Bellum Presbyteriale Or, as much said for the Presbyter As may be. Together with their Covenants Catastrophe. Held forth in an Heroick Poem. By Matth. Stevenson |
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 | Bellum Presbyteriale |  |
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To my very good Friend, DR. COLLINS.
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BELLUM Presbyteriale.
Have ye not seen the Coles that lively burn,
Of their own Ashes make themselves an Urn:
And on occasion from their shady bed
Make speedy resurrection from the Dead?
Such are those Classick Glowings that long lie
Rak'd up in Embers of Obscurity;
Whose envious Sparks the Presbyterian locks
In his close breast, as in a Tinderbox,
And but the dread of just Revenge doth hinder,
Would turn the Surplice & Lawn-sleeves to Tinder;
Nay, for a little profit, or a Name,
Set ev'n the sacred Temple on a flame.
His Spleen has its Dimensions so out-swoln,
No man can think the fire from Heav'n was stoln,
Which, like those Lamps reserved from the Air
Continue burning many hundred year.
So Presbyterians age to age conceal
The fiery bowels of their lurking zeal:
As if the sulph'rous Cakes of that deep Cell
Were as eternal as the fire of Hell.
They wrap the White Witch in a Cloud of night,
Dark as the Curtains of false FAUX his light,
Til mischief prompts them to't, then, then, they double
Their flames, & make the Church & State their stubble;
And would forestall (their fury is so fierce)
The Conflagration of the Universe.
Of their own Ashes make themselves an Urn:
And on occasion from their shady bed
Make speedy resurrection from the Dead?
Such are those Classick Glowings that long lie
Rak'd up in Embers of Obscurity;
Whose envious Sparks the Presbyterian locks
In his close breast, as in a Tinderbox,
And but the dread of just Revenge doth hinder,
Would turn the Surplice & Lawn-sleeves to Tinder;
Nay, for a little profit, or a Name,
Set ev'n the sacred Temple on a flame.
His Spleen has its Dimensions so out-swoln,
No man can think the fire from Heav'n was stoln,
Which, like those Lamps reserved from the Air
Continue burning many hundred year.
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The fiery bowels of their lurking zeal:
As if the sulph'rous Cakes of that deep Cell
Were as eternal as the fire of Hell.
They wrap the White Witch in a Cloud of night,
Dark as the Curtains of false FAUX his light,
Til mischief prompts them to't, then, then, they double
Their flames, & make the Church & State their stubble;
And would forestall (their fury is so fierce)
The Conflagration of the Universe.
Some smaller lights hover to and again,
Which we call Will ith' Wisp, or Lanthorn men,
These like the Gloworm, that terrestrial star,
Do sometimes glitter, sometimes disappear.
Or like Joan's Candle else, this twinkling train
Are out and in, and in and out again.
These are those lights upon the Stage, we see
Ye going now to act your Tragedie:
Those Heresies I mean, those Schisms and Sects
By you directed to those sad effects.
You the Pyrites are; these sparks are some
Of those that from your flinty bosoms come.
You are the Stone, the Steel, Sulphur and Match,
These only Tinder are, and apt to catch:
In sum thus only differ your Conditions,
You are the Ætna, these the Evomitions.
And more than this, your actions vary not,
One is the Canon, th' other the Case-shot.
For, in a word, 'tis plain ye both conspire
To set the Kingdom and the Church on fire.
Which we call Will ith' Wisp, or Lanthorn men,
These like the Gloworm, that terrestrial star,
Do sometimes glitter, sometimes disappear.
Or like Joan's Candle else, this twinkling train
Are out and in, and in and out again.
These are those lights upon the Stage, we see
Ye going now to act your Tragedie:
Those Heresies I mean, those Schisms and Sects
By you directed to those sad effects.
You the Pyrites are; these sparks are some
Of those that from your flinty bosoms come.
You are the Stone, the Steel, Sulphur and Match,
These only Tinder are, and apt to catch:
In sum thus only differ your Conditions,
You are the Ætna, these the Evomitions.
And more than this, your actions vary not,
One is the Canon, th' other the Case-shot.
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To set the Kingdom and the Church on fire.
And to that end the furious brood of Smec
Judging themselves too long kept under Deck;
As eager Mastiffs that have long time lain
Under restraint of a commanding chain,
And now got loose, there's nothing in their way
Which to their teeth shall not become a prey.
So 'tis, these Classick Currs do nothing fear,
But like Acteons Dogs their Master tear.
Well had it been, and had I had my will,
These Tygres should have been kept muzled still.
Foxes I say, that our Church-Vine deface,
And plant their stinking Elders in the place.
Which they begin, for now of late these Rabbies
Have made Cathedrals like old wildred Abbies,
And with the Draggon with all fury press
To drive the Church into the Wilderness.
With their black brood of Angels, Sons of Hell,
They help the Devil against St. Michael.
There you may look before you and behind,
And in the Windows read your envious mind.
Which makes me wonder how that Clergy looks
To have their Elders learn'd, and burn their Books!
But this of all I do the strangest deem,
That Presbyterians, who would Christians seem,
Should so forget themselves as not afford
A reverence to the shadow of their LORD;
But he must suffer by the English Jew,
As in his Person, so his Pourtraict too.
'Cause crucifying at Jerusalem
Was not enough, he now is ston'd by them;
Nay, and his Mother that stands weeping by
Must have her Scene too in the Tragedy.
Like men possess'd they dwell amongst the Tombs,
And rifle Graves, and dead mens resting Rooms.
Whom the blest Virgin cannot exorcise
With all the holy water of her Eyes.
Judging themselves too long kept under Deck;
As eager Mastiffs that have long time lain
Under restraint of a commanding chain,
And now got loose, there's nothing in their way
Which to their teeth shall not become a prey.
So 'tis, these Classick Currs do nothing fear,
But like Acteons Dogs their Master tear.
Well had it been, and had I had my will,
These Tygres should have been kept muzled still.
Foxes I say, that our Church-Vine deface,
And plant their stinking Elders in the place.
Which they begin, for now of late these Rabbies
Have made Cathedrals like old wildred Abbies,
And with the Draggon with all fury press
To drive the Church into the Wilderness.
With their black brood of Angels, Sons of Hell,
They help the Devil against St. Michael.
There you may look before you and behind,
And in the Windows read your envious mind.
Which makes me wonder how that Clergy looks
To have their Elders learn'd, and burn their Books!
But this of all I do the strangest deem,
That Presbyterians, who would Christians seem,
Should so forget themselves as not afford
A reverence to the shadow of their LORD;
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As in his Person, so his Pourtraict too.
'Cause crucifying at Jerusalem
Was not enough, he now is ston'd by them;
Nay, and his Mother that stands weeping by
Must have her Scene too in the Tragedy.
Like men possess'd they dwell amongst the Tombs,
And rifle Graves, and dead mens resting Rooms.
Whom the blest Virgin cannot exorcise
With all the holy water of her Eyes.
Pitty us Heaven, that labour of a Curse,
Were Hell broke loose we could not sure be worse:
The Bishop doubtless with much quiet bears
His losses, and forgives the Plunderers,
Who in so Sacrilegious steps have trod,
They have not spar'd the very House of God:
And thus methinks I hear them check their Care,
Can Servants better than their Masters fare?
To rob the Church a sin is of that stature,
Heathens abhorr'd it by the light of Nature.
A num'rous Army before Delphos fell,
Though it were but the Devil's Oracle.
With us the Case (to greater sin) does vary;
For God's own House does need a Sanctuary.
But this our shame, O may it ne'r be known!
The hands that robb'd our GOD have been our own.
And what a vain excuse we do alledge,
Pull Idols down, and commit Sacriledge.
Thus, PRESBYTERS, ye see what ye have done,
Brought CHURCH and STATE into Confusion.
EPISCOPACY (as it well appears)
Has prosper'd in this Church a thousand years.
Look back upon the Church, you may derive
Its Institution from the Primitive.
In sacred Scripture no where it appears,
Titus and Timothy were PRESBYTERS.
True, such there were with Bishops (if you'l hav't)
Contemporary, but subordinate.
It were a fond Conceit, and over-reach'd,
To say the Ass was Balaam 'cause he preach'd.
To rule without a King is to no boot:
And shall the Church have neither Head nor Foot?
What Order in the Church or State would be,
We are convinc'd by our late ANARCHY;
When, notwithstanding all the Lights ye boast,
We were in Darkness, worse than Ægypt, lost,
Ægyptians, Prince and Peasant, the Text saies,
Arose not from their places in three daies;
Yet they knew where they were, which is much more
Than we, I'm sure, could say this good while; for
Ev'ry man with us is out of 's place,
The Servant now is where his Master was;
Where the KING sate enthron'd (under the Rose)
The Beggar has advanc'd his COPPER-NOSE.
Now the CLOWN Lords it, and the Gentleman
Sees that it will be so do what he can.
Whose Taylor's on his back, his thefts enchases
In characters of Gold and silver laces.
The Councellor is brought into disgrace,
And for supply, the Fool is in his place.
And now to see how times and seasons alter,
The Thief condemns the Judge unto the Halter!
Well may the Judge in admiration stand,
And (as the Thief did once) hold up his hand;
Yet strange not at this Metamorphosis,
Holding up hands has been the cause of this.
To the Exchequer whom would ye prefer,
The Cheater is already Treasurer.
Touching the Church, (O that it were a Dream!)
The Crosier's turn'd into a Weavers beam.
In the Dean's Pulpit is a Taylor heard,
That measures Time, not by the Glass, but Yard.
Weavers and Taylors? how's that understood?
Are they to coat the Fathers? why that's good.
Wolves in sheeps cloathing preach unto their Dams,
To have a care of their own tender Lambs.
The Soldier preaches with his Sword by's side,
As if therewith he would his Text divide,
And open what he understandeth not,
As Alexander did the Gordion knot.
With infinite Inversions such as these;
As if the whole were the Antipodes,
Learning and Liberal Arts turn'd out of door,
All were decry'd: Turcism commands no more.
We put the BIBLE thus (Oh sin of Man!)
In competition with the ALCHORAN.
A thing that fals to nothing, if she chance
To crack the crazy Crutch of Ignorance:
Thus in a maze they have bewildred us;
None but our GOD can be our Dædalus.
Were Hell broke loose we could not sure be worse:
The Bishop doubtless with much quiet bears
His losses, and forgives the Plunderers,
Who in so Sacrilegious steps have trod,
They have not spar'd the very House of God:
And thus methinks I hear them check their Care,
Can Servants better than their Masters fare?
To rob the Church a sin is of that stature,
Heathens abhorr'd it by the light of Nature.
A num'rous Army before Delphos fell,
Though it were but the Devil's Oracle.
With us the Case (to greater sin) does vary;
For God's own House does need a Sanctuary.
But this our shame, O may it ne'r be known!
The hands that robb'd our GOD have been our own.
And what a vain excuse we do alledge,
Pull Idols down, and commit Sacriledge.
7
Brought CHURCH and STATE into Confusion.
EPISCOPACY (as it well appears)
Has prosper'd in this Church a thousand years.
Look back upon the Church, you may derive
Its Institution from the Primitive.
In sacred Scripture no where it appears,
Titus and Timothy were PRESBYTERS.
True, such there were with Bishops (if you'l hav't)
Contemporary, but subordinate.
It were a fond Conceit, and over-reach'd,
To say the Ass was Balaam 'cause he preach'd.
To rule without a King is to no boot:
And shall the Church have neither Head nor Foot?
What Order in the Church or State would be,
We are convinc'd by our late ANARCHY;
When, notwithstanding all the Lights ye boast,
We were in Darkness, worse than Ægypt, lost,
Ægyptians, Prince and Peasant, the Text saies,
Arose not from their places in three daies;
Yet they knew where they were, which is much more
Than we, I'm sure, could say this good while; for
Ev'ry man with us is out of 's place,
The Servant now is where his Master was;
Where the KING sate enthron'd (under the Rose)
The Beggar has advanc'd his COPPER-NOSE.
Now the CLOWN Lords it, and the Gentleman
Sees that it will be so do what he can.
8
In characters of Gold and silver laces.
The Councellor is brought into disgrace,
And for supply, the Fool is in his place.
And now to see how times and seasons alter,
The Thief condemns the Judge unto the Halter!
Well may the Judge in admiration stand,
And (as the Thief did once) hold up his hand;
Yet strange not at this Metamorphosis,
Holding up hands has been the cause of this.
To the Exchequer whom would ye prefer,
The Cheater is already Treasurer.
Touching the Church, (O that it were a Dream!)
The Crosier's turn'd into a Weavers beam.
In the Dean's Pulpit is a Taylor heard,
That measures Time, not by the Glass, but Yard.
Weavers and Taylors? how's that understood?
Are they to coat the Fathers? why that's good.
Wolves in sheeps cloathing preach unto their Dams,
To have a care of their own tender Lambs.
The Soldier preaches with his Sword by's side,
As if therewith he would his Text divide,
And open what he understandeth not,
As Alexander did the Gordion knot.
With infinite Inversions such as these;
As if the whole were the Antipodes,
Learning and Liberal Arts turn'd out of door,
All were decry'd: Turcism commands no more.
9
In competition with the ALCHORAN.
A thing that fals to nothing, if she chance
To crack the crazy Crutch of Ignorance:
Thus in a maze they have bewildred us;
None but our GOD can be our Dædalus.
But this was their design, these their intents,
To tear our Church in pieces for her Rents;
A thing my hopes perswade shall never be,
Maugre the handy-crafted Hierarchy.
Those cursed Corahs, those Church-Catilines,
The scue-bald Synod, and her Club-Divines,
Hells Ambuscado, nor a Scotish lurch
Shall set a Kirk a tiptoes on our CHURCH,
Which into heaps (I hope) shall ne'r be hurl'd,
Until the second Chaos of the World,
Under which (as by Record it appears)
England has flourish'd many hundred years.
Ye bend your bows though, and prepare to fight,
Bishops the marks are, and Lawn sleeves the white.
Instead of our Church-Musick ye suppose
None like the twang of the Organick Nose.
But yet if some (you ne'r shall know for certain,
If I mean Burgess, and Sir Harry Marten)
Had in their Stews met but with self-like choices,
Their want of Noses had untun'd their voices.
The purity in Surplice signifi'd,
Ye, as the Whore of Bab'lons Smock, deride.
Goodness! how came this secret to be known?
Did any sister measure't by her own?
So likewise that Church-Ornamental Cope
Ye call the outward Garment of the POPE,
Forgetting these things only represent
Paul's Decency, Order and Ornament.
And fondly you that Superstition make,
Which wiser men but for distinction take.
Of Bishops ye complain there's too great plenty,
And yet for one ye strive to set up twenty;
But better with Alcides trace the lists,
Than Bryareus that has an hundred fists.
Athens can tell you (with a dolefull groan)
That thirty Tyrants oftner struck than one:
In Church or State the difference we see
MONARCHY is prefer'd to ANARCHY.
But all the business whence they so displease
Is only this, their Lands and Pallaces.
You therefore in deep policy think fit,
Joseph for his gay Coat should to the Pit.
Beloved you very impatient are
To keep your breeches out of Moses Chair,
Ye would so fain be sitting at the Helm,
Though ye the Church should in the waves o'rwhelm
O how ye tack about, still to enure
The Needle to your Northern Cynosure.
But this shall come to pass, would ye know when?
At the Greek Calends, and soon enough then.
To tear our Church in pieces for her Rents;
A thing my hopes perswade shall never be,
Maugre the handy-crafted Hierarchy.
Those cursed Corahs, those Church-Catilines,
The scue-bald Synod, and her Club-Divines,
Hells Ambuscado, nor a Scotish lurch
Shall set a Kirk a tiptoes on our CHURCH,
Which into heaps (I hope) shall ne'r be hurl'd,
Until the second Chaos of the World,
Under which (as by Record it appears)
England has flourish'd many hundred years.
Ye bend your bows though, and prepare to fight,
Bishops the marks are, and Lawn sleeves the white.
Instead of our Church-Musick ye suppose
None like the twang of the Organick Nose.
But yet if some (you ne'r shall know for certain,
If I mean Burgess, and Sir Harry Marten)
Had in their Stews met but with self-like choices,
Their want of Noses had untun'd their voices.
The purity in Surplice signifi'd,
Ye, as the Whore of Bab'lons Smock, deride.
10
Did any sister measure't by her own?
So likewise that Church-Ornamental Cope
Ye call the outward Garment of the POPE,
Forgetting these things only represent
Paul's Decency, Order and Ornament.
And fondly you that Superstition make,
Which wiser men but for distinction take.
Of Bishops ye complain there's too great plenty,
And yet for one ye strive to set up twenty;
But better with Alcides trace the lists,
Than Bryareus that has an hundred fists.
Athens can tell you (with a dolefull groan)
That thirty Tyrants oftner struck than one:
In Church or State the difference we see
MONARCHY is prefer'd to ANARCHY.
But all the business whence they so displease
Is only this, their Lands and Pallaces.
You therefore in deep policy think fit,
Joseph for his gay Coat should to the Pit.
Beloved you very impatient are
To keep your breeches out of Moses Chair,
Ye would so fain be sitting at the Helm,
Though ye the Church should in the waves o'rwhelm
O how ye tack about, still to enure
The Needle to your Northern Cynosure.
But this shall come to pass, would ye know when?
At the Greek Calends, and soon enough then.
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Now let me give you but a Character
Of a young Anglo-Scotic PRESBYTER:
First he is one whose face with hair's thin thatch'd,
One that in Scoggen's pyde Crows nest was hatch'd,
Who not yet fleg his godly Mother set
An Ordination of the KIRK to get,
Wherein she soon prevail'd, and at the grant
He stretch'd his jawes, and gulpt the COVENANT;
He knew not what Epicopacy was,
And that indeed made him the better pass.
Strait then out-went this new imbrother'd Elf,
And the next Village set up for himself.
He call'd in th' Elders, and he chose out twelve;
And now the Hatchet having got an Helve,
He hew'd down sin, and that same very year
Most of the sisters backward fell for fear,
Or else for love; for on a time being sifted,
They found the man most able and well gifted;
He often knock'd the Fathers out of joynt:
No matter though, he still press'd home the point.
The Elders Wives were every Sermon at,
Yet were not constant Hearers for all that.
When any Law-sute in the Parish fell,
He and his JURY judged ISRAEL.
If any one without his leave should wed,
They found his leaving when they went to bed:
And more than this this Novice dares to do,
Yet this is it ye bring the English to.
But stay, though this of Scotish slaves be born,
It is a thraldom English spirits scorn.
When a Deacon shall a Sermon make,
And for his Context all the Bible take;
Here we might, may be, grant him our consents,
If he were Register to both Testaments:
But ramble how he please, he's in his Road,
For in the Pulpit he still walks abroad;
And if this hour he single out a Text,
It is enough if they two meet the next.
If he can but devoutly rail upon
The pride of Prelats, all his work is done.
Or if he can but tell the People how
The Saints have given their Foes an Overthrow;
It is no matter if he Nedham quotes:
Thus a Diurnal serves him for his Notes.
Men need not question the Analysis,
His Sermon nothing but Division is.
Once he preach'd Faith, the Publick-faith I mean,
And that did work Repentance on most men;
For what that old News-monger Nedham saith
Was call'd the Publick, prov'd the Punick faith,
A kind of Philosophick faith, by which
Scarce e'r was poor man sav'd, I'm sure no rich.
But when ye pray, or rather when ye prate;
For many times ye talk ye know not what.
Then as if God forgat what went before,
Ye to't again, and tel't him ore and ore.
In terms impertinent, full of levity,
Flatness, Confusion, and Obscurity,
With Repetitions Vain, Ridiculous,
Senseless, and too too often Blasphemous,
So tedious, it does all mens patience wrong,
May be some Females fancie what is long.
If this the Spirit be, then I profess
The Spirit leads y' into the Wilderness,
Where you might lose your self, but that no doubt,
You know in prayer you are easily out.
Of a young Anglo-Scotic PRESBYTER:
First he is one whose face with hair's thin thatch'd,
One that in Scoggen's pyde Crows nest was hatch'd,
Who not yet fleg his godly Mother set
An Ordination of the KIRK to get,
Wherein she soon prevail'd, and at the grant
He stretch'd his jawes, and gulpt the COVENANT;
He knew not what Epicopacy was,
And that indeed made him the better pass.
Strait then out-went this new imbrother'd Elf,
And the next Village set up for himself.
He call'd in th' Elders, and he chose out twelve;
And now the Hatchet having got an Helve,
He hew'd down sin, and that same very year
Most of the sisters backward fell for fear,
Or else for love; for on a time being sifted,
They found the man most able and well gifted;
He often knock'd the Fathers out of joynt:
No matter though, he still press'd home the point.
The Elders Wives were every Sermon at,
Yet were not constant Hearers for all that.
When any Law-sute in the Parish fell,
He and his JURY judged ISRAEL.
If any one without his leave should wed,
They found his leaving when they went to bed:
And more than this this Novice dares to do,
Yet this is it ye bring the English to.
12
It is a thraldom English spirits scorn.
When a Deacon shall a Sermon make,
And for his Context all the Bible take;
Here we might, may be, grant him our consents,
If he were Register to both Testaments:
But ramble how he please, he's in his Road,
For in the Pulpit he still walks abroad;
And if this hour he single out a Text,
It is enough if they two meet the next.
If he can but devoutly rail upon
The pride of Prelats, all his work is done.
Or if he can but tell the People how
The Saints have given their Foes an Overthrow;
It is no matter if he Nedham quotes:
Thus a Diurnal serves him for his Notes.
Men need not question the Analysis,
His Sermon nothing but Division is.
Once he preach'd Faith, the Publick-faith I mean,
And that did work Repentance on most men;
For what that old News-monger Nedham saith
Was call'd the Publick, prov'd the Punick faith,
A kind of Philosophick faith, by which
Scarce e'r was poor man sav'd, I'm sure no rich.
But when ye pray, or rather when ye prate;
For many times ye talk ye know not what.
Then as if God forgat what went before,
Ye to't again, and tel't him ore and ore.
13
Flatness, Confusion, and Obscurity,
With Repetitions Vain, Ridiculous,
Senseless, and too too often Blasphemous,
So tedious, it does all mens patience wrong,
May be some Females fancie what is long.
If this the Spirit be, then I profess
The Spirit leads y' into the Wilderness,
Where you might lose your self, but that no doubt,
You know in prayer you are easily out.
The Laver of Regeneration you
Quite lay aside with the Baptismall Vow.
The Eunuch (if amongst your Classick Cinders)
Could not have said, here's water, then what hinders?
What else would ye, but in your vast desire
Forestall Christ's Office, and baptize with fire?
Quite lay aside with the Baptismall Vow.
The Eunuch (if amongst your Classick Cinders)
Could not have said, here's water, then what hinders?
What else would ye, but in your vast desire
Forestall Christ's Office, and baptize with fire?
When at the Table of the Lord we stay
For Bread and Wine, ye send us empty away.
Whom we must therefore worse than Papists call,
For they give half, but you give none at all
And with your Pharisaick Demagogs,
Call it a giving Childrens bread to Dogs.
Classicks take heed, 'twill be remembered,
Ye gave Christs hungry people stones for bread.
For Bread and Wine, ye send us empty away.
Whom we must therefore worse than Papists call,
For they give half, but you give none at all
And with your Pharisaick Demagogs,
Call it a giving Childrens bread to Dogs.
Classicks take heed, 'twill be remembered,
Ye gave Christs hungry people stones for bread.
For Funerals, y' have brought us to that pass,
No burial but the burial of an Asse:
Methinks a word were sweet in such a place,
Where Death even looks the People in the face.
Through the Deceased's Coffin, such a sight
Would of an ATHEIST turn a PROSELITE.
Nay, very Dreams do sometimes men convert,
The Phansie turning Preacher to the Heart.
When could your words pierce deeper, than imprest
VVhen Fear and Sorrow have possest the breast?
Dumb Dogs that from the House of Mourning sneak
Leaving the more relenting stones to speak.
Strange kind of Brethren! neither will give bread
To those that live, nor bury those are dead.
But what My Saviour said, so say I too.
Forgive them, Lord, they know not what they do.
No burial but the burial of an Asse:
Methinks a word were sweet in such a place,
Where Death even looks the People in the face.
14
Would of an ATHEIST turn a PROSELITE.
Nay, very Dreams do sometimes men convert,
The Phansie turning Preacher to the Heart.
When could your words pierce deeper, than imprest
VVhen Fear and Sorrow have possest the breast?
Dumb Dogs that from the House of Mourning sneak
Leaving the more relenting stones to speak.
Strange kind of Brethren! neither will give bread
To those that live, nor bury those are dead.
But what My Saviour said, so say I too.
Forgive them, Lord, they know not what they do.
But ye may see, if on your Schisms ye look,
You dearly want our Divine Service-Book.
In which is wrapt up such a Form of Prayer.
As (next Christs Pattern) does transcend compare,
Nothing being in't but of approved worth,
Nothing but what the Sacred Text holds forth,
Even in its phrase and method signifi'd
In terms express, or at the least imply'd.
It pass'd the persecution, 'twere a story
Too dire and dismal for your DIRECTORY.
This they have left us for the CHURCHES good,
Seal'd and deliver'd with their own hearts blood:
A Heavenly Legacy; By my consent
It shall be call'd, The Bishops TESTAMEMT.
VVhich you that slight, were you your turns to take
Ye would be brought (I doubt) as Bears to th' stake.
VVhilst for your IDOL none a Faggot kiss:
Bishops have bled, Bishops have broyl'd for this.
You dearly want our Divine Service-Book.
In which is wrapt up such a Form of Prayer.
As (next Christs Pattern) does transcend compare,
Nothing being in't but of approved worth,
Nothing but what the Sacred Text holds forth,
Even in its phrase and method signifi'd
In terms express, or at the least imply'd.
It pass'd the persecution, 'twere a story
Too dire and dismal for your DIRECTORY.
This they have left us for the CHURCHES good,
Seal'd and deliver'd with their own hearts blood:
A Heavenly Legacy; By my consent
It shall be call'd, The Bishops TESTAMEMT.
VVhich you that slight, were you your turns to take
Ye would be brought (I doubt) as Bears to th' stake.
15
Bishops have bled, Bishops have broyl'd for this.
But Faction and Ambition were the cause,
And not Religion, Conscience, or the Laws:
The Mitre and the means belonging to't
Was that which set this holy war on foot.
And finding now the Spirits Sword to fail,
The arm of flesh must help it to prevail.
VVhen Rebels draw the Sword upon their KING,
Into the fire they must the Scabberd fling:
No dallying now, down goes the Church's hedge,
To make an open way for SACRILEDGE,
And the Scotch Boar forthwith's invited in
To be partaker of the Prey and Sin:
VVho seeing in what straight our Classicks lay,
Though he scarce patience had to keep away,
But like a Garrison that must resign,
On terms though ne'r so hard, rather than pine;
Or as the Scythians that have never fled
Their Countrey Confines, but for want of bread.
So said these SCOTS, come, up, and let us go,
There's Corn in Ægypt, yea, and Flesh-pots too.
But stay awhile, the Jewes must Sampson bind,
Or we have Castles in the Air design'd.
They must take Strafford off, whose single worth
Does weigh down all the Vertue of the North,
Thus Wentworth dy'd, whose Innocence was such,
That all the Law in England could not touch.
Thus fell the Churches Champion, hurry'd hence
To leave the Temple void of a defence.
And not Religion, Conscience, or the Laws:
The Mitre and the means belonging to't
Was that which set this holy war on foot.
And finding now the Spirits Sword to fail,
The arm of flesh must help it to prevail.
VVhen Rebels draw the Sword upon their KING,
Into the fire they must the Scabberd fling:
No dallying now, down goes the Church's hedge,
To make an open way for SACRILEDGE,
And the Scotch Boar forthwith's invited in
To be partaker of the Prey and Sin:
VVho seeing in what straight our Classicks lay,
Though he scarce patience had to keep away,
But like a Garrison that must resign,
On terms though ne'r so hard, rather than pine;
Or as the Scythians that have never fled
Their Countrey Confines, but for want of bread.
So said these SCOTS, come, up, and let us go,
There's Corn in Ægypt, yea, and Flesh-pots too.
But stay awhile, the Jewes must Sampson bind,
Or we have Castles in the Air design'd.
They must take Strafford off, whose single worth
Does weigh down all the Vertue of the North,
Thus Wentworth dy'd, whose Innocence was such,
That all the Law in England could not touch.
16
To leave the Temple void of a defence.
Nor is this scum yet to assistance drawn,
Till they to them their Souls in Cov'nant pawn.
Hinc illæ lachrymæ, Hence these Traytors bring
The Land infected with the cursed thing.
This long time Loyal, Learned Church must bow
To the Scotch Kirk, she is her Mistris now.
The Copy's set, and ENGLAND it appears
Must follow't though in bloudy Characters.
Now comes the Army, which, did you but see,
You'd swear it were a Goal-deliverie.
First came the Pedlar Lashley with his pack,
Not of smal wares, but Oatmeal at his back;
Next came the Horse, which so beheltred were,
A man would think them going to a Fair.
The Trumpet sounded boote-sele long,
But Deil a boot or Saddle in the throng,
Except some Jockie, galled with a botch,
Got a blew Cap to gratifie his notch.
I wonder they ne'r in the stirrop hung,
For either foot was with a halter strung;
By which it doth evidently appear,
They came to do much execution here.
Their boots were wisps they on their Legs did draw,
Who then can say, they were not worth a straw?
Thus on their Galloways while the Army jogs,
Ye'd swear their muckle Horse were Mastiff Dogs.
On whose keen backs they did their bums endorse,
As men condemn'd to ride the wooden horse.
Till they to them their Souls in Cov'nant pawn.
Hinc illæ lachrymæ, Hence these Traytors bring
The Land infected with the cursed thing.
This long time Loyal, Learned Church must bow
To the Scotch Kirk, she is her Mistris now.
The Copy's set, and ENGLAND it appears
Must follow't though in bloudy Characters.
Now comes the Army, which, did you but see,
You'd swear it were a Goal-deliverie.
First came the Pedlar Lashley with his pack,
Not of smal wares, but Oatmeal at his back;
Next came the Horse, which so beheltred were,
A man would think them going to a Fair.
The Trumpet sounded boote-sele long,
But Deil a boot or Saddle in the throng,
Except some Jockie, galled with a botch,
Got a blew Cap to gratifie his notch.
I wonder they ne'r in the stirrop hung,
For either foot was with a halter strung;
By which it doth evidently appear,
They came to do much execution here.
Their boots were wisps they on their Legs did draw,
Who then can say, they were not worth a straw?
Thus on their Galloways while the Army jogs,
Ye'd swear their muckle Horse were Mastiff Dogs.
17
As men condemn'd to ride the wooden horse.
The Foot march'd in such haste, as I suppose,
Many a leg there was out-ran his hose.
Their clothes so tatter'd were, one would have swore
That they had been in fight the day before;
For every Suite so scollop'd was with rags,
Like Dung-hill-Rakers that had rob'd their bags.
O, had the Army stood a little still,
What work had there been for a Paper-mill!
But that in those so antiquated Cuts
The 'Squiers of the body had their Huts;
Of all the Shirts upon their backs, was found
Scarce so much Lint would dress a single wound.
I might march on, but here's enough of these:
Volumns must speak their Bags and Baggages.
Many a leg there was out-ran his hose.
Their clothes so tatter'd were, one would have swore
That they had been in fight the day before;
For every Suite so scollop'd was with rags,
Like Dung-hill-Rakers that had rob'd their bags.
O, had the Army stood a little still,
What work had there been for a Paper-mill!
But that in those so antiquated Cuts
The 'Squiers of the body had their Huts;
Of all the Shirts upon their backs, was found
Scarce so much Lint would dress a single wound.
I might march on, but here's enough of these:
Volumns must speak their Bags and Baggages.
Now Presbyterians view your proper studds,
These are the Saints ye fetcht for all our Goods,
And because those were not enough, they sold
Their Sovereign Lord and Master too for Gold.
See now your Images, your golden Calves,
With price and pray'r procur'd in your behalves:
And by vast sums it plainly does appear,
That (truly) these have been your brethren dear.
And certainly you here the Jewes out-do,
To give your ear-rings, and your Lop-ears too;
Nay, such a false, such an impost'rous Crew
Are yet to learn the way of meaning true.
And have a form of fallacy in KIRK,
Mecha would not accept it for her Turk.
Thus in pretence to bring the Gospel to us,
Ye throng'd in swarms of Locusts to undo us,
Panthers and Tygres, a ravenous race
Of Harpies that forestall the saying Grace.
Harpies? I do correct my hasty pen,
These Miscreants had not the face of men.
These are your friendly friends; indeed these are
Saints, Canoniz'd in Satans Calendar.
Dissention kindled Zealots that desire,
Like Salamanders still to live in fire.
Yet to these Vagrants have ye (as I said)
Your KING, your Country, & your Church betrayd;
This was the Crew wherewith ye England vext:
Doubtless ye mean to bring the Devil next.
These are the Saints ye fetcht for all our Goods,
And because those were not enough, they sold
Their Sovereign Lord and Master too for Gold.
See now your Images, your golden Calves,
With price and pray'r procur'd in your behalves:
And by vast sums it plainly does appear,
That (truly) these have been your brethren dear.
And certainly you here the Jewes out-do,
To give your ear-rings, and your Lop-ears too;
Nay, such a false, such an impost'rous Crew
Are yet to learn the way of meaning true.
18
Mecha would not accept it for her Turk.
Thus in pretence to bring the Gospel to us,
Ye throng'd in swarms of Locusts to undo us,
Panthers and Tygres, a ravenous race
Of Harpies that forestall the saying Grace.
Harpies? I do correct my hasty pen,
These Miscreants had not the face of men.
These are your friendly friends; indeed these are
Saints, Canoniz'd in Satans Calendar.
Dissention kindled Zealots that desire,
Like Salamanders still to live in fire.
Yet to these Vagrants have ye (as I said)
Your KING, your Country, & your Church betrayd;
This was the Crew wherewith ye England vext:
Doubtless ye mean to bring the Devil next.
But wicked Wagg'ners, see what ye have done,
Aspiring to the Charriot of the Sun;
Like busie Flyes ye at the Candle aim,
And scorch your selves to Cinders in the flame.
Was it for this ye waded through a floud
Of Widdows tears, and a red Sea of bloud?
When to your selves ye did propound whole Realms
An INDEPENDENT all the plot o'rwhelms.
And on the tropick of your trophies stands,
Murd'ring your KING when you had bound his hands
You that Malignant call'd the Cavallier:
Who is Malignant now? JACK PRESBYTER.
What have ye gotten, you and your Scotch Lyon,
That built up Babel, and demolisht Sion?
This Up-start Viper all the wealth does share,
By you begotten on the womb of war.
Thus they whose hopes had made them more than proud,
For their so long'd for Juno grasp'd a cloud;
Nor is there Law more right, more just, more due,
Than Plunder-Masters should be plunder'd too.
Now they have left off action in this Nation,
And are turn'd wholly into Contemplation,
Which contradicts the Academick Art,
Where Theory succeeds the practick part.
Platonick Presbyters, how do their Fancies range
For sights ith' air, and prodigies more strange
Than true! That Monster in the News books read,
Of which the Parson brought the Wife to bed.
This is a Fable, and was got ('tis plain)
As Jove once got Minerva, of his brain.
But if ye could not Treason, once a foot,
Drive on with Arms, Bug-bears shall never do't.
A rout of holy Hell-hounds that have wrought
Treason that others never durst have thought,
For aggravation of whose punishment,
God has not thought ye worthy to repent.
As if it were a sin that (while ye live)
Heav'n never had intention to forgive.
Or sure so mild, so mercifull a PRINCE
Might of your stubborness your hearts convince.
But they (and often so it comes to pass)
Whose hands were Iron, have their faces brass.
Guilt feeds the fire whose inward burning throws
This cloud of smoak upon your duskie brows,
And brands ye with Cain's mark, where e'r ye go
Any man may a PRESBYTERIAN know.
And without judging doubtless men may say't,
It is a Prologue to your future fate,
Who thus forestall the Office of the Shrieve,
And hang your selves in spite of a reprieve.
Aspiring to the Charriot of the Sun;
Like busie Flyes ye at the Candle aim,
And scorch your selves to Cinders in the flame.
Was it for this ye waded through a floud
Of Widdows tears, and a red Sea of bloud?
When to your selves ye did propound whole Realms
An INDEPENDENT all the plot o'rwhelms.
And on the tropick of your trophies stands,
Murd'ring your KING when you had bound his hands
You that Malignant call'd the Cavallier:
Who is Malignant now? JACK PRESBYTER.
19
That built up Babel, and demolisht Sion?
This Up-start Viper all the wealth does share,
By you begotten on the womb of war.
Thus they whose hopes had made them more than proud,
For their so long'd for Juno grasp'd a cloud;
Nor is there Law more right, more just, more due,
Than Plunder-Masters should be plunder'd too.
Now they have left off action in this Nation,
And are turn'd wholly into Contemplation,
Which contradicts the Academick Art,
Where Theory succeeds the practick part.
Platonick Presbyters, how do their Fancies range
For sights ith' air, and prodigies more strange
Than true! That Monster in the News books read,
Of which the Parson brought the Wife to bed.
This is a Fable, and was got ('tis plain)
As Jove once got Minerva, of his brain.
But if ye could not Treason, once a foot,
Drive on with Arms, Bug-bears shall never do't.
A rout of holy Hell-hounds that have wrought
Treason that others never durst have thought,
For aggravation of whose punishment,
God has not thought ye worthy to repent.
As if it were a sin that (while ye live)
Heav'n never had intention to forgive.
Or sure so mild, so mercifull a PRINCE
Might of your stubborness your hearts convince.
20
Whose hands were Iron, have their faces brass.
Guilt feeds the fire whose inward burning throws
This cloud of smoak upon your duskie brows,
And brands ye with Cain's mark, where e'r ye go
Any man may a PRESBYTERIAN know.
And without judging doubtless men may say't,
It is a Prologue to your future fate,
Who thus forestall the Office of the Shrieve,
And hang your selves in spite of a reprieve.
21
THE EXECUTION OF THE COVENANT,
Burnt by the Common Hang-man Ed. Dun, Presbyter, May 22. 1661.
The news I pray! what doth this Throng infer?Do ye not know? DUN is turn'd Presbyter.
Well then! I see the Bretheren in spite
Of BISHOPS, have obtain'd a PROSELITE;
One that will soon be on the Rigid Score,
And be a cause of turning many more.
Make him an ELDER then! Indeed ye shall;
For he is one that may Advance you all.
That he is now a BROTHER you must grant,
For I did see him take the COVENANT.
Take it indeed; yet you must understand,
'Twas but to give't the honour of his Hand:
22
And strait commits it to the Fun'ral pile.
In which he shew'd himself a CHRISTIAN right,
To let the works of darkness come to light.
Bark then PHANATICKS, who, like Demophon,
Glow in the shade, and freeze still in the Sun.
Howl Millenaries, Independents too,
And Anabaptists that Heretick Crew
Of Presbyterian By-blows; If these flashes
Be sacred to you, come and Urn the Ashes:
For we esteem the Reliques of these Sheets
Too dirty and debaucht to pave our streets.
This Mouth-Granado from that Scotch Witch came
To set three glorious Kingdoms in a flame.
A Covenant? No, 'twas a Conspiracy,
Plotted by Brethren in Iniquity.
Treason, to which the acts of Catiline,
Sylla and Marius were deem'd Divine.
Bold Assassins that durst attempt all ill,
And Hollocaust whole Kingdoms to Self-will.
Mend, mend for shame, your Brother else will look,
To hang the Authors as he burnt the Book:
But he presumes, or hopes ye'l rather turn,
Than follow your black Juncto to the Urn.
While I thus thinking am, who would desire
(Were it to roast a RUMP) a fitter fire?
In which it now hath pleas'd the Fates to grant
The Dissolution of the COVENANT.
FINIS.
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