truth, the Mistick Three in One.  
Stoop not to Idols, nor lay Reason by.  
Give not your Faith up, nor yet tamely die.  
The Sun will rise, the Actors fill the Stage:  
And One and Twenty Months is not an Age.  
Therefore be Wise, attend the Hand Divine,  
Till the still Voice gives you the Sacred Sign.  

I.  
Touched with a teeming strain of English growth,  
My burning Muse into a flame breaks forth  
In Sacred Passions, scorns to be afraid  
Of those vast Murders pious Rome hath made.  
A gracious Mother, merciful and good,  
Her Thoughts are murder, and her Bosom's blood.   

II.  
The Priests of Rome are like their Mother true,  
Lazy and Lecherous, yet Obedient too;  
Furnished with all the Vice that Nature gives:  
They are the only Epicures that lives.  
Yet they converse with God, disperse their Powers,  
Confess your Wives, and also get you Heirs.   

III.  
Of all the Arts the Devil yet made choice,  
This thing of Popery was his Masterpiece.  
For in revenge with Heaven, being at odds,  
He taught the Papists how to Eat their Gods.  
Then 'twould not be amiss, since thus they do,  
To make clear work, and Eat the Devil too.   

IV.  
Can you forswear your Faith, give God the lie,  
Cant with a Priest, and lay your Reason by:  
Lay down your Wealth to serve the Church & they  
That suck your Blood, when they pretend to Pray?  
Can ye be Priest-rid, and be awed by Threats?  
Can ye believe a Crew of Pious Cheats?   

V.  
Can ye believe a little Dough-baked God,  
A Conjuring Bell, and a Good-Friday Rod,  
A Lying Legend, and a Priestly Curse,  
A Dish of Holywater, and a Cross?  
When Rome grows Rampant, Hell itself contrives.  
When Satan Preacheth, Belzebub believes.   

VI  
What Man can think the Inquisition good,  
When Churchmen wash their Hands in laymen's Blood?  
Can ye adore a Cross, be damned in Jest,  
Cheat all your Senses, and believe a Priest?  
Heretic can't believe, ye're only fit.  
True slaves to Rome will never question it.   

VII.  
Should but a Priest say to his Zealot, Go  
Murder that Heretic: it must be so;  
He dares not ask the Reason: goes his ways,  
The Father says it; and the Fool obeys.  
What Man of Sense, but must amazed stand,  
To see Fools act, what Bloody Rogues command?   

VIII.  
Consider France and Spain, see what's there done;  
Under what Plagues those Neighbouring Nations groan.  
And all this done by Holy Churches care:  
For where Priests sway, be sure oppressions there.  
Priest! P— on the name, I loathe the very smell:  
They're wretched things, scarce good enough for Hell.   

IX.  
The Flux of Fate, that gives us hopes and fears,  
Sets Rome in Triumph; London all in Tears.  
That Brood, by Flames, that made your City rue,  
Will, if they can, next burn your Bodies too.  
Rome's Bloody Bigots, London's Fate once changed;  
Yet of a Crew of Rogues, but one Fool hanged.   

X.  
Apostate Church; a Faith built up in Blood.  
A lazy Priest, a little senseless God.  
All their Religion's Lies: its proofs a sin.  
When Scripture fails, than Miracles come in.  
Yet ne'er forget, nor it forgive them Knaves,  
While Martyred Godfrey's Blood for Vengeance craves.   

XI.  
Creation, What is that? What Noise ye make?  
The Thing's not strange that Priests do undertake;  
Nay, and do more, the Church hath here the odds,  
God made but Man, but now the Priests make Gods.  
Never be bubled by a Popish Lie,  
Rather than that, resolve Revenge, and die.   

XII.  
Let not Rom's Court, Hozo proud, ere expect  
On English Men her lawless Laws t' erect;  
Nor let the Popish-brood think to control  
One single Attom of a true English Soul:  
God loathes their Worship, they hate Holy Writ,  
We hate their Faith, Hell waits to punish it.