St. Ignatius' Ghost, Appearing to the JESUITS; Upon The KING'S Signing the ACT Against The GROWTH OF POPERY.  
A satire.  
London, Printed for A. Baldwin. 1700.   

St. Ignatius' Ghost, Appearing to the JESUITS; Upon The KING'S Signing the ACT, etc.  

SAD News the Court of Belzebub Alarms,  
And make the Guards of Hell stand to their Arms;  
For Agents which into these Regions fly,  
The Course of Humane Actions to espy,  
Inform the King of Fates he'll be in Thrall,  
The main Supporters of his Throne do Fall  
Since new Enacted Laws make you to fly  
The chiefest place which Harbours Heresy;  
Therefore Ambassador, I'm to you sent,  
The Downfall of my Master to prevent.   

We (who I thought could baffle Death and Hell,  
And durst like them against a GOD Rebel)  
From rocky Dangers into Coverts fly?  
It is a Shame to my Society!  
What Planet Envies us? We lose o'er Fame,  
And shall be Branded with Eternal Shame.  
You Jesuits, and dare not prop o'er Cause,  
For fear of Suffering by English Laws?  
No Blood of Roman Courage fills those Veins,  
Which dare not rush though Prisons, Halters, Chains,  
The Race of Heretics to Extirpate,  
And think it Glory if you meet your Fate.   

O! what a Glorious Sight was it to see,  
Poor Massianello frighten Majesty,  
And John of Leyden be a King declared;  
Shall we by such mean Fellows be outdared?  
The very Offals, Rubbish of Mankind,  
By-casts of Fortune; it disturbs my Mind!  
If you will have your Names look Great, and swell  
Big in the Rolls of Fame, and Lists of Hell,  
You must be Daring, Resolute, and Bold,  
By Blood the Sea-Apostolick uphold.   

When you the Sword have altogether Swayed,  
've Careless been, a sorry Harvest made;  
Witness, when Mary rolled her Orb in Flames,  
Which strove for Luster with the Sun's bright Beams;  
But too too little was the waving Blaze,  
To dimn the brightness of his Golden Rays:  
Her Courage for her Highness was too Mean;  
The Offering was too much beneath a Queen:  
She flagged in Fear, and buckled to Delay,  
Her Martyred Sum for Faggots did not Pay:  
The Twelvescore Number tantalised my Thirst,  
To greater Draughts of Blood I then did Trust.  
A Massacre? It Merits not the Name,  
The timorous Act's to Me, and Rome a Shame!  
Had I ruled Heretics but half her Years,  
Their Bones, for want of room, had reached the Spheres;  
The Flames in Smithfield, like the Eternal Fire  
The Persians used, never should Expire,  
Till some great Change upon the State had came,  
As Signal to put out the sacred Flame:  
If She a Name Immortal strove to Gain,  
Her Robes She should have Died in deeper Grain,  
A Scarlet much exceeding Pilat's Deed,  
Who made his GOD (to please the Rabble) Bleed.  
If you true Jesuits intent to be,  
You must in Mischiefs strive to equal Me;  
Under my Banner Revel in such Crimes,  
Which being Chronicled to after times,  
Posterity Unborn may think them feigned;  
And then the Fame 've loft will be regained:  
Loath Scraps of Sin, in Sinning never lag;  
But through unpity'ng Rage your Fury drag;  
Gird Thoughts with Feuds, and show your hot Desire  
Doth [Salamander like] reside in Fire.   

The Powder-Plot, (that greatest Strain of Wit)  
Which English Calendars will ne'er forget,  
A brave Design it was, I can't but own,  
Because the aim was at a Lollard's Crown,  
But may the spightsul Star which ruled that Night,  
And brought a Plot so finely wrought to Light,  
Ne'er shine again; be banished the Sky;  
And in Oblivion for ever lie:  
Ah! Heaven I suppose did dread the Blow,  
For fear the next had been their Overthrow,  
Nay, had Success but crowned that high Intent,  
Garnet, and I had Stormed their Element.  
If Jesuits Launch out in Tyranny,  
Do Deeds becoming that great Soul, and Me;  
To all the Vices of the World be given,  
And scorn a Friendship to Contract with Heaven:  
Base Murders, Falsehood, Treasons, Perjury,  
Deceit, Injustice, and Hypocrisy  
The Clymax are, by which you must ascend  
To Grand'ur; with these Weapons Hell defend.   

Those Civil Wars which Right did overcome,  
And brought a King to suffer Martyrdom,  
I must acknowledge they were by you made,  
By dressing up y'ur Plots in Masquerade;  
O! had you, when those Tumults tore the State,  
Attempted to have met the threatening Fate,  
Perhaps they might have snatched from both the Realm,  
And brought the Pope once more to sit at Helm;  
In Blood have drowned that infecting Breed,  
Which from apostate Monks did first proceed:  
But Fear, or squeamish Conscience did deprive  
Them of that Rage by which great Actions thrive,  
Which Scare-Crows should be chased from the Mind,  
Because repugnant to great Sins designed;  
Had Alexander boggled at his Trade,  
Or in the least a timorous Scruple made,  
Of spoiling Crowns, on which his Conquests leapt,  
For scarcity of Worlds he had not Wept.  
The Romish Ethics teach you better things,  
It's lawful to Depose, or Murder Kings,  
The Doctrine's Orthodox, and Catholic,  
Therefore in Haesities you need not stick;  
The Tenets, Topics; all those sacred Rules  
You learn at Douai, and St. Omer's Schools,  
Do teach you to be Brave in what you act,  
And raise y'ur Glory by a crimson Fact,  
By Crimes which may infernal Hosts affright,  
And startle Heaven at your Sanguine Sight.   

By Fury, Brimstone, and the porphyry Chair▪  
That Act which seemed to Fire all the Air,  
Might be compared to a Deed of mine,  
Tho' ineffect'al to the main Design;  
But yet it made the King of Hell to Smile,  
To see Augusta made a Fun'ral-Pile;  
O Sacred Blaze! Had its surprising Light  
But lit o'er Foes to Everlasting Night,  
The Deed o'er Church had made a Sacrament;  
Yet do I consecrate the brave Intent.   

Again I own in that same Monarch's time,  
Whose vast Profuseness deemed it not a Crime,  
With helpless Orphan's Money to maintain  
Nell Gwin, and others, Scandals to his Reign,  
Some nobly Acted; but a Curse on Oats!  
Or else base Souls had broke through bleeding Throats  
To Guard a King, whose Royal Ghost had been  
The first great Offering for his Country's Sin;  
Whole Hecatombs of Martyrs than had fell,  
A Sacrifice to Popery and Hell.   

But now I'm traced to such a Path of time,  
That I must needs upbraid you with a Crime,  
It was your fault that Fortune cross did run,  
When She was pleased the Scale of Fate to turn;  
How faintly you did go about the Cause!  
In taking off the Tests and Penal Laws,  
And showing something of dispensing Power,  
By sending Stiff-neck Bishops to the Tower;  
All this for Pope, nor Devil nothing won,  
Nor Polton's Arguing with Tenison;  
The greatest Wits of Rome must not pretend,  
By Scripture, Law, or Reason to defend  
A Church, that Grounds her Faith upon a Lie,  
She must maintained be by Cruelty.  
So long as you'd the great Apostle's Sword,  
You ought not to have scuffled with the Word,  
The Bibles (Pillars to their Paper Creed)  
You should have Burned, made their Admirers Bleed,  
Those Books the Vatican should be expelled,  
For they too long have Heresy upheld.  
Unking-like Mercy marred the hallow's time,  
And Peter's Bungling added to the Crime,  
He Privy-councillor! and did no more?  
Cursed Memory! let Cowards it adore.  
Had I been here when Charles had changed his State,  
From that blessed Min'te fresh Glory I would date;  
I'd sealed the sacred Cause with Blood, and Wounds,  
Alarmed Rome with dying Martyrs Sounds;  
My Noble Rage had made her to believe,  
Her greatness from their Ashes I'd retrieve.  
I'd decked the House of Death with bloody Scenes,  
As strangling ravished Maids not in the Teens;  
So great had been my Spleen, I should deflower,  
Virgins which Lifeless lay, besmeared with Gore;  
Laughed at young Infants springing from the Womb  
To meet their Mothers in a flaming Tomb;  
Vomited Flame upon the reaking Stage,  
Without respect to Greatness, Sex, or Age,  
Upon their Altars quenched the Heat of Lust,  
And laid their Churches even with the Dust;  
To see my Rage would pity'ng Heaven Weep,  
Yet in the Road of Malice I shall keep:  
I'd bravely sanctify'd Saint George's Day,  
The Cross by that time should have borne the Sway,  
Since from his Throne a King was tumbled down,  
James should have swum through Blood to catch his Crown.   

You Janissaries of the Sulphurous Lake!  
And let y'r Orders Honour lie at stake?  
You Firebrands and Ingineers of Hell!  
No, from the high Preferment you have fell,  
Y'ur Cowardice makes you Degenerate  
From me y'ur Founder, who Quells Hell, and Fate.  
Heed not the Sorbonists Theology.  
Its Politics must buoy Popery;  
O'er League with Blood Cement, in Fury rake,  
Between Good and Bad no Criticisms make;  
They're but the dull Conceits of idle Brains,  
A truebred Villain, God and Man Disdains.  
If in a Plot you are Unfortunate,  
And must y'ur Exit at a Gallows Date,  
Nothing out of inglorious Fear confess,  
That's prejudicial to his Holiness;  
Seal up y'ur dying Speeches with a Lie,  
Yet God, and Angels call to Testify  
Y'ur Innocence, to hid the Villainy.  
A Balk in Plots must urge you to engage  
The next pitched Battle with a greater Rage;  
You (who are taught to Spurn at Sovereignty,  
And those profounder Rules of Villainy)  
If one Plot's crushed, from Plotting must not cease,  
Like frightful Hydra's Heads they must increase;  
If you with Crimson would Great Britain Slain,  
With Crimes as black as Hell, tempt Fate again,  
Tempt her so often with some Hellbred Deed,  
That from y'ur Boldness begging to be freed,  
She yields to let y'ur fell Designs succeed.  
Through Furies, Devils, Blood, and Slaughter ride,  
To raise y'ur Mother to her former Pride;  
Great Souls for mean Employments were not born,  
Therefore th'Impiety of Fortune scorn;  
And if in y'ur Intrigues you can't succeed  
Hell yet will take the good Will for the Deed.   

To Jesuits the King of Spirits bows,  
Wherefore y'ur Souls to Villainy espouse,  
To begging Friars, Prelates, nor Pope Joan  
(Who left an Issue for the Papal Throne)  
Find no Respect; we only they adore;  
Because it's we maintain the Scarlet-Whore.  
To serve Her, from no Mischiess have we shrunk,  
With Blood of Holy Saints 've made her Drunk,  
From our Rise, to busy Godfrey's Death,  
With Gore 've almost stopped the Harlot's Breath.  
The Inquisition Butchers we outbrave,  
In murdering Huguenots we feed the Grave,  
Ah! if we could but kill their Souls as well  
As Bodies we should quickly People Hell.  
O! to o'er Glory be it, all the Gore  
With which we have made Far the  Shore,  
The Belgic Coasts in barbarous Alva's time,  
And when Rage reigned in the Hibernian Clime,  
Had it but to one solid Mount congealed,  
It had been high enough for us to've scaled  
The Lofts of Heaven; the universal Flood  
Reigned not more Water, than 've Reigned Blood.  
Were but your timorous Hearts like mine, I dare  
Attempt to set upon the Prince of Air:  
In deeper Plots than what the Conclave hatch,  
The great Divan of Hell I can outmatch,  
Therefore when Time's not more, by Plotting-art  
His Government I'll study to subvert;  
And if we fail, by force of Arms I'll try  
To ruin, or usurp his Monarchy,  
Thus Loyola durst Venture.—  
If Miss'onary Crews who rove the Earth,  
To give some great Design a Noble Birth,  
The Sophy, great Mogul, and Prester John  
Can but Convert, the looked for Work is done;  
With aid from them these Kingdoms of the North  
I'd Crush to pieces, lead their Monarches forth  
As T●●●erlain his Captive in a Cage;  
I'd make them feel the Plagues of Romish rage,  
The worst of all Outrages.—   

You, as a Tribe which do in Sin excel,  
Stand now for ever Registered in Hell;  
There's Honour for you, will you lose this Fame,  
Ye dastard Wretches for a Coward's Name?  
No surely, through Seditions, Treasons wade,  
Make Factions, Massacres your common Trade;  
O let a Jesuitick Rage inspire!  
To torture Protestants with Sword and Fire.  
Track Crowns through jellyed Gore, lead Majesty  
In Chains, and hang their Realms with Auarchy.  
Knives, Faggots, Shackles, O those torturing Names!  
Set my aetherial Substance all in Flames,  
To use them, O I wish me Man again!  
What baleful Streams of Blood my Hands should drain,  
For, one day, ripping Royal Hearts I dare  
The Pains of all the fallen Angels bear.  
Undaunted Mutineers of Treachery,  
Spit in the Face of Crowned Majesty;  
Although a Roman, if he will not yield  
To have what you desire be repealed,  
Think what you are, then for the sake of me  
Translate the sovereign from Mortality:  
With thundering Bulls keep Crowned Heads in awe,  
And make what you think fit to be a Law.  
Subjects for murdering their Kings absolve,  
Plagues yet unknown on Heretics involve:  
Geneva Storm; the Drunken Danes Invade;  
Stab Swedes; and let the Dutch o'er Slaves be made;  
Do this, and then right Jesuits you be,  
Maugre the sham's of Heaven! follow me.  
My peerless Courage for a Sample take,  
And then the World you may to pieces shake.   

But hold, brave Desperadoes, I'm too rash,  
In one thing my command is somewhat harsh,  
In bidding you to Venture (for o'er Cause)  
To Kingdoms which torment with gelding Laws,  
That's worse than Death to rob you of those Tools,  
With which you a●t as Onan in your Schools.  
The Nunneries Seraglios you make;  
Say Mass by P … ed● for a Harlot's sake;  
Which I command you ●or, and when you burn,  
For want of N …▪ let others serve your turn:  
Ah! I when Humane felt the amorous Flame,  
All Females kissed which to Confession came.  
To Chastity you Swear, that's but a tye  
From Wedlock, not from Whoring privately;  
The Church allows you Strumpets, but a Wife  
Eat as a  to a happy Life.  
So for the present (Hector's) let alone  
The State of Sweden, and the Danish Throne,  
And push Plots forwards in those Countries, where  
You are but only stifled in the Air,  
If unsuccessful; that is better than  
To go where they do Jesuits unman,   

Endeavour to bring England to o'er force,  
Then other Realms will come to us by course;  
Through winged quickness Plotting some times hits,  
So nimbly screw the Engines of your Wits,  
And deepest Thoughts up to the very height  
Of Envy, Malice, Fury, Rage, and Spite,  
To curb this Isle, which now hath made such Laws  
Which may prove dangerous to the Romish Cause▪  
Although the threefold SENATE do agree  
To stop the Noble Growth of POPERY,  
On such Foundations aim to lay the Land,  
That Reformation shall triumphant stand,  
Yet at their Acts you must not be dismayed,  
Fear humane Laws, and not of GOD afraid?  
It is a Paradox to Hell, and Me!  
By slighting both unfold the Mystery.  
So now's the Time or Never that you must  
No longer let this Island run in Trust,  
Her Peter-pences she does forget to pay,  
And Triple Crown she's bend to disobey.   

O! rescue England from those wicked Hands,  
That Monast'ries dissolve, and Abbey Lands;  
The Laws as yet do hurt but in Estate,  
Or Life; this will not popery extirpate;  
So quickly rend the Realm in twain, for fear  
The Damned Castrating Law should come up here,  
Which if it should, the fatal Work is done;  
To save y'ur Stones, you'll all from England run:  
But praying no such Bills may ever pass,  
And that y'ur Plots will here establish Mass,  
I bid you all Farewell, I must return  
To Hell where Ghosts on Rocks of Fire burn.   
FINIS.