Canidia, or the Witches :: :: University of Virginia Library

And now we cannot but declare,
How ill by wicked Priests we fare.
W'have been more plagu'd with Clergy Elves,
Than with all the Devils themselves.
Take a Knave-Black Coat, find him work
With the Devil or the Turk;
Reward him richly, brisk and neat,
I'le warrant him he does the Feat.

The Clergy have a Trick in Common Play,
To undo all that stand in their way:
They do us the most Service in these Cases,
For commonly they have the most brazen Faces,
And they most influence the Populaces.
Send Lawyers to 'um, to solace 'um,
If the Devils should out-face 'um;
And when th'have done their work, disgrace 'um.

A Parson shall hamper y' in ten thousand Nooks,
Which a dull Devil over-looks;
He'l tye you knots, and put you Cases,
With Labyrinths and Interlaces,
'Till he scare y'out of your Senses,
And baffle all your Self-Defences.
Say what you can, you shall be sham'd,
Do what you can, you shall be damn'd.

These be rare Men, we're like to thrive,
While they us to the Devil drive:
Nay, they'l drive the Devil, and take his place;
We're like to prove an excellent Race:

As long as you hearken to this Brood,
I'le warrant you, for ever being Good.
These are the Men, when all comes to all,
Can Evil Good, Good Evil call.

These take their Measures from our Rules,
And make all the World Fools.
If they will be rul'd by them, they may,
'Till at last they take all away.
Then leave us naked, not come near us,
At a distance laugh and jeer us.
The World's come to a brave pass,
A Man may see himself made an Ass.

Go on still, if you please, my Hearts,
Act all the Fools and Beggars Parts:
As for the Knaves part, 'tis our due,
Fit we should be Knaves as well as you:
But and if you will be Priest-ridden,
Poor Fools, do as you are bidden.
They are most necessary Evils,
That help us more than all the Devils.

Martial, Persius, Catullus,
Sappho, Tasso, and Tibullus;
Petronius, Ovid, are as Right
As my Leg, to act or endite:
Boccace, ingenious Boccaline,
Are both good Friends of mine:
This last, was by Spaniards bangd
To death, with Bags of Sand.

But, O, sweet Bishop Aretine,
Thou writest all Love, in every Line!

O, we love the Clergy dearly,
Of all, of Love they write most clearly!
What you men love most, we know it;
And truly you full often show it.
You put sweet Cases, Single, Matrimonial,
Better than Moral or Ceremonial.

We know y'are good at Contemplation,
Which invites to Procreation.
We're as willing as you can be,
You may have all without a Fee.
Some blame you for Man-Midwives-Notions,
We say 'tis good to help your Devotions.
And we dare say, For every knack
You are the best of all the Pack.

You bring all upon their Knees,
You take more than Lawyers Fees.
Votaries Gold, and precious Stones,
You take for Rags and Dead mens Bones.
You out-wit all in sober sadness,
You teach all the world Madness.
Your Crowns, Miters, and Red Montero's,
Fright the most Royal Cavalero's.

Herostratus burnt Diana's shrine,
'Gainst your Priests, 'twas a Plot of mine.
You would out-do, and un-do us,
And all that while you seem to wo us:
But we'l try a Veny with the best
Of y' all, and a Fig for the rest.
We fling off others, but you stick,
Like Bugs that bite us to the quick.

Take heed to meddle with this Nation,
For they're an angry Generation.
They shall sooth y'up in a Trice,
Lead ye into a Fools Paradise.
Except you part with all, they have a Spell,
Shall drag you into Purgatory-Hell.
Then your Carkass shall fare the worse.
For not opening your Purse.
They'l fry you to some tune in that Pan;
You're fast, make all the Friends you can.

We think we have both Wit and Malice,
To reach from Dover to Callice:
But take my Word, for one and all,
'Tis they have given us many a Fall;
But we have risen agen, and at 'um,
And much ado, at last have squat 'um.
For whatsoever Tugs are past,
We must be Conquerors at last.
But 'tis a Truth Olim & Heri,
A Rack is Ratio ultima Cleri.

I beg pardon for being smotty,
Witches, you know, use to be slutty.
From grand to petty Pranks I turn about,
Play at small game rather than sit out.
And now by this 'tis time to give over,
For I am Landed just at Dover.
I'le rest, for I have travel'd Yorkshire Miles,
O're Hills and Dales, and Kentish Stiles.

To work again we must, right Bred,
Never to rest us, till we are dead.
And we will never die, for you shall find us,
A Litter of Whelps we leave behind us.