Oxford Historical and Literary Studies Issued under the direction of C. H. Firth and Walter Raleigh: Professors of Modern History and English Literature in the University of Oxford: Volume 5: Henry Tubbe by G. C. Moore Smith |
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ON THE GRAY-FRIARS Of Ashford |
 | Oxford Historical and Literary Studies |  |
ON THE GRAY-FRIARS Of Ashford
You that love Monsters, come along with mee;
Ashford, like Africk, yeelds varietie.
The Elders are in view! Behold & see,
A very Vision of Iniquitie!
A Black, & White Witch blended; a pure Saint
Mixt with a Sable Feind in doubling Paint.
Here is Albumazar, the Learned Clown,
Larded with a Set-ruff & a rug-gown:
After a hearty draught of right Sage-Ale,
He sayes, he seldome knew his judgment faile.
And there's the Justice in a Velvet-jerkin,
Wash'd with the heav'nly dewes of brave Pomperkin;
And under it a Doublet steept in Braggot,
Of Buffe, as tough (for ryme's sake) as a Faggot:
Hee, hee it is, who, when all's done & sayd,
Like Ipse dixit, strikes the Naile o' th' Head.
There sits a Venerable Muftie, drest
With Lungs for Three Parts, & a double Chest
To beare the Burden, a wide Weasand to 't,
A Crosse-bow-mouth, and a rich Nose to boot,
Which indeed makes the Musick, whines in chimes
Like Friar Bacon's Brasse upon all Times:
Though his Braines are not of this Amplitude,
In sooth, his Malice is a Multitude;
A Legion of Mischeifes, that can't rest,
Till it have quite destroy'd both Man & Beast:
And yet this Brotherhood would seem to bee
The Bulwarkes of some Fine Felicitie.
Like meager Ghosts they trembling sit & stand,
As Inborow and Outborow to th' Land.
These Vestry-Varlets with their hanging Eares,
The Emblem of our Jealousies & Feares,
For their Jerusalem yet act their part
Like stout, proud Heires of great King Robert's Heart.
If Captaine Squirt but moderate, the Throng
Listens, and gapes for Sweet-meats from his Tounge.
Like a State-glister it cures backward still
With Quantities of Zeale, enough to fill
A Seeker's Belly, bravely dish'd & stew'd,
To tast, as every Palate is indued.
His Thoughts are stuff'd with a destructive Curse,
Just like the Treason of the Timber-Horse:
And wee shall have, although but arsé-versie,
A Layre of Justice, and a Layre of Mercy.
Ashford, like Africk, yeelds varietie.
The Elders are in view! Behold & see,
A very Vision of Iniquitie!
74
Mixt with a Sable Feind in doubling Paint.
Here is Albumazar, the Learned Clown,
Larded with a Set-ruff & a rug-gown:
After a hearty draught of right Sage-Ale,
He sayes, he seldome knew his judgment faile.
And there's the Justice in a Velvet-jerkin,
Wash'd with the heav'nly dewes of brave Pomperkin;
And under it a Doublet steept in Braggot,
Of Buffe, as tough (for ryme's sake) as a Faggot:
Hee, hee it is, who, when all's done & sayd,
Like Ipse dixit, strikes the Naile o' th' Head.
There sits a Venerable Muftie, drest
With Lungs for Three Parts, & a double Chest
To beare the Burden, a wide Weasand to 't,
A Crosse-bow-mouth, and a rich Nose to boot,
Which indeed makes the Musick, whines in chimes
Like Friar Bacon's Brasse upon all Times:
Though his Braines are not of this Amplitude,
In sooth, his Malice is a Multitude;
A Legion of Mischeifes, that can't rest,
Till it have quite destroy'd both Man & Beast:
And yet this Brotherhood would seem to bee
The Bulwarkes of some Fine Felicitie.
Like meager Ghosts they trembling sit & stand,
As Inborow and Outborow to th' Land.
These Vestry-Varlets with their hanging Eares,
The Emblem of our Jealousies & Feares,
For their Jerusalem yet act their part
Like stout, proud Heires of great King Robert's Heart.
75
Listens, and gapes for Sweet-meats from his Tounge.
Like a State-glister it cures backward still
With Quantities of Zeale, enough to fill
A Seeker's Belly, bravely dish'd & stew'd,
To tast, as every Palate is indued.
His Thoughts are stuff'd with a destructive Curse,
Just like the Treason of the Timber-Horse:
And wee shall have, although but arsé-versie,
A Layre of Justice, and a Layre of Mercy.
What is thy Price & Pow'r, Religion! when
Things, that but only weare the shapes of Men,
Yea, scarce so much, Hobgoblin-Vanities,
Must governe Thee; and with their fulsome Lies
Corrupt the sweetnesse of that Truth, wch brings
Such Health, as crownes the Diadems of Kings?
Sweet little Town! How are thy Streets defil'd
With these wild Beasts, e'en blasted & revil'd
With Execrations, the blasphemie
Of their vile lookes & presence! Pietie
Is but an idle Name, since these Wormes first
Usurp'd the reines, and with their harsh votes curst
The glory of our Church: Devotion
Is but a scurvy loathsome Potion!
Rare Physick! Doctour Smectymnuus railes
And cries, The Directory never failes.
One by the vertue of strong roapie Ale
Inspir'd, can make a Sermon of a Tale;
Which taken to the purpose, hee'll defie
His Adversaries with Alacritie;
And from those Fumes obtaine the mysterie
Of a religious, pious Alcumy;
Retrive the Age, and turne it back againe
Into the Splendour of a Golden Raigne;
Our Iron-Workes shall down, down, By this Liquour,
That so our Faith in Gold may grow the quicker.
Bless'd with the quiet Gift of Yea & Nay
This Post can purely prophecie & pray;
Although Cassandra-like, 'tis his ill hap
Not to have Credit, till the After-clap;
Till grave SR John Himselfe be made the Game
Of all our misery, of all our shame.
Neighbour to both these, betwixt Drunke & Sober
Stands One, that lookes like Autum in October;
And yet forsooth, if you but name the King,
His Loialltie will glister like the Spring:
I like the Spring! it sprouts, & springs, & growes,
And growes; but when it will bee ripe, God knowes.
This by the motion of his waving Crest,
And the Hand layd devoutly on the Breast,
Such vigour gives, such valour to the rest,
To live & dye with Him, They hold it best.
Another swells like a young preaching Cub
With a devout Oration in a Tub;
Nay, since that Vessell was transform'd, the Worst
Are Orthodox Divines, bred up and nurst
In Revelations! The valiant Sword
Of Scanderbeg is Nothing to the Word;
The razour-metall-Word! that cuts & teares
Their very mouths up to their very Eares!
Th' aspiring Word! wch sometimes gets so high,
That 't is enroll'd in Albo Oculi!
And whosoever tries the Altitude
Of sense or meaning there, does but intrude
Upon such mysteries, as ne're were seen
But by the equall force of such like Eyne.
Yet 't is to bee suppos'd, when those Lights heave,
The Maw is glutted with some Bishop's sleeve:
A Sacrilegious Bit perfumes the throat
With such a Sent, it sets the Eye a-flote.
Their Stomacks are not queasie! these Mad Waggs
Can swallow down the Reliques of the Raggs,
Dropt from that Linen, wch the Blessed Whore,
The dainty Wench of Babylon once wore.
But stay! I know the reason now of all
These checquer'd tricks, these rude, phantasticall,
Light & darke showes of Goggles, Luggs, & Nose,
Cleare, cloudie Colours, as the Gray Fox goes,
Silver-haird Sanctity, & Dapple Grace,
A Brown-blew Bonnet, a pease-porridge-Face,
Good & Bad spoild together in all parts;
'T is the bright Horrour of their durty Hearts!
Things, that but only weare the shapes of Men,
Yea, scarce so much, Hobgoblin-Vanities,
Must governe Thee; and with their fulsome Lies
Corrupt the sweetnesse of that Truth, wch brings
Such Health, as crownes the Diadems of Kings?
Sweet little Town! How are thy Streets defil'd
With these wild Beasts, e'en blasted & revil'd
With Execrations, the blasphemie
Of their vile lookes & presence! Pietie
Is but an idle Name, since these Wormes first
Usurp'd the reines, and with their harsh votes curst
The glory of our Church: Devotion
Is but a scurvy loathsome Potion!
Rare Physick! Doctour Smectymnuus railes
And cries, The Directory never failes.
One by the vertue of strong roapie Ale
Inspir'd, can make a Sermon of a Tale;
Which taken to the purpose, hee'll defie
His Adversaries with Alacritie;
And from those Fumes obtaine the mysterie
Of a religious, pious Alcumy;
Retrive the Age, and turne it back againe
Into the Splendour of a Golden Raigne;
76
That so our Faith in Gold may grow the quicker.
Bless'd with the quiet Gift of Yea & Nay
This Post can purely prophecie & pray;
Although Cassandra-like, 'tis his ill hap
Not to have Credit, till the After-clap;
Till grave SR John Himselfe be made the Game
Of all our misery, of all our shame.
Neighbour to both these, betwixt Drunke & Sober
Stands One, that lookes like Autum in October;
And yet forsooth, if you but name the King,
His Loialltie will glister like the Spring:
I like the Spring! it sprouts, & springs, & growes,
And growes; but when it will bee ripe, God knowes.
This by the motion of his waving Crest,
And the Hand layd devoutly on the Breast,
Such vigour gives, such valour to the rest,
To live & dye with Him, They hold it best.
Another swells like a young preaching Cub
With a devout Oration in a Tub;
Nay, since that Vessell was transform'd, the Worst
Are Orthodox Divines, bred up and nurst
In Revelations! The valiant Sword
Of Scanderbeg is Nothing to the Word;
The razour-metall-Word! that cuts & teares
Their very mouths up to their very Eares!
Th' aspiring Word! wch sometimes gets so high,
That 't is enroll'd in Albo Oculi!
And whosoever tries the Altitude
Of sense or meaning there, does but intrude
Upon such mysteries, as ne're were seen
But by the equall force of such like Eyne.
Yet 't is to bee suppos'd, when those Lights heave,
The Maw is glutted with some Bishop's sleeve:
A Sacrilegious Bit perfumes the throat
With such a Sent, it sets the Eye a-flote.
Their Stomacks are not queasie! these Mad Waggs
Can swallow down the Reliques of the Raggs,
77
The dainty Wench of Babylon once wore.
But stay! I know the reason now of all
These checquer'd tricks, these rude, phantasticall,
Light & darke showes of Goggles, Luggs, & Nose,
Cleare, cloudie Colours, as the Gray Fox goes,
Silver-haird Sanctity, & Dapple Grace,
A Brown-blew Bonnet, a pease-porridge-Face,
Good & Bad spoild together in all parts;
'T is the bright Horrour of their durty Hearts!
Thus their close Guilt, like a slow Poison, workes
Upon their Soules at last in horrid jerks;
And that foule Venome, wch did lurke before
For others ruine, strikes at their own door.
Well, say no more, fond Muse! the groveling State
Of these poor Wretches cannot recreate
Thy angry Spleen! In such deepe Miseries
Pity may find enough to glut her Eyes!
Upon their Soules at last in horrid jerks;
And that foule Venome, wch did lurke before
For others ruine, strikes at their own door.
Well, say no more, fond Muse! the groveling State
Of these poor Wretches cannot recreate
Thy angry Spleen! In such deepe Miseries
Pity may find enough to glut her Eyes!
Inborow & Outborow. This Title in good earnest did once belong to Patrick Earle of Dunbar. wch (according to Mr. Camden's interpretation) signifies thus much, that he was to allow & observe the ingresse & egresse of those that travailed to & fro between both Realmes. In a metaphoricall jeer (I thinke) it may be well applyed to these officious Time-servers, who sit only to marke passages of State, without any effectuall Power, either to benefit themselves, or the Com̄onwealth.
Our Histories report of K. Robert Brus, that having made a Vow to goe to the Holy Land, he gave order at his death, thinking that a sufficient discharge of this solemne duty, to have his Heart carried to Jerusalem. These punctuall Reformers may seem to be Inheritours of this constant spirit & resolution, who having first by a firm League & Covenant devoted their very soules to Presbytery, and afterwards by a sad expiration of their Power quite lost the way thither, doe yet bequeath the dead Heart of their desperate designes to be transported to this Blessed Habitation of (I know not what) Peace & Goverment.
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