The Works of Mr. John Oldham :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once I was common Wood, a shapeless Log,
Thrown out a Pissing-post for ev'ry Dog:
The Workman yet in doubt, what course to take;
Whether I'd best a Saint, er Hog-trough make,
After debate resolv'd me for a Saint,
And thus fam'd Loyola I represent:
And well I may resemble him, for he
As stupid was, as much a Block as I.
My right Leg maim'd, at halt I seem to stand,
To tell the Wounds at Pampelune sustein'd.

My Sword, and Soldiers Armour here had been,
But they may in Monserrats Church be seen:
Those there to blessed Virgin I laid down
For Cassock, Sursingle, and shaven Crown,
The spiritual Garb, in which I now am shown.

With due Accoutrements, and sit disguise
I might for Centinel of Corn suffice:
As once the well-hung God of old stood guard,
And the invading Crows from Forrage scar'd.
Now on my head the Birds their Relicks leave,
And Spiders in my mouth their Arras weave:
And persecuted Rats oft find in me
A Refuge, and religious Sanctuary.
But you profaner Hereticks, who e're
The Inquisition, and its vengeance fear,
I charge, stand off, at peril come not near:
None at twelve score untruss, break wind, or piss;
He enters Fox his Lists, that dare transgress:

For I'm by Holy Church in Rev'rence had,
And all good Cath'lick Folk implore my aid.

These Pictures, which you see, my Story give,
The Acts, and Monuments of me alive:
That Frame, wherein with Pilgrims weeds I stand,
Contains my Travels to the Holy Land.
This me, and my Decemvirate at Rome,
When I for Grant of my great Order come.
There with Devotion rapt, I hang in Air,
With Dove (like Mah'met's) whisp'ring in my ear.
Here Virgin in Galesh of Clouds descends,
To be my safeguard from assaulting Fiends.

Those Tables by, and Crutches of the lame,
My great Atchievements since my death proclaim:
Pox, Ague, Dropsie, Palsie, Stone, and Gout,
Legions, of Maladies by me cast out,
More than the College know, or ever fill
Quacks Wiping-paper, and the Weekly Bill.

What Peter's shadow did of old, the same
Is fancied done by my all-powerful Name;
For which some wear't about their Necks, and Arms,
To guard from Dangers, Sicknesses, and Harms;
And some on Wombs the barren to relieve,
A Miracle, I better did alive.

Oft I by crafty Jesuit am taught
Wonders to do, and many a Juggling Feat.
Sometimes with Chasing-dish behind me put,
I sweat like Clapt Debauch in Hot-House shut,
And drip like any Spitch-cock'd Huguenot:
Sometimes by secret Springs I learn to stir,
As Paste-board Saints dance by mirac'lous Wire:
Then I Tradescant's Rarities out-do,
Sands Waterworks, and German Clockwork too,
Or any choice Device at Barthol'mew.
Sometimes I utter Oracles, by Priest
Instead of a Familiar possest.

The Church I vindicate, Luther confute,
And cause amazement in the gaping Rout.

Such holy Cheats, such Hocus Tricks, as these,
For Miracles amongst the Rabble pass.
By this in their esteem I daily grow,
In Wealth inrich'd, increas'd in Vot'ries too.
This draws each year vast Numbers to my Tomb,
More than in Pigrimage to Mecca come.
This brings each week new Presents to my Shrine,
And makes it those of India Gods out-shine.
This gives a Chalice, that a Golden Cross,
Another massie Candlesticks bestows,
Some Alter-cloaths of costly work, and price
Plush, Tissue, Ermin, Silks of noblest Dies,
The Birth, and Passion in Embroideries:
Some Jewels, rich as those, th' Ægyptian Punk
In Jellies to her Roman Stallion drunk,

Some offer gorgeous Robes, which serve to wear
When I on Holy days in state appear;
When I'm in pomp on high Processions shown,
Like Pageants of Lord May'r, or Skimmington
Lucullus could not such a Wardrobe boast,
Less those of Popes at their Election cost;
Less those, which Sicily's Tyrant heretofore
From Plunder'd Gods, and Jove's own Shoulders tore.

Hither, as to some Fair, the Rabble come,
To barter for the Merchandize of Rome;
Where Priests, like Mountebanks, on Stage appear,
T'expose the Frip'ry of their hallow'd Ware:
This is the Lab'ratory of their Trade,
The Shop, where all their staple Drugs are made;
Prescriptions, and Receipts to bring in Gain,
All from the Church Dispensatories ta 'en,

The Pope's Elixir, Holy Waters here,
Which they with Chymick Art distill'd prepare:

Choice above Goddard's Drops, and all the Trash
Of Modern Quacks; this is that Soveraign Wash
For fetching Spots, and Morphew from the Face,
And scowring dirty Cloaths, and Consciences.
One drop of this, if us'd, had pow'r to fray
The Legion from the Hogs of Gadara:
This would have silenc'd quite the Wiltshire Drum,
And made the prating Fiend of Mascon dumb.

That Vessel consecrated Oyl contains,
Kept Sacred, as the fam'd Ampoulle of France;
Which some profaner Hereticks would use
For liquoring Wheels of Jacks, of Boots, and Shooes:
This make the Chrism, which mix'd with Snot of Priests,
Anoint young Cath'licks for the Church's lists;
And when they're crost, confest, and die; by this
Their lanching Souls slide off to endless Bliss:
As Lapland Saints, when they on Broomsticks fly,
By help of Magick Unctions mount the Sky.

Yon Altar-Pix of Gold is the Abode,
And safe Repository of their God.
A Cross is fix'd upon't the Feinds to fright,
And Flies which would the Deity beshite;
And Mice, which oft might unprepar'd receive.
And to lewd Scoffers cause of Scandal give.

Here are perform'd the Conjurings and Spells,
For Christning Saints, and Hawks, and Carriers Bells;
For hall'wing Shreds, and Grains, and Salts, and Bawms,
Shrines, Crosses, Medals, Shells, and Waxen Lambs:
Of wondrous Virtue all (you must believe)
And from all sorts of Ill preservative;
From Plague, Infection, Thunder, Storm, and Hail,
Love, Grief, Want, Debt, Sin, and the Devil and all.
Here Beads are blest, and Pater nosters fram'd,
(By some the Tallies of Devotion nam'd)
Which of their Pray'rs, and Oraisons keep tale,
Lest they, and Heav'n should in the reck'ning fail.

Here Sacred Lights, the Altars graceful Pride,
Are by Priests breath perfum'd and Sanctified;
Made some of Wax, of Her'ticks Tallow some,
A Gift, which Irish Emma sent to Rome:
For which great Merit worthily (we're told)
She's now amongst her Country-Saints inroll'd.
Here holy Banners are reserv'd in store,
And Flags, such as the fam'd Armado bore:
And hallow'd Swords, and Daggers kept for use,
When resty Kings the Papal Yoke refuse:
And consecrated Rats-bane, to be laid
For Her'tick Vermin, which the Church invade.

But that which brings in most of Wealth, and Gain,
Does best the Priests swoln Tripes, and Purses strain;
Here they each Week their constant Auctions hold
Of Reliques, which by Candles Inch are sold:
Saints by the dozen here are set to sale,
Like Mortals wrought in Gingerbread on Stall.

Hither are loads from emptied Channels brought,
And Voiders of the Worms from Sextons bought;
Which serve for Retail through the World to vent,
Such as of late were to the Savoy sent:
Hair from the Skulls of dying Strumpets shorn,
And Felons Bones from rifled Gibbets torn;
Like those, which some old Hag at midnight steals,
For Witchcrafts, Amulets, and Charms, and Spells,
Are past for Sacred to the Cheap'ning Rout;
And worn on Fingers, Breasts, and Ears about.
This boasts a Scrap of me, and that a Bit
Of good St. George, St. Patrick, or St. Kit.
These Locks S. Bridget's were, and those S. Clare's;
Some for S. Catharine's go, and some for her's
That wip'd her Saviour's feet, wash'd with her tears.

Here you may see my wounded Leg, and here
Those, which to China bore the great Xavier.

Here may you the grand Traitor's Halter see,
Some call't the Arms of the Society:
Here is his Lanthorn too, but Faux his, not,
That was embezl'd by the Huguenot.
Here Garnet's Straws, and Becket's Bones, and Hair,
For murd'ring whom, some Tails are said to wear;
As learned Capgrave does record their fate,
And faithful British Histories relate.
Those are S. Laurence Coals expos'd to view,
Strangely preserv'd, and kept alive till now.
That's the fam'd Wildefortis wondrous Beard,
For which her Maidenhead the Tyrant spar'd.
Yon is the Baptist's Coat, and one of's Heads,
The rest are shewn in many a place besides;
And of his Teeth as many Sets there are,
As on their Belts six Operators wear.
Here Blessed Mary's Milk, not yet turn'd sour,
Renown'd (like Ass'es) for its healing pow'r,
Ten Holland Kine scarce in a year give more.

Here is her Manteau, and a Smock of hers,
Fellow to that, which once reliev'd Poictiers:
Besides her Husbands Utensils of Trade,
Wherewith some prove, that Images were made.
Here is the Soldiers Spear, and Passion-Nails,
Whose quantity would serve for building Pauls:
Chips, some from Holy Cross, from Tyburn some,
Honour'd by many a Jesuit's Martyrdom:
All held of special, and Mirac'lous Pow'r,
Not Tabor more approv'd for Agu's cure:
Here Shooes, which, once perhaps at Newgate hung,
Angled their Charity, that pass'd along,
Now for S. Peter's go, and th' Office bear
For Priests, they did for lesser Villains there.

These are the Fathers Implements, and Tools,
Their gawdy Trangums for inveigling Fools:
These serve for Baits the simple to ensnare,
Like Children spirited with Toys at Fair.

Nor are they half the Artifices yet,
By which the Vulgar they delude, and cheat:
Which should I undertake, much easier I,
Much sooner might compute what Sins there be
Wip'd off, and pardon'd at a Jubilee.
What Bribes enrich the Datary each year,
Or Vices treated on by Escobar:
How many Whores in Rome profess the Trade,
Or greater numbers by Confession made.

One undertakes by Scale of Miles to tell
The Bounds, Dimensions, and Extent of Hell;
How far, and wide th' Infernal Monarch Reigns,
How many German Leagues his Realm contains:
Who are his Ministers, pretends to know,
And all their several Offices below:
How many Chaudrons he each year expends
In Coals for roasting Huguenots, and Feinds:

And with as much exactness states the case,
As if had been Surveyor of the place.

Another frights the Rout with ruful Stories,
Of Wild Chimæra's, Limbo's, Purgatories,
And bloated Souls in smoaky durance hung,
Like a Westphalia Gammon, or Neats Tongue,
To be redeem'd with Masses, and a Song.
A good round Sum must the Deliv'rance buy,
For none may there swear out on poverty.
Your rich, and bounteous Shades are only eas'd,
No Fleet, or Kings-Bench Ghosts are thence releas'd.

A third, the wicked, and debauch'd to please,
Cries up the vertue of Indulgences,
And all the rates of Vices does assess;
What price they in the holy Chamber bear,
And Customs for each Sin imported there:
How you at best advantages may buy
Patents for Sacrilege, and Simony.

What Tax is in the Leach'ry-Office laid
On Panders, Bawds, and Whores, that ply the Trade:
What costs a Rape, or Incest, and how cheap
You may an Harlot, or an Ingle keep;
How easie Murder may afforded be
For one, two, three, or a whole Family;
But not of Her'ticks; there no Pardon lacks,
'Tis one o'th' Church's meritorious Acts.

For venial Trifles, less and slighter Faults,
They ne're deserve the trouble of your thoughts.
Ten Ave Maries mumbled to the Cross
Clear scores of twice ten thousand such as those:
Some are at sound of christen'd Bell forgiven,
And some by squirt of Holy Water driven:
Others by Anthems plaid are charm'd away,
As Men cure Bites of the Tarantula.

But nothing with the Crowd does more enhance
The value of these holy Charlatans,

Than when the Wonders of the Mass they veiw,
Where spiritual Jugglers their chief Mast'ry shew:
Hey Jingo, Sirs! What's this? 'tis Bread you see;
Presto be gone! 'tis now a Deity.
Two grains of Dough, with Cross, and stamp of Priest,
And five small words pronounc'd, make up their Christ.
To this they all fall down, this all adore,
And strait devour, what they ador'd before;
Down goes the tiny Saviour at a bit,
To be digested, and at length beshit:
From Altar to Close-Stool, or Jakes preferr'd,
First Wafer, then a God, and then a ------
'Tis this, that does the astonish'd Rout amuse,

And Reverence to shaven Crown infuse:
To see a silly, sinful, mortal Wight
His Maker make, create the Infinite.
None boggles at th' impossibility;
Alas, 'tis wondrous Heavenly Mystery!

None dares the mighty God-maker blaspheme,
Nor his most open Crimes, and Vices blame:
Saw he those hands that held his God before,
Strait grope himself, and by and by a Whore:
Should they his aged Father kill, or worse,
His Sisters, Daughters, Wife, himself too force.

And here I might (if I but durst) reveal
What pranks are plaid in the Confessional:
How haunted Virgins have been dispossest,
And Devils were cast out, to let in Priest:
What Fathers act with Novices alone,
And what to Punks in shrievings Seats is done;
Who thither flock to Ghostly Confessor,
To clear old debts, and tick with Heav'n for more.
Oft have I seen these hallow'd Altars stain'd
With Rapes, those Pews with Buggeries profan'd:
Not great Cellier, nor any greater Bawd,
Of note, and long experience in the Trade,
Has more, and fouler Scenes of Lust suvey'd.

But I these dang'rous Truths forbear to tell,
For fear I should the Inquisition feel.

Should I tell all their countless Knaveries,
Their Cheats, and Shams, and Forgeries, and Lies.
Their Cringings, Crossings, Censings, Sprinklings, Chrisms,
Their Conjurings, and Spells, and Exorcisms;
Their Motly Habits, Maniples, and Stoles,
Albs, Ammits, Rochets, Chimers, Hoods, and Cowls.
Should I tell all their several Services,
Their Trentals, Masses, Dirges, Rosaries;
Their solemn Pomps, their Pageants, and Parades,
Their holy Masks, and spiritual Cavalcades,
With thousand Antick Tricks, and Gambols more;
'Twould swell the sum to such a mighty score,
That I at length should more volum'nous grow,
Than Crabb, or Surius, lying Fox, or Stow.

Believe what e're I have related here,
As true, as if 'twere spoke from Porph'ry Chair.

If I have feign'd in ought, or broach'd a Lie,
Let worst of Fates attend me, let me be
Pist on by Porter, Groom, and Oyster-whore,
Or find my Grave in Jakes, and Common-shore:
Or make next Bonfire for the Powder-Plot,
The sport of every sneering Huguenot.
There like a Martyr'd Pope in Flames expire,
And no kind Catholick dare quench the Fire.