The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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Prologue,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
Prologue,
intended to have been spoken, at Lady Jane Grey.
All danger past, in Greece, I'm hither come,
Post haste, to have one timely stroke, at Rome.
Papists! have at ye—slaves of superstition!
I'll rack the rackers—in my Inquisition.
Post haste, to have one timely stroke, at Rome.
Papists! have at ye—slaves of superstition!
I'll rack the rackers—in my Inquisition.
When (in return for tricks, your priests have show'd us)
We burn th' all-burning Pope, for ballance ow'd us,
Rome, says we persecute—Oh! front amazing!
She—that so oft, set Smithfield fires a-blazing!
We—roast a Pope of straw—for recreation;—
She—lumps us to the Devil—and roasts the Nation.
Dark, sowre, proud, bloody,—turbulent and vain!
Bodies, and Souls, must burn—or bear her chain.
We burn th' all-burning Pope, for ballance ow'd us,
Rome, says we persecute—Oh! front amazing!
She—that so oft, set Smithfield fires a-blazing!
We—roast a Pope of straw—for recreation;—
She—lumps us to the Devil—and roasts the Nation.
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Bodies, and Souls, must burn—or bear her chain.
Preaching, or plotting—Rome's true plan is Power:
Blessing, she robs!—and worships—to devour!
Blood is her taste—Religion—her disguise:
Her sons are murd'rers—and her Saints—are Lies:
Faith's alchymist renown'd for transmutation,
She finds rank heresy—in reformation.
Blessing, she robs!—and worships—to devour!
Blood is her taste—Religion—her disguise:
Her sons are murd'rers—and her Saints—are Lies:
Faith's alchymist renown'd for transmutation,
She finds rank heresy—in reformation.
Oh! what obsequious babes imbibe her lectures!
No busy searchers, they! no bold suspectors!
Pliant believers! they, by wholesale, swallow:
And, like tame geese—(implicit cacklers!) follow.
Thought, truth, sense, Scripture—all—are guides, that stray.
Nothing, forsooth's infallible—but they!
No busy searchers, they! no bold suspectors!
Pliant believers! they, by wholesale, swallow:
And, like tame geese—(implicit cacklers!) follow.
Thought, truth, sense, Scripture—all—are guides, that stray.
Nothing, forsooth's infallible—but they!
Ask this Church Cockatrice, what right it crows by;
Darkness, you'll find, is all the light, it goes by.
Hoodwink'd, at whooper's hide, to hunt salvation,
They guard their back-held nose from demonstration.
With force resistless, faith's disputes they handle,
And cut short wrangling—by bell, book, and candle.
Meekness their cant—humility their skreening—
Pride their true deity—and Fire—their meaning.
Brimstone and flames, choak Heaven's high road to glory,
And parboil pilgrim's tails—in purgatory.
Darkness, you'll find, is all the light, it goes by.
9
They guard their back-held nose from demonstration.
With force resistless, faith's disputes they handle,
And cut short wrangling—by bell, book, and candle.
Meekness their cant—humility their skreening—
Pride their true deity—and Fire—their meaning.
Brimstone and flames, choak Heaven's high road to glory,
And parboil pilgrim's tails—in purgatory.
Sins a poor Girl?—(save with some crown-cropt brother)
Down goes she, unabsolv'd—'midst smoke and smother:
Spite of her horse-hair smocks, and straps of leather,
Hot, half-way fires must singe—the lord knows whither.
Heavens!—how we players should feast their well-fed fury—
If Purgatory's hundreds reach'd—to Drury!
Down goes she, unabsolv'd—'midst smoke and smother:
Spite of her horse-hair smocks, and straps of leather,
Hot, half-way fires must singe—the lord knows whither.
Heavens!—how we players should feast their well-fed fury—
If Purgatory's hundreds reach'd—to Drury!
Oh, Britons! 'tis no joke—repell th' assaulters.
Let no prig popery e'er be-farce your altars;
Bravely disdaining slav'ry e'en to Princes,
Freedom's fierce horse, at a Pope rider winces,
Proud of the manag'd bit—when law directs it;
But skakes it from his teeth—when force injects it.
Let no prig popery e'er be-farce your altars;
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Freedom's fierce horse, at a Pope rider winces,
Proud of the manag'd bit—when law directs it;
But skakes it from his teeth—when force injects it.
Bless'd be our King, forever bless'd our church!
Pure church! that lov'st no pomp, and fears no search!
Long, by contempt of Rome's proud mummery, fir'd,
Be thy plain truths, and honest zeal, admir'd:
Long live the faith—that holds not reason deaf!
But saves by virtue—and dissects belief!
Builds, on strong, moral Rock—loves decent Form,
Preaches internal peace—and stills each storm,
Trusts heaven—with aweful hope—and holds it odd,
By man's dark passions—to decypher God.
Pure church! that lov'st no pomp, and fears no search!
Long, by contempt of Rome's proud mummery, fir'd,
Be thy plain truths, and honest zeal, admir'd:
Long live the faith—that holds not reason deaf!
But saves by virtue—and dissects belief!
Builds, on strong, moral Rock—loves decent Form,
Preaches internal peace—and stills each storm,
Trusts heaven—with aweful hope—and holds it odd,
By man's dark passions—to decypher God.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |