 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
Marvel's Ghost: Being a true Copy of a Letter sent to the A. Bp. of Cant. upon his sudden Sickness, at the Prince of Orange's first Arrival into London, 1688/9.
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 Sham Distinctions ring
Of a de Jure and de Facto King,
And prate of Duty till they've lost the Thing:
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Labour to make our Discontents increase;
Foment Divisions, and new Storms create;
Defame the King and undermine the State,
Which wou'd, were they but hang'd, 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 damn'd to Silence, and forgot,
If you had not reviv'd it with your Plot.
'Twas writ to consolate your Sickness then;
If you had mended this had ne'er been seen.
But since you every Day grow worse and worse,
And still resolve to be the Nation's Curse;
I also am resolv'd 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 Vertue languishes, and Goodness dies,
When holy Prelacy from Court withdrawn,
Lies sick at Lambeth in a Shroud of Lawn!
Who fearing now, Compliance with the Prince
Shou'd better Men to equal Power advance,
With-holds his Hand, and in the very nick
The humorous Prelate willingly falls sick.
On what small Props a Churchman's health depends!
Draw but one Pin and the whole Fabrick 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'er since the odious Name of B--- known,
In which a Clergy-man has not been one!
Have there been private Murders, publick Wars,
Dividing Schisms or intestine Jars,
Reproaches, Scandals, Goals, Fines, bloody Laws,
Of which they have not been the chiefest Cause!
When Vertue languishes, and Goodness dies,
When holy Prelacy from Court withdrawn,
Lies sick at Lambeth in a Shroud of Lawn!
Who fearing now, Compliance with the Prince
Shou'd better Men to equal Power advance,
With-holds his Hand, and in the very nick
The humorous Prelate willingly falls sick.
On what small Props a Churchman's health depends!
Draw but one Pin and the whole Fabrick bends;
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They'll snuff, and snort, and curse you to your Face.
Has there a Mischief in the World been done,
E'er since the odious Name of B--- known,
In which a Clergy-man has not been one!
Have there been private Murders, publick 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 stain'd
Those glorious Laurels that thy Conquests gain'd!
Untainted Honor with bright Lustre spread
It self in shining Circles round thy Head,
Which might have shone till now, belov'd, rever'd,
In the same Tomb had B--- been inter'd
With lesser Villains; but nice Goodness spar'd
Those Foes that should have the same Ruin shar'd:
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 opprest, the mournful Church implor'd
The tardy Vengeance of thy backward Sword.
Had this been done, had thy Imperial Frown
But smote those haughty Mitred Monarchs down;
Myriads of Blessings shou'd thy Reign adorn,
Paid by past Ages, this and those unborn.
Those glorious Laurels that thy Conquests gain'd!
Untainted Honor with bright Lustre spread
It self in shining Circles round thy Head,
Which might have shone till now, belov'd, rever'd,
In the same Tomb had B--- been inter'd
With lesser Villains; but nice Goodness spar'd
Those Foes that should have the same Ruin shar'd:
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 opprest, the mournful Church implor'd
The tardy Vengeance of thy backward Sword.
Had this been done, had thy Imperial Frown
But smote those haughty Mitred Monarchs down;
Myriads of Blessings shou'd thy 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,
Fram'd for mere show and of no use at all:
Tell me in sober seriousness, unvext,
What Holiness is to their Cowl annext;
What hidden Virtue in their Office lies,
Unseen by Men of common Sense and Eyes!
Did e'er a Bishoprick a Man advance
Above the rest in Honour, Truth, and Sense!
Or did a fat Advowson ever make
A Man preach better and more labour take?
They talkt indeed in very Loyal strain,
To praise the King did God himself profane,
But sure we ne'er 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.
These Raree Shows o'th' Church and Pageants here;
Like Tinsel Mortals on a Gewgaw Stall,
Fram'd for mere show and of no use at all:
Tell me in sober seriousness, unvext,
What Holiness is to their Cowl annext;
What hidden Virtue in their Office lies,
Unseen by Men of common Sense and Eyes!
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Above the rest in Honour, Truth, and Sense!
Or did a fat Advowson ever make
A Man preach better and more labour take?
They talkt indeed in very Loyal strain,
To praise the King did God himself profane,
But sure we ne'er 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, of a vast Gulph between?
Like Men condemn'd, on flattering Hopes born high,
To fall with greater Ruin from the Sky!
Good God, forbid thy Church should e'er be sway'd
By those again that have thy Truth betray'd:
Who lately such a fatal Instance gave
What precious Care they'd of Religion have,
That durst adore a Fool and trust a Knave.
Shou'd it be thus, how would our Isle complain,
And beg to have our wandring King again?
Intreat the worst his incens'd Rage can do,
The less important Mischief of the two;
Which is the cruel'st Beast will then be known,
An English Pr---te 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 injur'd Nation right!)
The most obdurate Muse will strain a Verse,
And bathe with Tears of Joy each Bishop's Herse.
To whom our Church and State again must bow?
Have we then but the blessed Prospect seen
Of dawning Peace, of a vast Gulph between?
Like Men condemn'd, on flattering Hopes born high,
To fall with greater Ruin from the Sky!
Good God, forbid thy Church should e'er be sway'd
By those again that have thy Truth betray'd:
Who lately such a fatal Instance gave
What precious Care they'd of Religion have,
That durst adore a Fool and trust a Knave.
Shou'd it be thus, how would our Isle complain,
And beg to have our wandring King again?
Intreat the worst his incens'd Rage can do,
The less important Mischief of the two;
Which is the cruel'st Beast will then be known,
An English Pr---te 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 injur'd Nation right!)
The most obdurate Muse will strain a Verse,
And bathe with Tears of Joy each Bishop's Herse.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |