University of Virginia Library

I.

VIL: DRUMMONDS LINES ONE THE BISCHOPES: 14 APPRYLL 1638.

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Doe all pens slumber still, darr not one tray
In tumbling lynes to lett some pasquill fly?
Each houer a Satyre creuith to display
The secretts of this Tragick Comick play.
If Loue should let me vrett, I think you'd see
The Perenies and Alpes cum skipe to me,
And lauch them selues assunder; If I'd trace
The hurly-burly of stait bussines,
And to the vorld abused once bot tell
The Legend of Ignatian Matchiuell,
That old bold smouking Monster, and the pryde
Of thesse vsurping prælats that darr ryde
Vpone Authority, and Looke so gay
As If (goodmen) they ought (forsuith) to suay
Church, stait, and all: plague one that damned crew
Of such Hells black-mouth'd houndes; its of a New
That Roman pandars boldly dar'd to vo
Nay, straine a gentle king thesse things to doo,
That Moue the French, Italian, & Spaine,
In a luxurious and insulting straine
To sing te Deum, causse they houpe to see
The Glorie of the popeisch prelacie
Raissed aboue his Royall throne apaice,
To Droune his miner Light vith prouder face.
Thesse hounds they haue ingaged him one the stage
Of Sharpe-eyed Europe, nay, ther's not a page
Bot thinks he may laugh freily quhen he sees
Kings Buffons acte, and Bischopes Tragedies.
Should aney dauly with the lyons paw,
Then knou a distance, Se[r]pents stand in aw.
Naye, pray you Heauens, once lend me bot your thunder,
Ile crusch and teare thesse sordid slaues assunder,
And leuell with the dust ther Altars horne,
With the lascivious organs, pieties scorne;
Or lett me be as king, then of their skine
Ile causse dresse lether and fyne Marikin,
To couer coatches (quher they wount to ryde)
And valk in bootes and shoes made of ther hyde,
Vhipe them at neighbour princes courts to show,
That No Nouations Scotts zeall can allow.
I sacrefisse vold such presumtious slaues
To my deir people, beat to dust the knaues,
Then of the pouder of ther bons to dray
The hare and pereuige to the popes lackay.
I noblie should resent and take to heart
Thesse pedants pryde that make poore Brittane smart,
Confound the church, the stait, and all the nation
With appish fooleries and abomination,
Leaues churches desolate, and stopes the mouth
Of faithfull vatchmen quho dare preach bot treuth;
Incendiary fyrebrands, whosse proud wordes
Drope blood, and sounds the clattring Noysse of Suordis.
Had I bot halffe the spyte of Galloway Tom,
That Roman snakie viper, I'd fall from
Discreitter lynes, and rube ther itching eare
With Spanish Nouells: bot I will forbeare.
Becausse my foster and my amorous quill
Is not yet hard, proud pasquills to distill,
I doe intreat that droll Johne de Koell
To sting them with satyres hatcht in hell;
Each doge chyde thesse tabacco breathed deuyns,
Each pen dairt volums of acutest lynes,
And print the shame of that blacke troupe profaine
In liuid vords, with a Tartarian straine.
Since I a Louer am, and know not how
To lim a Satyre in halffe hyddeous hew,
Lyke to polypragmatick Macheuell,
In pleasant flame (not stryffe) I loue to duell.
Bot nou to Paris back I goe to tell
Some neues to plotting Riceleu: fair you well.