Marvels Ghost: Being the true Copy of a Letter sent to the A. B. of C. upon his sudden Sickness 〈…〉 Prince of Orange first Arrival into London.  The Archbishops of Canterbury have put the Kings of this Land to much Sorrow, and Trouble, for which the Kings have used the more Care and Circumspection to have such Archbishops 〈…〉 that See, as ei●her should stand with them, or at least should not be against them. Fox. Acts and Monuments, Vol. 1. p. 214. 

The APOLOGY.  
WHen Men of God will do the Devil's Work,  
And frame New Prayers for Lewis, and the Turk.  
In drunken Clubs Religiously Combine,  
To make the lost Mack-Ninny's Right Divine:  
And the whole Town with shame Distinctions ring  
Of a de jure and de facto King,  
And prate of Duty till they're lost the thing.  
When those whose Business 'tis to Preach up Peace,  
Labour to make our Discontents increase:  
Foment Divisions, and new Storms create:  
Defame the King and undermine the State,  
Which would, were they but hanged, be fortunate.  
What Indignation can be thought severe?  
How can a true-born English Muse forbear  
To lash their Folly, and Correct their 'vice,  
And teach the People whence their Plagues arise?  
How innocent and good soe'er they seem,  
The Source of all our Mischiefs lies in Them.  
From them, as from Pandora's Box they fly:  
'tis their corrupted Breath pollutes our Northern Sky.  
Therefore, my Lord, you justly can't accuse  
This modest Sally of a backward Muse,  
Which had been damned to Silence, and forgot,  
If you had not revived it with your Plot.  
'twas writ to Consolate your Sickness then;  
If you had mended, this had ne're been seen.  
But since you every Day grow worse and worse,  
And still Resolve to be the Nation's Curse.  
I also am resolved to let you know,  
Here's one as Stubborn and as bold as you.   

The GHOST.  
HOW just is then the Tribute of our Eyes?  
When virtue Languishes, and Goodness Dies,  
When holy Prelacy from Court withdrawn,  
Lies sick at Lambeth in a Shrowd of Lawn!  
Who fearing now Compliance with the Prince,  
should better Men to equal Power advance,  
With-holds his Hand, and in the very neck  
The humorous Prelate willingly falls Sick.  
On what small Props a Church-man's health depends!  
Draw but one Pin and the whole fabric bends;  
Touch but their Wealth, their Power, or their Place,  
They'll Snuff, and Snort, and Curse you to your Face.  
Has there a Mischief in the World been done,  
E're since the odious Name of B— known,  
In which a Clergy-man has not been One!  
Have there been private Murders, public Wars,  
Dividing Schisms or Intestine Jars,  
Reproaches, Scandals, Goals, Fines, Bloody Laws,  
Of which they have not been the chiefest Cause!  
Great Constantine how basely hast thou stained,  
Those Glorious Laurels that they Conquests gained!  
Untainted Honour with bright Lustre spread  
itself in shining circles round thy Head,  
Which might have shone till now, beloved, revered,  
In the same Tomb had B— been interred  
With lesser Villains: but nice Goodness spared  
Those Foes that should have the same ruin shared.  
Those Sanctimonious Robbers that did more  
Infest the Church than Heathen Priests before:  
They with professed Malice Blood did spill:  
These Pray, and Smile, and Flatter when they kill.  
They did their Open Enemies annoy:  
These kiss the Friends they Murder and Destroy.  
By these oprest the mournful Church implored  
The tardy Vengeance of thy backward Sword.  
Had this been done, had thy Imperial Frown  
But smote those haughty Mitred Monarchs down:  
myriad of Blessings should they Reign adorn,  
Paid by past Ages, this, and those unborn.  
Tell me, ye doting Bigots who Revere  
These Raree Shows o'th' Church and Pageants here;  
Like Tinsel Mortals on a Gewgaw Stall,  
framed for mere show and of no use at all.  
Tell me in sober seriousness, unvext,  
What Holiness is to their Cowl annexed:  
What hidden virtue in their Office lies,  
Unseen by Men of common Sense and Eyes!  
Did e're a bishopric a Man advance,  
Above the the Rest in Honour, Truth, and sense!  
Or did a fat Advowson ever make  
A Man preach better and more labour take?  
They talked indeed in very Loyal strain  
To praise the King did God himself profane,  
But sure we ne're shall hear of that again.  
Born to themselves, themselves alone they please,  
Steep't in the Sweets of Luxury and Ease:  
The Land they Canton and Divide the Spoil,  
And Drain the Moisture of our Wealthy Isle.  
For Pulpit-work let those who can do that  
They're all too Dull, too Feeble, or too Fat.  
Are these the Men that hope to Govern now?  
To whom our Church and State again must bow?  
Have we then but the Blessed Prospect seen  
Of dawning Peace, with a vast gulf between?  
Like Men condemned on flattering hopes born high  
To fall with greater Ruin from the Sky!  
Good God forbid thy Church should e're be swayed  
By those again that have thy Truth betrayed:  
Who lately such a fatal Instance gave  
What precious care they'd of Religion have,  
That durst adore a Fool and Trust a Knave.  
should it be thus how would our Isle complain,  
And beg to have our Wandring King again?  
entreat the worst his incensed Rage can do,  
The less important Mischief of the two:  
Which is the Cruel'st Beast will then be known.  
An English Prelate or a French Dragoon.  
From hence, my Lord, you may with ease foreknow  
What Epitaphs we shall on such bestow:  
When such depart,( when will just Heaven think fit  
To strike and do an injured Nation right!)  
The most Obdurate Muse will strain a Verse,  
And Bathe with Tears, of joy, each Bishops hearse.   
FINIS.