A ROD FOR ROM● OR, A Description of the Popish Clerg● Their Popes, Cardinals, Iesuites, Monks, friars, 〈…〉 IN THEIR PROPER COLOURS.  

DEscribe the Romish jesuits, who can do't?  
'tis just, To fit a shoe to th' Devils Foot;  
Proteus appeared not in such Various Shapes,  
wolves, lions, tigers, Spaniels, Foxes, Apes:  
Gross Ignorance with Deepest Policy  
conjoined, make up that Babel-Hierarchy,  
Their Towering Pride from feigned Meekness springs,  
Servants of Servants Lord it over Kings:  
Indulgence-Graunters, yet Deaf to Complaints,  
Worship Christ's Picture, but Devour his Saints:  
Strange Ridling Monsters! too late Understood  
Tongues tipped with oil, but Hands begor'd with Blood.  
Let whoso will Romes siren Anthems sing,  
And Fancy Popery a Toothless thing;  
Applaud the Zeal of Holy Church, and swear  
True Love and Charity dwell only there:  
Who trusts and tries, shall find, I dare engage,  
A Lyon's still a lion, though in a Cage;  
From their triumphant Seats could we bring down  
Those pious souls whom Bonner's Rage did Crown  
With cruel Martyrdom in Mary's Days,  
Summon the Brave Coligni's Ghost, or Raise  
Spirits, from their dear Bodies forced to flee  
I'th Irish, or the Piedmont Massacree:  
theyed tell another tale; there we might view  
The true Idaea's of th' Ignatian Crew:  
Their Pope upon Mens slavish Necks is bourn,  
As if his Feet to touch the Ground did scorn:  
Simons Successor he Pretends to be,  
And why? He gets the Place by Simony;  
For subtle Cardinals in Conclave met,  
Can six to one on next Election bet;  
And yet with Confidence still boldly Boast  
Prevailing Faction, as the Holy-Ghost;  
As if that Blessed and Peace-Breathing-Dove,  
Would with the Interests of such Vultures move;  
They say He's more than Man, than a God less,  
What can we then Him but a Devil guess?  
He bears the Keys of Heaven and Hell in Course,  
But uses bo●● as Pick-locks for the Purse,  
A wondrous Doctrine of the New Edition,  
Live as you list, Money shall gain Remission;  
For Gold you may as due challenge Salvation,  
And purchase Works of Superoragation;  
Romes faith was rumoured once the world throughout,  
How hath she now Justled that Gospel out?  
Paul made her flourish with truth's Purity,  
But now Traditions, Beads, Idolatry,  
Mass, Merits, Pardons, these thy traffic are,  
Running from Christ after a Falling-star;  
Once a bright Candle, now a stinking snuff,  
A Room where Satan stows his Houshould-stuff:  
Yet still she doth the rotten Casket Boast,  
When all the ancient Gems are changed, or lost;  
Her Cardinals but Parish-Priests of old,  
To take the Wall of Princes now are bold:  
And by their Acts their Scarlet-Caps we find  
Unhappy Emblems of their Sanguine mind;  
With State-Affairs they mix Holy Intrigues,  
Yet can absolve from the most Sacred Leagues:  
In dark cabals they Plot unthought of jars,  
On christendom Intailing endless Wars;  
Their stately Convents, abbeys, monasteries,  
Religious Coney-Burrows, Nunneries;  
And Cloyster-Walls, what are they all at once,  
But Nests of Folly, Hives of Idle Drones;  
And yet not wholly Idle, for sometimes  
We find them busy, but in Cursed Crimes,  
Inventing Gun-powder, and with that Breath  
Of Hell, to sand at Once whole States to Death;  
Or Plotting by slow Poisons, or bold Knife,  
To Cut the Thread of some Brave Monarchs Life.  
Thus all their Monks of different sorts become  
In every Realm stout Janizar's for Rome;  
Whom Kings, the Churches Interest to enlarge  
Against themselves, Maintain at their own Charge:  
Could we withdraw the veil, how might we spy  
Their private Haunts, forbid to Layman's Eye;  
In close Confessions what rare tricks are done  
'Twixt Jolly friar and more buxom Nun;  
But above all the jesuit Out-Rants  
The sillier Swarms of Cheating Mendicants.  
For State-Intrigues the Famous Matchiavel  
He counts an Ass, Dunces Achitophel:  
By feigned Miracles and Reliaues vain,  

They seek your Soul, but rat●●● Gold to gain,  
Whereby their Priests plump oncubines maintain.   
The jesuit for this Opens his Pack  
In every Town; Come see, What is't You Lack?  
Here's holy Wood, and Wonder-working Bones,  
More holy Blood, and Consecrated Stones:  
The Virgins linen, and her Growing Hair,  
Pails of her Milk, besides her Picture Fair,  
Drawn by St. Luke, they can expose to view,  
Still finding those that will believe them too:  
Produce your Pence, and presently they bring  
A Feather of the Angel Gabriels Wing;  
Here's some of that broiled Fish which Christ did Eat,  
Rare Cooks that can so long preserve such Meat:  
This th' Asses Tail on which our Lord did Ride,  
And what are these, can such fond Tales abide?  
Yet well they may, who stranger things believe,  
Done every Day when they the Host receive.  
Stand back dull Protestants, confess and tell,  
You have not found such Faith in Israel;  
That every Shaveling Priest in sin partaker,  
Can by five words at Pleasure Make his Maker:  
Nay make a thousand Makers in an Hour,  
And them again as soon as made Devour:  
Right cannibals! yet herein worse by odds,  
Those only Eat their Brethren, these their Gods.    
With Allowance.  
FINIS.  

London, Printed for F. coals, in Vine-street, on Saffron-Hill, near Hatton-Garden.