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

The Works of Mr. John Oldham

Together with his Remains

Oldham, John (1653-1683)

[Book I.]

SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS:

II.

[Book II.]

III.

[Book III.]

REMAINS OF Mr. John Oldham IN VERSE and PROSE.

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[Book I.]

SATYRS UPON THE JESUITS:

Written in the Year 1679.

And some other PIECES By the same HAND.

[_]

The Third Edition Corrected.

PROLOGUE.

For who can longer hold? when every Press,
The Bar and Pulpit too has broke the Peace?
When every scribling Fool at the alarms
Has drawn his Pen, and rises up in Arms?
And not a dull Pretender of the Town,
But vents his gall in Pamphlet up and down?
When all with licence rail, and who will not,
Must be almost suspected of the PLOT,
And bring his Zeal, or else his Parts in doubt?

In vain our Preaching Tribe attack the Foes,
In vain their weak Artillery oppose:
Mistaken honest men, who gravely blame,
And hope that gentle Doctrine should reclaim.
Are Texts, and such exploded trifles fit
T'impose, and sham upon a Jesuit?
Would they the dull Old Fisher-men compare
With mighty Suarez, and great Escobar?
Such thred-bare proofs, and stale Authorities
May Us poor simple Hereticks suffice:
But to a sear'd Ignatian's Conscience,
Harden'd, as his own Face, with Impudence,
Whose Faith in contradiction bore, whom Lies,
Nor non-sense, nor Impossibilities,
Nor shame, nor death, nor damning can assail:
Not these mild fruitless methods will avail.

'Tis pointed Satyr, and the sharps of Wit
For such a prize are th' only Weapons fit:
Nor needs there Art, or Genius here to use,
Where Indignation can create a muse:

Should Parts, and Nature fail, yet very spite
Would make the arrant'st Wild, or Withers write.

It is resolv'd: henceforth an endless War,
I and my Muse with them, and theirs declare;
Whom neither open Malice of the Foes,
Nor private Daggers, nor St. Omer's Dose,
Nor all, that Godfrey felt, or Monarchs fear,
Shall from my vow'd, and sworn revenge deter.

Sooner shall false Court Favourites prove just;
And faithful to their Kings, and Countrys trust:
Sooner shall they detect the tricks of State,
And knav'ry, suits, and bribes, and flatt'ry hate:
Bawds shall turn Nuns, Salt D---s grow chast,
And Paint, and Pride, and Lechery detest:
Popes shall for Kings Supremacy decide,
And Cardinals for Huguenots be try'd:
Sooner (which is the great'st impossible)
Shall the vile Brood of Loyola, and Hell
Give o're to Plot, be Villains, and Rebel;

Than I with utmost spite, and vengeance cease
To prosecute, and plague their cursed race.

The rage of Poets damn'd, of Womens Pride
Contemn'd, and scorn'd, or proffer'd lust denied:
The malice of Religious angry Zeal,
And all, cashier'd resenting Statesmen feel:
What prompts dire Hags in their own blood to write
And sell their very souls to Hell for spite:
All this urge on my rank envenom'd spleen,
And with keen Satyr edg my stabbing Pen:
That its each home-set thrust their blood may draw,
Each drop of Ink like Aquafortis gnaw.

Red hot with vengeance thus, I'll brand disgrace
So deep, no time shall e're the marks deface:
Till my severe, and exemplary doom
Spread wider than their guilt, till it become
More dreaded than the Bor, and frighten worse
Than damning Pope's Anathema's, and curse.

SATYR I.

Garnet's Ghost addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Cabal just after the Murder of Godfrey.

By Hell 'twas bravely done! what less than this?
What Sacrifice of meaner worth, and price
Could we have offer'd up for our success?
So fare all they, who e're provoke our hate,
Who by like ways presume to tempt their fate;
Fare each like this bold medling Fool, and be
As well secur'd, as well dispatch'd as he:
Would he were here, yet warm, that we might drain
His reaking gore, and drink up ev'ry vein!
That were a glorious sanction, much like thine.
Great Roman! made upon a like design:

Like thine; we scorn so mean a Sacrament,
To seal, and consecrate our high intent,
We scorn base Blood should our great League cement:
Thou didst it with a slave, but we think good
To bind our Treason with a bleeding God.

Would it were His (why should I fear to name,
Or you to hear't?) at which we nobly aim!
Lives yet that hated en'my of our Cause?
Lives He our mighty projects to oppose?
Can His weak innocence, and Heaven's care
Be thought security from what we dare?
Are you then Jesuits? are you so for nought?
In all the Catholick depths of Treason taught?
In orthodox, and solid pois'ning read?
In each profounder art of killing bred?
And can you fail, or bungle in your trade?
Shall one poor life your cowardize upbraid?
Tame dastard slaves! who your profession shame,
And fix disgrace on our great Founder's name.

Think what late Sect'ries (an ignoble crew,
Not worthy to be rank'd in sin with you)
Inspir'd with lofty wickedness, durst do:
How from his Throne they hurl'd a Monarch down,
Aud doubly eas'd him of both Life, and Crown:
They scorn'd in covert their bold act to hide,
In open face of Heav'n the work they did,
And brav'd its vengeance, and its pow'rs defi'd.
This is his Son, and mortal too like him,
Durst you usurp the glory of the crime;
And dare ye not? I know, you scorn to be
By such as they, out-done in villany,
Your proper province; true, you urg'd them on,
Were engins in the fact, but they alone
Share all the open credit, and renown.

But hold! I wrong our Church, and Cause, which need
No forein instance, nor what others did:
Think on that matchless Assassin, whose name
We with just pride can make our happy claim;

He, who at killing of an Emperor,
To give his poison stronger force, and pow'r
Mixt a God with't, and made it work more sure:
Blest memory! which shall through Age to come
Stand sacred in the Lists of Hell, and Rome.

Let our great Clement, and Ravillac's name,
Your Spirits to like heights of sin inflame;
Those mighty Souls, who bravely chose to die
T'have each a Royal Ghost their company.
Heroick Act! and worth their tortures well,
Well worth the suff'ring of a double Hell,
That, they felt here, and that below, they feel.

And if these cannot move you, as they shou'd,
Let me, and my example fire your blood:
Think on my vast attempt, a glorious deed,
Which durst the Fates have suffer'd to succeed,
Had rival'd Hells most proud exploit, and boast,
Ev'n that, which wou'd the King of Fates depos'd,
Curst be the day, and ne're in time inrol'd,
And curst the Star, whose spiteful influence rul'd
The luckless Minute, which my project spoil'd:

Curse on that Pow'r, who, of himself afraid,
My glory with my brave design betray'd:
Justly he fear'd, lest I, who strook so high
In guilt, should next blow up his Realm, and Sky:
And so I had; at least I would have durst,
And failing, had got off with Fame at worst.

Had you but half my bravery in Sin,
Your work had never thus unfinish'd bin:
Had I bin Man, and the great Act to do;
H'ad dy'd by this, and bin what I am now,
Or what His Father is: I would leap Hell
To reach His Life, tho in the midst I fell,
And deeper than before.—
Let rabble Souls, of narrow aim, and reach,
Stoop their vile Necks, and dull Obedience preach:
Let them with slavish aw (disdain'd by me)
Adore the purple Rag of Majesty,
And think't a sacred Relick of the Sky:
Well may such Fools a base Subjection own,
Vassals to every Ass, that loads a Throne:

Unlike the soul, with which proud I was born,
Who could that sneaking thing a Monarch scorn,
Spurn off a Crown, and set my foot in sport
Upon the head, that wore it, trod in dirt.

But say, what is't that binds your hands? do's fear
From such a glorious action you deter?
Or is't Religion? but you sure disclaim
That frivolous pretence, that empty name:
Meer bugbear word, devis'd by Us to scare
The sensless rout to slavishness, and fear,
Ne're know to aw the brave, and those, that dare.
Such weak, and feeble things may serve for checks
To rein, and curb base-mettled Hereticks;
Dull creatures, whose nice bogling consciences
Startle, or strain at such slight crimes as these;
Such, whom fond inbred honesty befools,
Or that old musty piece the Bible gulls:
That hated Book, the bulwark of our foes,
Whereby they still uphold their tott'ring cause.

Let no such toys mislead you from the road
Of glory, nor infect your Souls with good:
Let never bold incroaching Virtue dare
With her grim holy face to enter there,
No, not in very Dream: have only will
Like Fiends, and Me to covet, and act ill:
Let true substantial wickedness take place;
Usurp, and Reign; let it the very trace
(If any yet be left) of good deface.
If ever qualms of inward cowardice
(The things, which some dull sots call conscience) rise,
Let them in streams of Blood, and slaughter drown,
Or with new weights of guilt still press 'em down.
Shame, Faith, Religion, Honor, Loyalty,
Nature it self, whatever checks there be
To loose, and uncontrol'd impiety,
Be all extinct in you; own no remorse
But that you've balk'd a sin, have been no worse,
Or too much pity shewn.—

Be diligent in Mischiefs Trade, be each
Performing as a Dev'l; nor stick to reach
At Crimes most dangerous; where bold despair,
Mad lust, and heedless blind revenge would ne're
Ev'n look, march you without a blush, or fear,
Inflam'd by all the hazards, that oppose,
And firm, as burning Martyrs, to your Cause.

Then you're true Jesuits, then you're fit to be
Disciples of great Loyola, and Me:
Worthy to undertake, worthy a Plot,
Like this, and fit to scourge an Huguenot.

Plagues on that Name! may swift confusion seize,
And utterly blot out the cursed Race:
Thrice damn'd be that Apostate Monk, from whom
Sprung first these Enemies of Us, and Rome:
Whose pois'nous Filth, dropt from ingend'ring Brain,
By monstrous Birth did the vile Insects, spawn,
Which now infest each Country, and defile
With their o'respreading swarms this goodly Ile,

Once it was ours, and subject to our Yoke,
Till a late reigning Witch th' Enchantment broke:
It shall again: Hell and I say't: have ye
But courage to make good the Prophesie:
Not Fate it self shall hinder.—

Too sparing was the time, too mild the day,
When our great Mary bore the English sway?
Unqueen-like pity marr'd her Royal Pow'r,
Nor was her Purple dy'd enough in Gore.

Four, or five hundred, such like petty sum
Might fall perhaps a Sacrifice to Rome,
Scarce worth the naming: had I had the Pow'r,
Or been thought fit t'have been her Counsellor,
She shou'd have rais'd it to a nobler score.
Big Bonfires should have blaz'd, and shone each day,
To tell our Triumphs, and make bright our way:
And when 'twas dark, in every Lane, and Street
Thick flaming Hereticks should serve to light
And save the needless Charge of Links by night:

Smithfield should still have kept a constant fire,
Which never should be quench'd, never expire,
But with the lives of all the miscreant rout,
Till the last gasping breath had blown it out.

So Nero did, such was the prudent course
Taken by all his mighty Successors,
To tame like Hereticks of old by force:
They scorn'd dull reason, and pedantick rules
To conquer, and reduce the harden'd Fools:
Racks, Gibbets, Halters were their arguments,
Which did most undeniably convince:
Grave bearded Lions manag'd the dispute,
And reverend Bears their Doctrines did confute:
And all, who would stand out in stiff defence,
They gently claw'd, and worried into sense:
Better than all our Sorbon dotards now,
Who would by dint of words our Foes subdue.
This was the rigid Discipline of old,
Which modern sots for Persecution hold:

Of which dull Annalists in story tell
Strange Legends, and huge bulky Volumes swell
With Martyr'd Fools, that lost their way to Hell.

From these, our Church's glorious Ancestors,
We've learnt our arts, and made their Methods ours:
Nor have we come behind, the least degree,
In acts of rough and manly cruelty:
Converting Faggots, and the pow'rful stake,
And Sword resistless our Apostles make.

This heretofore Bohemia felt, and thus
Were all the num'rous Proselytes of Huss
Crush'd with their head: So Waldo's cursed rout,
And those of Wickliff here were rooted out,
Their names scarce left.—Sure were the means, we chose,
And wrought prevailingly: Fire purg'd the dross
Of those foul Heresies, and sovereign Steel
Lopt off th' infected Limbs the Church to heal.

Renown'd was that French Brave, renown'd his deed,
A deed, for which the day deserves its red
Far more than for a paltry Saint, that died:

How goodly was the Sight! how fine the Show
When Paris saw through all its Channels flow
The blood of Huguenots; when the full Sein,
Swell'd with the flood, its Banks with joy o're-ran!
He scorn'd like common Murderers to deal
By parcels, and piecemeal; he scorn'd Retail
I'th' Trace of Death: whole Myriads died by th' great,
Soon as one single life; so quick their Fate,
Their very Pray'rs, and Wishes came too late.

This a King did: and great, and mighty 'twas.
Worthy his high Degree, and Pow'r, and Place,
And worthy our Religion, and our Cause:
Unmatch'd 'thad been, had not Mac-quire arose,
The bold Mac-quire (who, read in modern Fame,
Can be a Stranger to his Worth, and Name?)
Born to out-sin a Monarch, born to Reign
In Guilt, and all Competitors disdain:
Dread memory! whose each mention still can make
Pale Hereticks with trembling Horror quake.

T'undo a Kingdom, to atchieve a crime
Like his; who would not fall and die like him?
Never had Rome a nobler service done,
Never had Hell; each day came thronging down
Vast shoals of Ghosts, and mine was pleas'd, & glad,
And smil'd, when it the brave revenge survey'd.

Nor do I mention these great Instances
For bounds, and limits to your wickedness:
Dare you beyond, something out of the road
Of all example, where none yet have trod,
Nor shall hereafter: what mad Catiline
Durst never think, nor's madder Poet feign.
Make the poor baffled Pagan Fool confess,
How much a Christian Crime can conquer his:
How far in gallant mischief overcome,
The old must yield to new, and modern Rome.
Mix Ills past, present, future, in one act;
One high, one brave, one great, one glorious Fact,
Which Hell, and very I may envy—
Such as a God himself might wish to be

A Complice in the mighty villany
And barter's Heaven, and vouchsafe to die.

Nor let Delay (the bane of Enterprize)
Marr yours, or make the great importance miss.
This fact has wak'd your Enemies, and their fear;
Let it your vigour too, your haste, and care.
Be swift, and let your deeds forestall intent,
Forestall ev'n wishes, e're they can take vent,
Nor give the Fates the leisure to prevent.
Let the full Clouds, which a long time did wrap
Your gath'ring thunder, now with sudden clap
Break out upon your Foes; dash, and confound,
And spread avoidless ruin all around.

Let the fir'd City to your Plot give light;
You raz'd it half before, now raze it quite.
Do't more effectually; I'd see it glow
In flames unquenchable as those below.
I'd see the Miscreants with their houses burn,
And all together into ashes turn.

Bend next your fury to the curst Divan;
That damn'd Committee, whom the Fates ordain
Of all our well-laid Plots to be the bane.
Unkennel those State Foxes, where they lie
Working your speedy fate, and destiny.
Lug by the ears the doting Prelates thence,
Dash Heresie together with their Brains
Out of their shatter'd heads. Lop off the Lords
And Commons at one stroke, and let your Swords
Adjourn 'em all to th' other World—

Would I were blest with flesh and blood again,
But to be Actor in that happy Scene!
Yet thus I will be by, and glut my view,
Revenge shall take its fill, in state I'll go
With captive Ghosts t'attend me down below.

Let these the Handsells of your vengeance be,
But stop not here, nor flag in cruelty.
Kill like a Plague, or Inquisition; spare
No Age, Degree, or Sex; only to wear
A Soul, only to own a Life, be here

Thought crime enough to lose't: no time, nor place
Be Sanctuary from your outrages.
Spare not in Churches kneeling Priests at pray'r,
Tho interceding for you, slay ev'n there.
Spare not young Infants smiling at the breast,
Who from relenting Fools their mercy wrest:
Rip teeming Wombs, tear out the hated Brood.
From thence, & drown 'em in their Mothers blood.
Pity not Virgins, nor their tender cries,
Tho prostrate at your feet with melting eyes
All drown'd in tears; strike home, as 'twere in lust,
And force their begging hands to guide the thrust.
Ravish at th' Altar, kill when you have done,
Make them your Rapes, and Victims too in one.
Nor let gray hoary hairs protection give
To Age, just crawling on the verge of Life:
Snatch from its leaning hands the weak support,
And with it knock't into the grave with sport;
Brain the poor Cripple with his Crutch, then cry,
You've kindly rid him of his misery.

Seal up your ears to Mercy, lest their words
Should tempt a pity, ram 'em with your Swords
(Their tongues too) down their throats; let 'em not dare
To mutter for their Souls a gasping Pray'r,
But in the utt'rance choak't, and stab it there.
'Twere witty handsom Malice (could you do't)
To make 'em die, and make 'em damn'd to boot.

Make Children by one Fate with Parents die,
Kill ev'n revenge in next Posterity:
So you'll be pester'd with no Orphans cries,
No Childless Mothers curse your Memories.
Make Death, and Desolation swim in blood
Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the flood
But slaughter'd Carcasses; till the whole Isle
Become one tomb, become one fun'ral pile;
Till such vast numbers swell the countless summ,
That the wide Grave, and wider Hell want room.

Great was that Tyrants wish, which should be mine,
Did I not scorn the leavings of a sin;

Freely I would bestow't on England now,
That the whole Nation with one neck might grow.
To be slic'd off, and you to give the blow.
What neither Saxon rage could here inflict,
Nor Danes more savage, nor the barb'rous Pict;
What Spain, nor Eighty Eight could ere devise,
With all its Fleet, and freight of cruelties;
What ne'er Medina wish'd, much less could dare,
And bloodier Alva would with trembling hear;
What may strike out dire Prodigies of old,
And make their mild, and gentler acts untold.
What Heav'ns Judgments, nor the angry Stars,
Foreign Invasions, nor Domestick Wars,
Plague, Fire, nor Famine could effect or do;
All this, and more be dar'd, and done by you.

But why do I with idle talk delay
Your hands, and while they should be acting, stay?
Farewell ------
If I may wast a Pray'r for your success,
Hell be your aid, and your high projects bless!

May that vile Wretch, if any here there be,
That meanly shrinks from brave Iniquity;
If any here feel pity, or remorse,
May he feel all, I've bid you act, and worse!
May he by rage of Foes unpitied fall,
And they tread out his hated Soul to Hell.
May's Name, and Carcase rot, expos'd alike to be
The everlasting mark of grinning Infamy.

SATYR II.

Nay, if our sins are grown so high of late,
That Heav'n no longer can adjourn our fate;
May't please some milder Vengeance to devise,
Plague, Fire, Sword, Dearth, or any thing but this.
Let it rain scalding Showers of Brimstone down,
To burn us, and of old the lustful Town:
Let a new deluge overwhelm agen,
And drown at once our Land, our Lives, our Sin.
Thus gladly we'll compound, all this we'll pay,
To have this worst of Ills remov'd away.
Judgments of other kinds are often sent
In mercy only, not for punishment:
But where these light, they shew a Nation's fate
Is given up, and past for reprobate.

When God his stock of wrath on Egypt spent,
To make a stubborn Land, and King repent,
Sparing the rest, had he this one Plague sent;

For this alone his People had been quit,
And Pharaoh circumcis'd a Proselyte.

Wonder no longer why no Curse, like these,
Was known, or suffer'd in the Primitive days:
They never sinn'd enough to merit it,
'Twas therefore what Heav'ns just pow'r thought fit,
To scourge this latter, and more sinful age
With all the dregs, and squeesings of his rage.

Too dearly is proud Spain with England quit
For all her loss sustein'd in Eighty Eight;
For all the Ills, our Warlike Virgin wrought,
Or Drake, and Rawleigh her great Scourges brought.
Amply was she reveng'd in that one birth,
When Hell for her the Biscain Plague brought forth;
Great Counter-plague! in which unhappy we
Pay back her suff'rings with full usury:
Than whom alone none ever was design'd
T'entail a wider curse on Human kind,
But he, who first begot us, and first sin'd.

Happy the World had been, and happy Thou,
(Less damn'd at least, and less accurst than now)
If early with less guilt in War th' hadst dy'd,
And from ensuing mischiefs Mankind freed.
Or when thou view'dst the Holy Land, and Tomb,
Th' had'st suffer'd there thy brother Traitor's doom.
Curst be the womb, that with the Firebrand teem'd,
Which ever since has the whole Globe inflam'd;
More curst that ill-aim'd Shot, which basely mist,
Which maim'd a limb, but spar'd thy hated breast,
And made th' at once a Cripple, and a Priest.

But why this wish? The Church if so might lack
Champions, good works, and Saints for th' Almanack.
These are the Janizaries of the Cause,
The Life-Guard of the Roman Sultan, chose
To break the force of Huguenots, and Foes.
The Churches Hawkers in Divinity.
Who 'stead of Lace, and Ribbons, Doctrine cry:
Rome's Strowlers, who survey each Continent,
Its trinkets, and commodities to vent.

Export the Gospel, like mere ware, for sale,
And truck't for Indigo, and Cutcheneal.
As the known Factors here, the Brethren, once
Swopt Christ about for Bodkins, Rings, and Spoons.

And shall these great Apostles be contemn'd,
And thus by scoffing Hereticks defam'd?
They, by whose means both Indies now enjoy
The two choice Blessings, Pox and Popery?
Which buried else in ignorance had been,
Nor known the worth of Beads, and Bellarmine?

It pitied holy Mother Church to see
A World so drown'd in gross Idolatry:
It griev'd to see such goodly Nations hold
Bad Errors and unpardonable Gold.
Strange! what a zeal can powerful Coin infuse!
What Charity Pieces of Eight produce!
So you were chosen th' fittest to reclaim
The Pagan World, and give't a Christian Name.
And great was the success; whole Myriads stood
At Font, and were baptis'd in their own blood.

Millions of Souls were hurl'd from hence to burn
Before their time, be damn'd before their turn.

Yet these were in compassion sent to Hell,
The rest reserv'd in spite, and worse to feel,
Compell'd instead of Fiends to worship you,
The more inhumane Devils of the two.
Rare way, and method of Conversion this,
To make your Votaries your Sacrifice!
If to destroy be Reformation thought;
A Plague as well might the good work have wrought.

Now see we why your Founder, weary grown
Would lay his former Trade of Killing down;
He found 'twas dull, he found a Crown would be
A fitter case, and badge of cruelty.
Each sniv'lling Hero Seas of Blood can spill,
When wrongs provoke, and Honour bids him kill.
Each tiny Bully Lives can freely bleed,
When press'd by Wine, or Punk to knock o'th' head:
Give me your through-pac'd Rogue, who scorns to be
Prompted by poor Revenge, or Injury,
But does it of true inbred cruelty:

Your cool, and sober Murderer, who prays,
And stabs at the same time, who one hand has
Stretch'd up to Heav'n, t'other to make the Pass.

So the late Saints of blessed memory,
Cut throats in Godly pure sincerity:
So they with lifted hands, and eyes devout,
Said Grace, and carv'd a slaughter'd Monarch out.

When the first Traitor Cain (too good to be
Thought Patron of this black Fraternity)
His bloody Tragedy of old design'd,
One death alone quench'd his revengeful mind,
Content with but a quarter of Mankind:
Had he been Jesuit, had he but put on
Their savage cruelty; the rest had gone:
His hand had sent old Adam after too,
And forc'd the Godhead to create anew.

And yet 'twere well, were their foul guilt but thought
Bare sin: 'tis something ev'n to own a fault.
But here the boldest flights of wickedness
Are stampt Religion; and for currant pass.

The blackest, ugliest, horrid'st, damned'st deed,
For which Hell flames, the Schools a Title need,
If done for Holy Church; is sanctified.
This consecrates the blessed Work; and Tool,
Nor must we ever after think 'em foul.
To undo Realms, kill Parents, murder Kings,
Are thus but petty trifles, venial things,
Not worth a Confessor; nay, Heav'n shall be
It self invok'd t'abet th' impiety.

Grant, gracious Lord, (Some Reverend Villain prays)
‘That this the bold Assertor of our Cause
‘May with success accomplish that great end,
‘For which he was by thee, and us design'd.
‘Do thou t'his Arm, and Sword thy strength impart,
‘And guide 'em steddy to the Tyrants heart.
‘Grant him for every meritorious thrust
‘Degrees of bliss above among the Just;
‘Where holy Garnet, and S. Guy are plac'd,
‘Whom works, like this, before have thither rais'd.

‘Where they are interceding for us now;
‘For sure they're there. Yes questionless, and so
Good Nero is, and Dioclesian too,
And that great ancient Saint Herostratus,
And the late godly Martyr at Thoulouse.

Dare something worthy Newgate, and the Tow'r.
If you'l be canoniz'd, and Heav'n ensure.
Dull prim'tive Fools of old! who would be good,
Who would by virtue reach the blest abode:
Far other are the ways found out of late,
Which Mortals to that happy place translate:
Rebellion, Treason, Murder, Massacre,
The chief Ingredients now of Saint-ship are,
And Tyburn only stocks the Calendar.

Unhappy Judas, whose ill fate, or chance
Threw him upon gross times of ignorance;
Who knew not how to value, or esteem
The worth, and merit of a glorious crime!
Should his kind Stars have let him acted now;
H'ad dy'd absolv'd, and dy'd a Martyr too.

Hear'st thou, Great God, such daring blasphemy,
And let'st thy patient Thunder still lie by?
Strike, and avenge, lest impious Atheists say,
Chance guides the world, and has usurp'd thy sway;
Lest these proud prosp'rous Villains too confess,
Tou'rt sensless, as they make thy Images.
Thou just, and sacred Pow'r! wilt thou admit
Such Guests should in thy glorious presence sit?
If Heav'n can with such company dispence;
Well did the Indian pray, Might he keep thence!

But this we only feign, all vain, and false,
As their own Legends, Miracles, and Tales;
Either the groundless calumnies of spite,
Or idle rants of Poetry, and Wit.

We wish they were: but you hear Garnet cry,
‘I did it, and would do't again; had I
‘As much of Blood, as many Lives as Rome
‘Has spilt in what the Fools call Martyrdom;
‘As many Souls as Sins; I'd freely stake
‘All them, and more for Mother Church's sake.

For that I'll stride o're Crowns, swim through a Flood,
‘Made up of slaughter'd Monarch's Brains, and Blood.
‘For that no lives of Hereticks I'll spare,
‘But reap 'em down with less remorse, and care
‘Than Tarquin did the Poppy-heads of old,
‘Or we drop Beads, by which our Pray'rs are told.

Bravely resolv'd! and 'twas as bravely dar'd:
But (lo!) the Recompence, and great Reward
The wight is to the Almanack preferr'd.
Rare motives to be damn'd for holy Cause,
A few red Letters, and some painted straws!
Fools! who thus truck with Hell by Mohatra,
And play their Souls against no stakes away.

'Tis strange with what an holy Impudence
The Villain caught, his innocence maintains:
Denies with Oaths the Fact, untill it be
Less guilt to own it than the perjury:
By th' Mass, and blessed Sacraments he swears,
This Mary's Milk, and t'other Mary's Tears,
And the whole muster-roll in Calendars.

Not yet swallow the Falshood? if all this
Won't gain a resty Faith; he will on's knees
Th' Evangelists, and Lady's Psalter kiss.
To vouch the Lye: nay, more, to make it good
Mortgage his Soul upon't, his Heav'n, and God.
Damn'd faithless Hereticks! hard to convince,
Who trust no Verdict but dull obvious Sense.
Unconscionable Courts! who Priests deny
Their Benefit o'th' Clergy, Perjury.
Room for the Martyr'd Saints! behold they come!
With what a noble Scorn they meet their Doom?
Not Knights o'th' Post, nor often Carted Whores
Shew more of Impudence, or less Remorse.

O glorious, and heroick Constancy!
That can forswear upon the Cart, and die
With gasping Souls expiring in a Lye.
None but tame Sheepish Criminals repent,
Who fear the idle Bugbear, Punishment:
Your Gallant Sinner scorns that Cowardice,
The poor regret of having done amiss:
Brave he, to his first Principles still true,

Can face Damnation, Sin with Hell in view:
And bid it take the Soul, he does bequeath,
And blow it thither with his dying breath.

Dare such, as these, profess Religion's Name?
Who, should they own't, and be believ'd, would shame
It's Practice out o'th' World, would Atheists make
Firm in their Creed, and vouch it at the Stake?
Is Heav'n for such, whose Deeds make Hell too good,
Too mild a Penance for their cursed Brood?
For whose unheard-of Crimes, and damned Sake
Fate must below new sorts of Torture make,
Since, when of old it fram'd that place of Doom,
Twas thought no guilt, like this, could thither come

Base recreant Souls! would you have Kings trust you,
Who never yet kept your Allegiance true
To any but Hell's Prince? who with more ease
Can swallow down most solemn Perjuries,
Than a Town Bullie common Oaths, and Lies?
Are the French Harry's Fates so soon forgot?

Our last blest Tudor? or the Powder-Plot?
And those fine Streamers, that adorn'd so long
The Bridge, and Westminster, and yet had hung,
Were they not stoln, and now for Relicks gone?

Think Tories Loyal, or Scotch Covenanters:
Robb'd Tygers gentle; courteous, fasting Bears:
Atheists devout, and thrice-wrack'd Mariners:
Take Goats for Chast, and cloister'd Marmosites:
For plain, and open two-edg'd Parasites:
Believe Bawds modest, and the shameless Stews,
And binding Drunkard Oaths, and Strumpet's Vows:
And when in time these Contradiction meet;
Then hope to find 'em in a Loyolite:
To whom, tho gasping, should I credit give;
I'd think 'twere Sin, and damn'd like unbelief.

Oh for the Swedish Law enacted here!
No Scare-crow frightens like a Priest-Gelder,
Hunt them, as Beavers are, force them to buy
Their Lives with Ransom of their Lechery.
Or let that wholsome Statute be reviv'd,
Which England heretofore from Wolves reliev'd:

Tax every Shire instead of them to bring
Each Year a certain tale of Jesuits in:
And let their mangled Quarters hang the Ile
To scare all future Vermin from the Soil.
Monsters avaunt! may some kind whirlwind sweep
Our Land, and drown these Locusts in the deep:
Hence ye loath'd Objects of our Scorn, and Hate
With all the Curses of an injur'd State:
Go, foul Impostors, to some duller Soil,
Some easier Nation with your Cheats beguile:
Where your gross common Gulleries may pass,
To slur, and top on bubled Consciences:
Where Ignorance, and th' Inquisition Rules,
Where the vile Herd of poor Implicit Fools
Are damn'd contentedly, where they are led
Blindfold to Hell, and thank, and pay their Guide.

Go, where all your black Tribe before are gone,
Follow Chastel, Ravillac, Clement down,
Your Catesby, Faux, and Garnet, thousands more,
And those, who hence have lately rais'd the Score.

Where the Grand Traitor now, and all the Crew
Of his Disciples must receive their Due:
Where Flames, and Tortures of Eternal Date
Must punish you, yet ne're can expiate:
Learn duller Feinds your unknown Cruelties,
Such as no Wit, but yours, could e're devise,
No Guilt, but yours, deserve; make Hell confess
It self out-done, its Devils damn'd for less.

SATYR III.

Loyala's Will.

Long had the fam'd Impostor found Success,
Long seen his damn'd Fraterniti's increase,
In Wealth, and Power, Mischief, and Guile improv'd.
By Popes, and Pope-rid Kings upheld, and lov'd:
Laden with Years, and Sins, and num'rous Scars,
Got some i'th' Field, but most in other Wars,
Now finding Life decay, and Fate draw near,
Grown ripe for Hell, and Roman Calendar,
He thinks it worth his Holy Thoughts, and Care,
Some hidden Rules, and Secrets to Impart,
The Proofs of long Experience and deep Art,
Which to his Successors may useful be
In conduct of their future Villany.
Summon'd together, all th' Officious Band
The Orders of their Bedrid-Chief attend;
Doubtful, what Legacy he will bequeath,
And wait with greedy Ears his dying Breath:

With such quick Duty Vassal Fiends below
To meet commands of their Dread Monarch go.

On Pillow rais'd, he do's their entrance greet,
And joys to see the wish'd Assembly meet:
They in glad Murmurs tell their Joy aloud,
Then a deep silence stills th' expecting Croud,
Like Delphick Hag of old, by Fiend possest,
He swells, wild Frenzy, heaves his panting Brest,
His bristling Hairs stick up, his Eye-Balls glow,
And from his Mouth long strakes of Drivel flow:
Thrice with due Rev'rence he himself doth cross,
Then thus his Hellish Oracles disclose.

Ye firm Associates of my great Design,
Whom the same Vows, and Oaths, and Order joyn,
The faithful Band, whom I, and Rome have chose,
The last Support of our declining Cause:
Whose Conqu'ring Troops I with Success have led
'Gainst all Opposers of our Church, and Head;
Who e're to the mad German owe their Rise,
Geneva's Rebels, or the hot-brain'd Swiss;

Revolted Hereticks, who late have broke
And durst throw off the long-worn Sacred Yoke:
You, by whose happy Influence Rome can boast
A greater Empire, than by Luther lost:
By whom wide Nature's far-stretch'd Limits now,
And utmost Indies to its Crosier Bow:

Go on, ye mighty Champions of our Cause,
Maintain our Party, and subdue our Foes:
Kill Heresie, that rank, and pois'nous Weed,
Which threatens now the Church to overspread:
Fire Calvin, and his Nest of Upstarts out,
Who tread our Sacred Mitre under Foot;
Stray'd Germany reduce; let it no more
Th' Incestuous Monk of Wittemberg adore:
Make stubborn Engl. once more stoop its Crown,
And Fealty to our Priestly Sovereign own:
Regain our Church's Rights, the Island clear
From all remaining Dregs of Wickliff there.
Plot, Enterprize, contrive, endeavour: spare
No toil, nor Pains: no Death, nor Danger fear:

Restless your Aims pursue: let no defeat
Your sprightly Courage, and Attempts rebate,
But urge to fresh, and bolder, ne're to end
Till the whole World to our great Caliph bend:
Till he thro' every Nation every where
Bear Sway, and Reign as absolute, as here:
Till Rome without controul, and Contest be
The Universal Ghostly Monarchy.

Oh! that kind Heaven a longer Thread would give,
And let me to that happy Juncture live:
But 'tis decreed!—at this he paus'd, and wept,
The rest alike time with his Sorrow kept:
Then thus continued he—Since unjust Fate
Envies my Race of Glory longer date;
Yet, as a wounded General, e're he dies,
To his sad Troops, sighs out his last Advice,
(Who, tho they must his fatal Absence moan,
By those great Lessons conquer, when he's gone)
So I to you my last Instructions give,
And breath out Counsel with my parting Life:

Let each to my important words give Ear,
Worth your attention, and my dying Care.

First, and the chiefest thing by me enjoyn'd.
The Solemn'st tie, that must your Order bind,
Let each without demur, or scruple pay
A strict Obedience to the Roman Sway:
To the unerring Chair all Homage Swear,
Altho a Punk, a Witch, a Fiend sit there:
Who e're is to the Sacred Mitre rear'd,
Believe all Vertues with the place conferr'd:
Think him establish'd there by Heav'n, tho he
Has Altars rob'd for bribes the choice to buy,
Or pawn'd his Soul to Hell for Simony:
Tho he be Atheist, Heathen, Turk, or Jew,
Blasphemer, Sacrilegious, Perjur'd too:
Tho Pander, Bawd, Pimp, Pathick, Buggerer,
What e're old Sodom's Nest of Lechers were:
Tho Tyrant, Traitor, Pois'oner, Parricide,
Magician, Monster, all, that's bad beside:
Fouler than Infamy; the very Lees,
The Sink, the Jakes, the Common-shore of Vice:

Strait count him Holy, Vertuous, Good, Devout,
Chast, Gentle, Meek, a Saint, a God, who not?

Make Fate hang on his Lips, nor Heaven have
Pow'r to Predestinate without his leave:
None be admitted there, but who he please,
Who buys from him the Patent for the Place.
Hold those amongst the highest rank of Saints,
Whom e're he to that Honour shall advance,
Tho here the Refuse of the Jail, and Stews,
Which Hell it self would scarce for lumber chuse:
But count all Reprobate, and Damn'd, and worse,
Whom he, when Gout, or Tissick Rage, shall curse:
Whom he in Anger Excommunicates,
For Friday Meals, and abrogating Sprats:
Or in just Indignation spurns to Hell
For jearing Holy Toe, and Pantofle.

What e're he says, esteem for Holy Writ,
And text Apocryphal, if he think fit:
Let arrant Legends, worst of Tales, and Lies,
Falser than Capgraves, and Voragines,

Than Quixot, Rablais, Amadis de Gaul;
Is sign'd with Sacred Lead, and Fisher's Seal
Be thought Authentick and Canonical.
Again, if he Ordain't in his Decrees,
Let very Gospel for meer Fable pass:
Let Right be wrong, Black White, and Vertue Vice,
No Sun, no Moon, nor no Antipodes:
Forswear your Reason, Conscience, & your Creed,
Your very Sense, and Euclid, if he bid.

Let it be held less heinous, less amiss,
To break all Gods Commands, than one of his:
When his great Missions call, without delay,
Without Reluctance readily Obey,
Nor let your Inmost Wishes dare gainsay:
Should he to Bantam, or Japan command,
Or farthest Bounds of Southern unknown Land,
Farther than Avarice its Vassals drives,
Thro' Rocks, and Dangers, loss of Blood, and Lives;
Like great Xavier's be your Obedience shown,
Outstrip his Courage, Glory, and Renown;

Whom neither yawning Gulphs of deep Despair,
Nor scorching Heats of burning Line could scare:
Whom Seas, nor Storms, nor Wracks could make refrain
From propagating Holy Faith, and Gain.

If he but nod Commissions out to kill,
But becken Lives of Hereticks to spill;
Let th' Inquisition rage, fresh Cruelties
Make the dire Engines groan with tortur'd Cries:
Let Campo Flori every day be strow'd
With the warm Ashes of the Luth'ran Brood:
Repeat again Bohemian Slaughters ore,
And Piedmont Vallies drown with floating Gore:
Swifter than Murdering Angels, when they fly
On Errands of avenging Destiny.
Fiercer than Storms let loose, with eager haste
Lay Cities, Countries, Realms, whole Nature waste.
Sack, Ravish, burn, destroy, slay, massacre,
Till the same Grave their Lives, and Names interr:

These are the Rights to our great Musty due,
The sworn Allegiance of your Sacred Vow:

What else we in our Votaries require,
What other Gift, next follows to enquire.

And first it will our great Advice befit.
What Soldiers to your Lists yon ought admit,
To Natives of the Church, and Faith, like you,
The foremost rank of Choice is justly due:
'Mongst whom the chiefest place assign to those,
Whose Zeal has mostly Signaliz'd the Cause.
But let not Entrance be to them deny'd,
Who ever shall desert the adverse Side:
Omit no Promises of Wealth, or Power,
That may inveigled Hereticks allure:
Those, whom great learning, parts, or wit renowns,
Cajole with hopes of Honours, Scarlet Gowns,
Provincial ships, and Palls, and Triple Crowns.
This must a Rector, that a Provost be,
A third succed to the next Abbacy:
Some Princes Tutors, others Confessors
To Dukes, and Kings, and Queens, and Emperors:
These are strong Arguments, which seldom fail,
Which more than all your weak disputes prevail.

Exclude not those of less desert, decree
To all Revolters your Foundation free:
To all, whom Gaming, Drunkenness, or Lust,
To Need, and Popery shall have reduc'd:
To all, whom slighted Love, Ambition crost,
Hopes often bilk't, and Sought Preferment lost,
Whom Pride, or Discontent, Revenge, or Spite,
Fear, Frenzy, or Despair shall Proselyte:
Those Pow'rful Motives, which the most bring in,
Most Converts to our Church, and Order win.
Reject not those, whom Guilt, and Crimes at home
Have made to us for Sanctuary come:
Let Sinners of each Hue, and Size, and Kind,
Here quick admittance, and safe Refuge find:
Be they from Justice of their Country fled,
With Blood of Murders, Rapes, and Treasons died:
No Varlet, Rogue, or Miscreant refuse,
From Gallies, Jails, or Hell it self broke loose.
By this you shall in Strength, and Numbers grow
And shoals each day to your throng'd Cloisters flow:

So Rome's and Mecca's first great Founders did,
By such wise Methods made their Churches spread.

When shaven Crown, and hallow'd Girdle's Power
Has dub'd him Saint, that Villain was before;
Enter'd, let it his first Endeavour be
To shake off all remains of Modesty,
Dull sneaking Modesty, not more unfit
For needy flatt'ring Poets, when they write,
Or trading Punks, than for a Jesuit:
If any Novice feel at first a blush,
Let Wine, and frequent converse with the Stews
Reform the Fop, and shame it out of Use,
Unteach the puling Folly by degrees,
And train him to a well-bred Shamelesness.
Get that great Gift, and Talent, Impudence,
Accomplish't Mankind's highest Excellence:
'Tis that alone prefers, alone makes great,
Confers alone Wealth, Titles, and Estate:

Gains Place at Court, can make a Fool a Peer,
An Ass a Bishop, can vil'st Blockheads rear
To wear Red Hats, and sit in Porph'ry Chair.
'Tis Learning, Parts, and Skill, and Wit, and Sense,
Worth, Merit, Honour, Vertue, Innocence.

Next for Religion, learn what's fit to take,
How small a Dram do's the just Compond make.
As much as is by the Crafty States-men worn
For Fashion only, or to serve a turn:
To bigot Fools its idle Practice leave,
Think it enough the empty Form to have:
The outward Show is seemly, cheap, and light,
The Substance Cumbersome, of Cost, and Weight:
The Rabble judge by what appears to th' Eye,
None, or but few the Thoughts within Descry.
Make't you an Engine to ambitious Pow'r
To stalk behind, and hit your Mark more sure:
A Cloak to cover well-hid Knavery,
Like it, when us'd, to be with ease thrown by:
A shifting Card, by which your Course to steer,
And taught with every changing Wind to veer.

Let no Nice, Holy, Conscientious Ass
Amongst your better Company find place,
Me, and your Foundation to disgrace:
Let Truth be banisht, ragged Vertue fly,
And poor unprofitable Honesty;
Weak Idols, who their wretched Slaves betray;
To every Rook, and every Knave a Prey:
These lie remote, and wide from Interest,
Farther than Heaven from Hell, or East from West,
Far, as they e're were distant from the breast.

Think not your selves t'Austerities confin'd,
Or those strict Rules, which other Orders bind,
To Capuchins, Carthusians, Cordeliers
Leave Penance, meager abstinence, and Prayers:
In lousie Rags let Begging Fryars lye,
Content on Straw, or Boards to mortifie:
Let them with Sackcloath discipline their Skins,
And scourge them for their madness, and their Sins:
Let pining Anchorets in Grotto's starve,
Who from the Liberties of Nature swerve:

Who make't their chief Religion not to eat,
And place't in nastiness, and want of Meat:
Live you in Luxury, and pamper'd Ease,
As if whole Nature were your Cateress.
Soft be your Beds, as those, which Monarch's Whores
Lye on, or Gouts of Bed-rid Emperors:
Your Wardrobes stor'd with choice of Suits, more dear
Than Cardinals on high Processions wear:
With Dainties load your Boards, whose every Dish
May tempt cloy'd Gluttons, or Vitellius Wish.
Each fit a longing Queen: let richest Wines
With Mirth your Heads inflame, with Lust your Veins:
Such as the Friends of dying Popes would give
For Cordials to prolong their gasping Life.

Ne're let the Nazarene, whose Badg, and Name
You wear, upbraid you with a Conscious Shame:

Leave him his slighted Homilies, and Rules,
To stuff the Squabbles of the wrangling Schools;
Disdain, that he, and the poor angling Tribe,
Should Laws, and Government to you prescribe:
Let none of those good Fools your Patterns make;
Instead of them, the mighty Judas take.
Renown'd Iscariot, fit alone to be
Th' Example of our great Society:
Whose daring Guilt despis'd the common Road,
And scorn'd to stoop at Sin beneath a God.

And now 'tis time I should Instructions give,
What Wiles, and Cheats the Rabble best deceive:
Each Age, and Sex, their diff'rent Passions wear,
To suit with which requires a prudent Care:
Youth is Capricious, Headstrong, Fickle, Vain,
Given to Lawless Pleasure, Age to gain:
Old Wives, in Superstition over-grown,
With Chimny Tales, and Stories best are won:
'Tis no mean Talent rightly to descry,
What several Baits to each you ought apply.

The Credulous, and easie of Belief,
With Miracles, and well-fram'd Lies deceive.
Empty whole Surius, and the Talmud: drain
Saint Francis, and Saint Mahomet's Alcoran:
Sooner shall Popes, and Cardinals want Pride,
Than you a Stock of Lies, and Legends need.

Tell how blest Virgin to come down was seen.
Like Play-House Punk descending in Machine:
How she writ Billets Doux, and Love-Discourse,
Made Assignations, Visits, and Amours:
How Hosts distrest, her Smock for Banner bore,
Which vanquish'd Foes, and murder'd at twelve Score.
Relate how Fish in Conventicles met,
And Mackrel were with Bait of Doctine caught:
How Cattel have Judicious Hearers been,
And Stones pathetically cry'd Amen:
How consecrated Hives with Bells was hung,
And Bees kept Mass, and Holy Anthems Sung:
How Pigs to th' Ros'ry kneel'd, and sheep were taught
To bleat Te Deum, and Magnificat:

How Fly-Flap of Church-Censure Houses rid
Of Insects, which at Curse of Fryer dy'd:
How travelling Saints, well mounted on a Switch,
Ride Journeys thro' the Air, like Lapland Witch:
And ferrying Cowls Religious Pilgrims bore
O're waves with the help of Sail, or Oar.
Nor let Xavier's great Wonders pass conceal'd,
How Storms were by th' Almighty Wafer quell'd;
How zealous Crab the sacred Image bore,
And swam a Cath'lick to the distant Shore
With Shams, like these, the giddy Rout mislead,
Their Folly, and their Superstition feed.

'Twas found a good, and gainful Art of Old
(And much it did our Church's Pow'r uphold)
To feign Hobgoblins, Elves, and walking Sprites,
And Fairies dancing Salenger a Nights:
White-Sheets for Ghosts, and Will-a-wisps have past
For Souls in Purgatory unreleast.
And Crabs in Church-Yard crawl'd in Masquerade,
To cheat the Parish, and have Masses said.

By this our Ancestors in happier Days,
Did store of Credit, and Advantage raise:
But now the Trade is fall'n, decay'd, and dead,
E're since Contagious Knowledg has o're-spread:
With Scorn the grinning Rabble now hear tell
Of Hecla, Patrick's hole, and Mongibel;
Believ'd no more, than Tales of Troy, unless
In Countries drown'd in Ignorance, like this.
Henceforth be wary how such things you feign,
Except it be beyond the Cape, or Line:
Except at Mexico, Brazile, Pegu,
At the Molucco's, Goa, or Pegu,
Or any distant, and Remoter Place,
Where they may currant, and unquestion'd pass:
Where never poching Hereticks resort,
To spring the Lye, and make't their Game, and Sport.

But I forget (what should be mention'd most)
Confession, our chief Priviledg, and Boast:
That Staple ware, which ne're returns in vain,
Ne're balks the Trader of expected Gain.

'Tis this, that spies through Court-intrigues, and brings
Admission to the Cabinets of Kings:
By this we keep proud Monarchs at our Becks,
And make our Foot-stools of their Thrones & Necks:
Give 'em Commands, and if they Disobey;
Betray them to th' Ambitious Heir a Prey:
Hound the Officious Curs on Hereticks,
The Vermin, which the Church infest, and vex:
And when our turn is serv'd, and Business done,
Dispatch 'em for reward, as useless grown:

Nor are these half the Benefits, and Gains,
Which by wise Manag'ry accrue from thence:
By this w'unlock the Miser's hoarded Chests,
And Treasure, though kept close, as States-mens Breasts:
This does rich Widows to our Nets decoy,
Let us their Jointures, and themselves enjoy:
To us the Merchant does his Customs bring,
And pays our Duty, tho he cheats his King:
To us Court-Ministers refund, made great
By Robbery, and Bankrupt of the State:

Ours is the Soldier's Plunder, Padder's Prize,
Gabels on Letch'ry, and the Stew's Excise:
By this our Colledges in Riches shine,
And vy with Becket's, and Loretto's Shrine.

And here I must not grudge a word or two
(My younger Vot'ries) of Advice to you:
To you, whom Beautie's Charms, and gen'rous Fire
Of boiling Youth to sports of Love inspire:
This is your Harvest, here secure, and cheap
You may the Fruits of unbought Pleasure reap:
Riot in free, and uncontroll'd delight,
Where no dull Marriage clogs the Appetite:
Tast every dish of Lust's variety,
Which Popes, and Scarlet Lechers dearly buy,
With Bribes, and Bishopricks, and Simony.
But this I ever to your care commend,
Be wary how you openly offend:
Lest scoffing lewd Buffoons descry our Shame,
And fix disgrace on the great Order's fame.

When the unguarded Maid alone repairs
To ease the burthens of her Sins, and Cares;

When youth in each, and privacy conspire
To kindle wishes, and befriend desire;
If she has practis'd in the Trade before:
(Few else of Proselytes to us brought o're)
Little of Force, or Artifice will need:
To make you in the Victory succeed:
But if some untaught Innocence she be,
Rude, and unknowing in the mystery;
She'll cost more labour to be made comply.
Make her by Pumping understand the sport,
And undermine with secret trains the Fort,
Sometimes as if you'd blame her gaudy dress,
Her Naked Pride, her Jewels, Point, and Lace;
Find opportunity her Breasts to press:
Oft feel her hand, and whisper in her ear,
You find the secret marks of lewdness there:
Sometimes with naughty sence her blushes raise,
And make 'em guilt, she never knew, confess;
‘Thus (may you say) with such a leering smile,
‘So Languishing a look your hearts beguile:

‘Thus with your foot, hand, eye, you tokens speak,
‘These Signs deny, these Assignations make:
‘Thus 'tis you clip, with such a fierce embrace
‘You clasp your Lover to your Breast, and Face:
‘Thus are your hungry lips with Kisses cloy'd,
‘Thus is your hand, & thus your tongue employ'd.

Ply her with talk with this: and, if sh' encline,
To help Devotion, give her Aretine
Instead o'th' Rosary: never despair,
She, that to such discourse will lend an Ear
Tho chaster than cold cloyster'd Nuns she were,
Will soon prove soft, and pliant to your use,
As Strumpets on the Carnaval let loose.
Credit experience; I have tri'd 'em all,
Aud never found th' unerring methods fail:
Not Ovid, tho 'twere his chief Mastery,
Had greater skill in these Intrigues, than I:
Nor Nero's learned Pimp, to whom we owe
What choice Records of Lust are extant now.
This heretofore, when youth, and sprightly Blood
Ran in my Veins, I tasted, and enjoy'd:

Ah those blest days,!—(here the old Lecher smil'd,
With sweet remembrance of past pleasures fill'd)
But they are gone! Wishes alone remain,
And Dreams of Joy, ne're to be felt again:
To abler Youth I now the Practice leave,
To whom this counsel, and advice I give.

But the dear mention of my gayer days
Has made me farther, than I would, digress:
'Tis time we should now in due Place expound,
How guilt is after shrift to be atton'd:
Enjoyn no sow'r Repentance, Tear, and Grief;
Eyes weep no cash, and you no profit give:
Sins, tho of the first rate, must punish'd be,
Not by their own, but th' Actor's Quality:
The Poor, whose Purse cannot the Penance bear,
Let whipping serve, bare feet, and shirts of hair:
The richer Fools to Compostella send,
To me Rome, Monferrat, or the Holy Land:
Pet Pardons, and the Indulgence-Office drain
Their Coffers, and enrich the Pope's with gain:

Make 'em build Churches, Monasteries found
And dear bought Masses for their crimes compound

Let Law, and Gospel, rigid precepts set,
And make the paths to Bliss rugged, and strait:
Teach you a smooth, an easier way to gain
Heav'ns joys, yet sweet, and useful sin retain:
With every frailty, every lust comply,
T'advance your Spiritual Realm, and Monarchy:
Pull up weak Vertue's fence, give scope and space
And Purliens to out-lying Consciences:
Shew that the Needle's eye may stretch, and how
The largest Camel-vices may go thro'.

Teach how the Priest Pluralities may buy,
Yet fear no odious Sin of Simony.
While Thoughts, and Ducats will directed be:
Let Whores adorn his exemplary life,
But no lewd heinous Wife a Scandal give.
Sooth up the Gaudy Atheist, who maintains
No Law, but Sense, and owns no God, but Chance.
Bid Thieves rob on, the Boisterous Ruffian tell,
He may for Hire, Revenge, or Honour kill:

Bid Strumpets persevere, absolve 'em too,
And take their dues in kind for what you do:
Exhort the painful, and industrious Bawd
To Diligence, and Labour in her Trade:
Nor think her innocent Vocation ill,
Whose incomes do's the sacred Treasure fill:
Let Griping Usurers Extortion use,
No Rapine, Falshood, Perjury refuse,
Stick at no Crime, which covetous Popes would scarce
Act to enrich themselves, and Bastard-Heirs:
A small Bequest to th' Church can all atttone,
Wipes off all scores, and Heav'n, and all's their own.
Be these your Doctrins, these the truths, you preach,
But no forbidden Bible come in reach:
Your Cheats, and Artifices to Impeach.
Lest thence Lay-Fools Pernitious knowledge get,
Throw off Obedience, and your Laws forget:
Make 'em believ't a spell, more dreadful far,
Than Bacon, Haly, or Albumazar.
Happy the time, when th' unpretending Crowd
No more, than I, its Language understood!

When the worm-eaten Book, link'd to a chain,
In dust lay mouldring in the Vatican;
Dispis'd, neglected, and forgot, to none,
But poring Rabbies, or the Sorbon known:
Then in full pow'r our Soveraign Prelate sway'd,
By Kings, and all the Rabble World Obey'd:
Here humble Monarch at his feet kneel'd down,
And beg'd the Alms, and Charity of a Crown:
There, when in Solemn State he pleas'd to ride,
Poor Scepter'd Slaves ran Henchboys by his side:
None, tho in thought, his grandeur durst Blaspheme,
Nor in their very sleep a Treason dream.

But since the broaching that mischievous Piece,
Each Alderman a Father Lumbard is:
And every Cit dares impudently know
More than a Council, Pope, and Conclave too.
Hence the late Damned Frier, and all the crew
Of former Crawling Sects their poison drew:
Hence all the Troubles, Plagues, Rebellions breed,
We've felt, or feel, or may hereafter dread:

Wherefore enjoyn, that no Lay-coxcomb dare
About him that unlawful Weapon wear;
But charge him chiefly not to touch at all
The dang'rous Works of that old Lollard, Paul;
That arrant Wickliffist, from whom our Foes
Take all their Batt'ries to attack our Cause;
Would he in his first years had Martyr'd been,
Never Damascus, nor the Vision seen;
Then he our Party was, stout, vigorous,
And fierce in chace of Hereticks, like us:
Till he at length, by th' Enemies seduc'd,
Forsook us, and the hostile side espous'd.

Had not the mighty Julian mist his aims,
These holy Shreds had all consum'd in flames:
But since th' Immortal Lumber still endures,
In spight of all his industry, and ours;
Take care at least it may not come abroad,
To taint with catching Heresie the Crowd:
Let them be still kept low in sence, they'l pay
The more respect, more readily obey.

Pray that kind Heav'n would on their hearts dispense
A bounteous, and abundant Ignorance,
That they may never swerve, nor turn awry
From sound, and Orthodox Stupidity.

But these are obvious things, easie to know,
Common to every Monk, as well as you:
Greater Affairs, and more important wait
To be discuss'd, and call for our debate:
Matters, that depth require, and well befit
Th' Address, and Conduct of a Jesuit.
How Kingdoms are embroil'd, what shakes a Throne,
How the first seeds of Discontent are sown
To spring up in Rebellion; how are set
The secret snares, that circumvent a State:
How bubled Monarchs are at first beguil'd,
Trepann'd, and gull'd, at last depos'd, and kill'd.

When some proud Prince, a Rebel to our Head,
For disbelieving Holy Church's Creed,
And Peter-pence, is Heretick decreed;

And by a solemn, and unquestion'd Pow'r
To Death, and Hell, and You delivr'd o're:
Chuse first some dext'rous Rogue, well tri'd, and known
(Such by Confession your Familiars grown)
Let him by Art, and Nature fitted be
For any great, and gallant Villany,
Practis'd in every Sin, each kind of Vice,
Which deepest Casuists in their searches miss,
Watchful as Jealousie, wary as Fear,
Fiercer than Lust, and bolder than Despair,
But close, as plotting Feinds in Council are.
To him, in firmest Oaths of Silence bound,
The worth, and merit of the Deed propound:
Tell of whole Reams of Pardon, new come o're,
Indies of Gold, and Blessings, endless store:
Choice of Preferments, if he overcome,
And if he fail, undoubted Maryrdom:
And Bills for Sums in Heav'n, to be drawn
On Factors there, and at first sight paid down

With Arts, and Promises, like these, allure,
And make him to your great design secure.

And here to know the sundry ways to kill,
Is worth the Genius of a Machiavel:
Cull Northern Brains, in these deep Arts unbred,
Know nought but to cut Throats, or knock o'th' Head,
No slight of Murder of the subt'lest shape,
Your busie search, and observation scape:
Legerdemain of Killing, that dives in,
And Juggling steals away a Life unseen:
How gawdy Fate may be in Presents sent,
And creep insensibly by Touch, or Scent:
How Ribbands, Gloves, or Saddle-Pomel may
An unperceiv'd, but certain Death convey;
Above the reach of Antidotes, above the Pow'r
Of the fam'd Pontick Mountebank to cure.
What e're is known to quaint Italian spite,
In studied Pois'ning skill'd, and exquisite:
What e're great Borgia, or his Sire could boast,
Which the Expence of half the Conclave cost.

Thus may the business be in secret done,
Nor Authors, nor the Accessaries known,
And the slurr'd guilt with ease on others thrown.
But if ill Fortune should your Plot betray,
And leave you to the rage of Foes a prey;
Let none his Crime by weak confession own,
Nor shame the Church, while he'd himself attone.
Let varnish'd Guile, and feign'd Hypocrisies,
Pretended Holiness, and useful Lies,
Your well-dissembled Villany disguise.
A thousand wily Turns, and Doubles try,
To foil the Scent, and to divert the Cry:
Cog, sham, out face, deny, equivocate,
Into a thousand shapes your selves translate:
Remember what the crafty Spartan taught,
Children with Rattles, Men with Oaths are caught:
Forswear upon the Rack, and if you fall,
Let this great comfort make amends for all,
Those, whom they damn for Rogues, next Age shall see
Made Advocates i'th' Church's Litany.

Who ever with bold Tongue, or Pen shall dare
Against your Arts, and Practices declare;
What Fool shall e're presumptuously oppose,
Your Holy Cheats, and godly Frauds disclose;
Pronounce him Heretick, Firebrand of Hell,
Turk, Jew, Fiend, Miscreant, Pagan, Infidel;
A thousand blacker Names, worse Calumnies,
All, Wit can think, and pregnant Spite devise:
Strike home, gash deep, no Lies, nor Slanders spare;
A Wound, though cur'd, yet leaves behind a Scar.

Those, whom your Wit, and Reason can't decry,
Make scandalous with Loads of Infamy:
Make Luther Monster, by a Fiend begot,
Brought forth with Wings, and Tail, and Cloven Foot:
Make Whoredom, Incest, worst of vice, and shame,
Pollute, and foul his Manners, Life, and Name.
Tell how strange Storms usher'd his fatal end,
And Hell's black Troops did for his Soul contend.

Much more I had to say; but now grown faint,
And strength, and Spirits for the Subject want:

Be these great Mysteries, I here unfold,
Amongst your Order's Institutes enroll'd:
Preserve them sacred, close and unreveal'd;
As ancient Rome her Sybil's Books conceal'd.
Let no bold Heretick with sawcy eye
Into the hidden unseen Archives pry;
Lest the malicious flouting Rascals turn
Our Church to Laughter, Raillery, and Scorn.
Let never Rack, or Torture, Pain, or Fear,
From your firm Breasts th' important Secrets tear.
If any treach'rous Brother of your own
Shall to th' World divulge, & make them known,
Let him by worst of Deaths his Guilt attone.
Should but his Thoughts, or Dreams suspected be,
Let him for safety, and prevention die,
And learn i'th' Grave the Art of Secresie.

But one thing more, and then with joy I go,
Nor as a longer stay of Fate below:

Give me again once more your plighted Faith,
And let each seal it with his dying breath:
As the great Carthaginian heretofore
The bloody reeking Altar touch'd, and swore
Eternal Enmity to th' Roman Pow'r:
Swear you (and let the Fates confirm the same)
An endless Hatred to the Luth'ran Name:
Vow never to admit, or League, or Peace,
Or Truce, or Commerse with the cursed Race:
Now, through all Age, when Time, or Place soe're
Shall give you pow'r, wage an immortal War:
Like Theban Feuds, let yours your selves survive,
And in your very Dust, and Ashes live.
Like mine, be your last Gasp their Curse.—At this
They kneel, and all the Sacred Volumn kiss;
Vowing to send each year an Hecatomb
Of Huguenots, an Off'ring to his Tomb.

In vain he would continue;—Abrupt Death
A Period puts, and stops his impious Breath:

In broken Accents he is scarce allow'd
To faulter out his Blessing on the Crowd,
Amen is eccho'd by Infernal Howl,
And scrambling Spirits seize his parting Soul.

SATYR IV.

S. Ignatius his Image brought in, discovering the Rogueries of the Jesuits, and ridiculous Superstition of the Church of Rome.

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.

ODE.

Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris, & carcere dignum,
Si vis esse aliquis.------
Juven. Sat.

1.

Now Curses on you all! ye vertuous Fools,
Who think to fetter free-born souls,
And tie 'em to dull Morality, and rules.
The Sagarite be damn'd, and all the Crew
Of learned Ideots, who his steps pursue;
And those more silly Proselytes, whom his fond precepts drew.
Oh! had his Ethicks been with their wild Author drown'd,
Or a like Fate with those lost Writings found,

Which that grand Plagiary doom'd to fire,
And made by unjust Flames expire:
They ne're had then seduc'd Mortality,
Ne're lasted to debauch the World with their lewd Pedantry.
But damn'd, and more (if Hell can do't) be that thrice cursed name,
Who e're the Rudiments of Law design'd;
Who e're did the first Model of Religion frame,
And by that double Vassalage enthrall'd Mankind,
By nought before, but their own Pow'r, or Will confin'd:
Now quite abridg'd of all their Primitive Liberty,
And slaves to each capricious Monarch's Tyranny.
More happy Brutes! who the great Rule of Sense observe,
And ne're from their first Charter swerve.
Happy! whose lives are meerly to enjoy,
And feel no stings of Sin, which may their bliss annoy.
Still unconcern'd at Epithets of ill, or good,
Distinctions, unadult'rate Nature never understood.

2.

Hence hated Virtue from our goodly Isle,
No more our joys beguile;
No more with thy loath'd presence plague our happy state,
Thou enemy to all, that's brisk, or gay, or brave or great.
Be gone with all thy pious meagre Train,
To some unfruitful, unfrequented Land,
And there an Empire gain,
And there extend thy rigorous command:
There where illib'ral Nature's niggardise
Has set a Tax on Vice.
Where the lean barren Region does enhance
The worth of dear Intemperance,
And for each pleasurable sin exacts excise.
We (thanks to Fate) more cheaply can offend,
And want no tempting Luxuries,
No good convenient sinning opportunities;
Which Nature's bounty could bestow, or Heaven's kindness lend.

Go follow that nice Goddess to the Skies,
Who heretofore disgusted at increasing Vice,
Dislik'd the World, and thought it too profane,
And timely hence retir'd, and kindly ne're return'd again.
Hence to those Airy Mansions rove,
Converse with Saints, and holy folks above;
Those may thy presence woo,
Whose lazy ease affords them nothing else to do:
Where haughty scornful I,
And my great Friends will ne're vouchsafe thee company.
Thou'rt now an hard, unpracticable good,
Too difficult for flesh and blood:
Were I all soul, like them, perhaps I'd learn to practise thee.

3.

Vertue! thou solemn grave impertinence,
Abhorr'd by all the Men of Wit, and Sense:

Thoudamn'd Fatigue! that clogst life's journey here,
Though thou no weight of wealth or profit bear;
Thou purling fond Green-sickness of the mind!
That mak'st us prove to our own selves unkind,
Whereby we Coals, and Dirt for diet chuse,
And, Pleasur's better food refuse.
Curst Jilt! that lead'st deluded Mortals on,
Till they too late perceive themselves undone,
Chous'd by a Dowry in reversion.
The greatest Votary, thou e 'e could boast,
(Pity so brave a Soul was on thy service lost;
What Wonders he in wickedness had done,
Whom thy weak pow'r could so inspire alone?)
Tho long with fond amours he courted thee,
Yet dying, did recant his vain Idolatry:
At length, though late, he did repent with shame,
Forc'd to confess thee nothing, but an empty name.

So was that Lecher gull'd, whose haughty love
Design'd a Rape on the Queen Regent of the Gods above:
When he a Goddess thought he had in chace
He found a gaudy vapour in the place,
And with thin Air beguil'd his starv'd embrace.
Idly he spent his vigour, spent his blood,
And tyr'd himself t'oblige an unperforming Cloud.

4.

If Humane kind to thee e're Worship paid;
They were by ignorance misled,
That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made.
Known haply in the Worlds rude untaught infancy,
Before it had out-grown its childish innocence,
Before it had arriv'd at sense,
Or reach'd the Man-hood, and discretion of Debauchery;
Known in those antient goodly duller times,
When crafty Pagans had engross'd all crimes:

When Christian Fools were obstinately good,
Nor yet their Gospel-freedom understood.
Tame easie Fops! who could so prodigally bleed,
To be thought Saints, and dye a Calendar with with red:
No prudent Heathen e're seduc'd could be,
To suffer Martyrdom for thee:
Only that arrant Ass whom the false Oracle call'd Wise
(No wonder if the Devil utter'd lies)
That sniveling Puritan, who spite of all the mode
Would be unfashionably good,
And exercis'd his whining gifts to rail at Vice:
Him all the Wits of Athens damn'd,
And justly with Lampoons defam'd:
But when the mad Fanatick, could not silenc'd be
From broaching dang'rous Divinity;
The wise Republick made him for prevention die,
And sent him to the Gods, and better company.

100

5.

Let fumbling Age be grave, and wise,
And Vertue's poor contemn'd Idea prize,
Who never knew, or now are past the sweets of Vice;
While we whose active pulses beat
With lusty youth, and vigorous heat,
Can all their Beards, and Morals too despise,
While my plump veins are fill'd with lust and blood;
Let not one thought of her intrude,
Or dare appoach my brest,
But know 'tis all possest
By a more welcome guest:
And know, I have not yet the leisure to be good.
If ever unkind destiny
Shall force long life on me;
If e're I must the curse of dotage bear;
Perhaps I'll dedicate those dregs of Time to her,
And come with Crutches her most humble Votary.

101

When sprightly Vice retreats from hence,
And quits the ruins of decayed sense;
She'l serve to usher in a fair pretence,
And varnish with her name a well-dissembled impotence,
When Ptisick, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies seize,
And all the Bill of Maladies,
Which Heaven to punish over-living Mortals sends;
Then let her enter with the numerous infirmities,
Her self the greatest plague, which wrinkles, and grey hairs attends.

6.

Tell me, ye Venerable Sots, who court her most,
What small advantage can she boast,
Which her great Rival hath not in a greater store ingrost.
Her boasted calm, and peace of mind
In Wine, and Company we better find,
Find it with Pleasure too combin'd.

102

In mighty Wine, where we our senses steep,
And Lull our Cares, and Consciences asleep:
But why do I that wild Chimæra name?
Conscience! that giddy airy Dream,
Which does from brain sick heads, or ill-digesting stomachs steam.
Conscience! the vain fantastick fear
Of punishments, we know not when, nor where:
Project of crafty Statesmen to support weak Law,
Whereby they slavish Spirits awe,
And dastard Souls to forc'd obedience draw.
Grand Wheadle! which our Gown'd Impostors use,
The poor unthinking Rabble to abuse.
Scarecrow! to fright from the forbidden fruit of Vice,
Their own beloved Paradise:
Let those vile Canters wickedness decry,

103

Whose Mercenary tongues take pay
For what they say;
And yet commend in practice what their words deny,
While we discerning Heads, who farther pry,
Their holy Cheats defie
And scorn their Frauds, and scorn their sanctified Cajoulery.

7.

None but dull unbred Fools discredit Vice,
Who act their wickedness with an ill grace;
Such their profession scandalize,
And justly forfeit all that praise;
All that esteem, that credit, and applause,
Which we by our wise menage from a sin can raise.
A true, and brave transgressor ought
To sin with the same height of spirit, Cæsar fought:
Mean-soul'd offenders now no honours gain,
Only debauches of the nobler strain.
Vice well-improv'd yields bliss, and fame beside,
And some for sinning have been deifi'd.

104

Thus the lewd Gods of old did move,
By these brave methods to the seats above.
Ev'n Jove himself, the Sovereign Deity,
Father and King of all th' immortal Progeny,
Ascended to that high Degree;
By crimes above the reach of weak Mortality.
He Heav'n one large Seraglio made,
Each Goddess turn'd a glorious Punk o'th trade;
And all that Sacred place
Was fill'd with Bastard Gods of his own race:
Almighty Lech'ry got his first repute,
And everlasting Whoring was his chiefest Attribute.

8.

How gallant was that Wretch, whose happy guilt
A Fame upon the Ruins of a Temple built!
‘Let Fools, said he, Impiety alledg,
‘And urge the no great fault of Sacriledg:
‘I'll set the Sacred Pile on flame,
‘And in its Ashes write my lasting Name,

105

‘My name which thus shall be
‘Deathless as its own Deity.
‘Thus the vain-glorious Carian I'll out-do,
‘And Egypts proudest Monarchs too;
‘Those lavish Prodigals, who idly did consume
‘Their Lives, and Treasures to erect a Tomb,
‘And only great by being buried would become:
‘At cheaper rates than they I'll buy renown,
‘And my loud Fame shall all their silent glories drown.
So spake the daring Hector, so did Prophesie:
And so it prov'd: in vain did envious Spite
By fruitless methods try
To raze his well-built Fame, and Memory
Amongst Posterity:
The Boutefeu can now Immortal write,
While the inglorious Founder is forgotten quite.

9.

Yet greater was that mighty Emperor;
(A greater crime besitted his high Pow'r)

106

Who sacrific'd a City to a Jest,
And shew'd he knew the grand intrigues of humor best:
He made all Rome a Bonefire to his Fame,
And sung, and play'd, and danc'd amidst the Flame;
Bravely begun! yet pity there he stay'd,
One step to Glory more he should have made:
He should have heav'd the noble frolick higher,
And made the People on that Fun'ral pile expire
Or providently with their blood put out the Fire.
Had this been done,
The utmost pitch of glory he had won:
No greater Monument could be
To consecrate him to eternity,
Nor should there need another Herald of his praise, but me.

10.

And thou, yet greater Faux, the glory of our Isle,
Whom baffled Hell esteems its chiefest Foyl;

107

'Twere injury should I omit thy name
Whose Action merits all the breath of Fame.
Methinks, I see the trembling shades below
Around in humble reverence bow;
Doubtful they seem, whether to pay their Loyalty
To their dread Monarch, or to thee:
No wonder he (grown jealous of thy fear'd success)
Envy'd Mankind the honour of thy wickedness,
And spoil'd that brave attempt, which must have made his grandeur less.
How e're regret not, mighty Ghost,
Thy Plot by treach'rous fortune crost,
Nor think thy well deserved glory lost.
Thou the full praise of Villany shalt ever share,
And all will judge thy Act, compleat enough, when thou could'st dare,
So thy great Master far'd, whose high disdain
Contemn'd that Heaven, where he could not Reign,
When he with bold Ambition strove
T'usurp the Throne above,
And led against the Deity an armed Train,

108

Tho from his vast designs he fell,
O're-power'd by his Almighty Foe,
Yet gain'd he Victory in his overthrow:
He gain'd sufficient Triumph, that he durst Rebel,
And 'twas some pleasure to be thought the great'st in Hell.

11.

Tell me, you great Triumvirate, what shall I do
To be illustrious as you?
Let your examples move me with a gen'rous fire,
Let them into my daring thoughts inspire
Somewhat compleatly wicked, some vast Gyant-crime,
Unknown, unheard, unthought of by all past and present time.
'Tis done, 'tis done; Methinks, I feel the pow'rful charms,
And a new heat of sin my spirit warms;
I travel with a glorious mischief, for whose birth,
My Soul's too narrow, and weak Fate too feeble to bring forth.

109

Let the unpitied Vulgar tamely go,
And stock for company, the wild Plantations down below:
Such their vile Souls for viler Barter sell,
Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell.
We are his Grandees, and expect as much preferment there,
For our good Service, as on Earth we share.
In them sin is but a meer privative of good,
The frailty, and defect of flesh and blood:
In us 'tis a perfection, who profess
A studied, and elaborate wickedness.
We are the great Royal Society of Vice,
Whose Talents are to make discoveries,
And advance Sin like other Arts, and Sciences.
'Tis I the bold Columbus only I,
Who must new Worlds in Vice descry,
And fix the pillars of unpassable iniquity.

12.

How sneaking was the first debauch that sin'd
Who for so small a Crime sold humane kind!

110

How undeserving that high place,
To be thought Parent of our sin, and race,
Who by low guilt our Nature doubly did debase!
Unworthy was he to be thought
Father of the great first born Cain, which he begot;
The noble Cain, whose bold, and gallant act
Proclaim'd him of more high extract:
Unworthy me,
And all the braver part of his Posterity.
Had the just Fates design'd me in his stead;
I'd done some great, and unexampled deed:
A deed, which should decry
The Stoicks dull Equality,
And shew that sin admits transcendency:
A deed, wherein the Tempter should not share
Above what Heav'n could punish, and
above what he could dare.
For greater crimes than his I would have fell,
And acted somewhat, which might merit more than Hell.

111

An Apology for the foregoing Ode, by way of Epilogue.

My part is done, and you'l, I hope, excuse
Th' extravagance of a repenting Muse,
Pardon what e're she hath too boldly said,
She only acted here in Masquerade.
For the slight Arguments she did produce,
Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce.
So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose,
Not to be gay, but more ridiculous.
When she an Hector for her Subject had,
She thought she must be Termagant, and mad:
That made her speak like a lewd Punk o'th' Town,
Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown,
Has learn'd the Mode to cry all Virtue down.
But now the Vizard's off; she changes Scene,
And turns a modest civil Girl agen.

112

Our Poet has a different taste of Wit,
Nor will to common Vogue himself submit.
Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie
In venting dull insipid Blasphemy;
He swears he cannot with those terms dispense,
Nor will be damn'd for the repute of sense.
Wit's name was never to profaneness due,
For then you see he could be witty too:
He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings,
But that he's Loyal, and knows better things,
Than Fame, whose guilty Birth from Treason springs.
He likes not Wit, which can't a Licence claim,
To which the Author dares not set his Name.
Wit should be open, court each Reader's eye,
Not lurk in sly unprinted privacy.
But Crim'nal Writers like dull Birds of Night,
For weakness, or for shame avoid the light;
May such a Jury for their Audience have,
And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive.

113

May they the Tow'r for their due merits share,
And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel wear:

He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times,
In what they dearly love; Damn'd placket Rhimes,
Such as our Nobles write—
Whose nauseous Poetry can reach no higher
Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire.
So lewd, they spend at quill, you'd justly think;
They wrote with something nastier than Ink.
But he still thought that little Wit, or none,
Which a just modesty must never own,
And a meer Reader with a Blush attone.
If Ribauldry deserv'd the praise of Wit,
He must resign to each illit'rate Citt,
And Prentices, and Car-men challenge it.
Ev'n they too can be smart, and witty there;
For all men on that Subject Poets are.
Henceforth he vows, if ever more he find
Himself to the base itch of Verse inclin'd;

114

If e're he's given up so far to write;
He never means to make his end delight:
Should he do so; he must despair success:
For he's not now debauch'd enough to please,
And must be damn'd for want of Wickedness.
He'l therefore use his Wit another way,
And next the ugliness of Vice display.
Tho against Vertue once he drew his Pen,
He'l ne're for ought, but her defence agen.
Had he a Genius, and Poetick rage,
Great as the Vices of this guilty Age.
Were he all Gall, and arm'd with store of spight;
'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write;
To noble Satyr he'd direct his aim,
And by't Mankind, and Poetry reclaim,
He'd shoot his Quills just like a Porcupine
At Vice, and make them stab in every Line,
The world should learn to blush,—

115

And dread the Vengeance of his pointed Wit,
Which worse than their own Consciences should fright,
And all should think him Heav'ns just Plague, design'd
To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind.

119

THE Passion of Byblis OUT OF Ovid's Metamorphosis, B. 9. F. 11.

Beginning at Byblis in exemplo est, ut ament concessa puellæ.

And ending with ------ Modumque Exit, & infelix committit sæpe repelli.

You heedless Maids, whose young, and tender hearts
Unwounded yet, have scap'd the fatal darts;
Let the sad tale of wretched Byblis move,
And learn by her to shun forbidden Love,

120

Not all the plenty, all the bright resort
Of gallant Youth, that grac'd the Carian Court,
Could charm the hauty Nymph's disdainful heart,
Or from a Brother's guilty Love divert;
Caunus she lov'd, not as a Sister ought,
But Honour, Blood, and Shame alike forgot:
Caunus alone takes up her Thoughts, and Eyes,
For him alone she wishes, grieves and sighs.

At first her new-born Passion owns no name,
A glim'ring Spark scarce kindling into flame;
She thinks it no offence, if from his Lip
She snatch an harmless bliss, if her fond clip
With loose embraces oft his Neck surround,
And Love is yet in debts of Nature drown'd.

But Love at length grows naughty by degrees,
And now she likes, and strives her self to please:
Well-drest she comes, & arms her Eyes with darts,
Her Smiles with charms, and all the studied arts
Which practis'd Love can teach to vanquish hearts.

121

Industrious now, she labours to be fair,
And envies all, whoever fairer are.

Yet knows she not, she loves, but still does grow,
Insensibly the thing, she does not know:
Strict honour yet her check'd desires does bind,
And modest thoughts, on this side wish confin'd:
Only within she sooths her pleasing flames,
And now, the hated terms of Blood disclaims:
Brother sounds harsh; she the unpleasing word
Strives to forget, and oftner calls him Lord:
And when the name of Sister grates her ear,
Could wish't unsaid, and rather Byblis hear.

Nor dare she yet with waking thoughts admit
A wanton hope: but when returning night
With Sleep's soft gentle spell her Senses charms,
Kind fancy often brings him to her Arms:
In them she oft does the lov'd Shadow seem
To grasp, and joys, yet blushes too in Dream.
She wakes, and long in wonder silent lies,
And thinks on her late pleasing Extasies:

122

Now likes, and now abhors her guilty flame,
By turns abandon'd to her Love, and Shame:
At length her struggling thoughts an utt'rance find,
And vent the wild disorders of her mind.

“Ah me! (she cries) kind Heaven avert! what means
“This boading form, that nightly rides my dreams?
“Grant 'em untrue! why should lewd hope divine?
“Ah! why was this too charming Vision seen?
“'Tis true, by the most envious wretch, that sees,
“He's own'd all fair, and lovely, own'd a prize,
“Worthy the conquest of the brightest eyes:
“A prize that wou'd my high'st Ambition fill,
“All I could wish;—but he's my brother still!
“That cruel word for ever must disjoyn,
“Nor can I hope, but thus, to have him mine.
“Since then I waking never must possess;
“Let me in sleep at least enjoy the bliss,
“And sure nice Vertue can't forbid me this:

123

“Kind sleep does no malicious spies admit,
“Yet yields a lively semblance of delight:
“Gods! what a scene of joy was that! how fast
“I clasp'd the Vision to my panting breast!
“With what fierce bounds I sprung to meet my bliss,
“While my rapt soul flew out in every kiss!
“Till breathless, faint, and softly sunk away,
“I all dissolv'd in reeking pleasures lay!
“How sweet is the remembrance yet! though night
“Too hasty fled, drove on by envious light.

“O that we might the Laws of Nature break!
“How well would Caunus me an Husband make!
“How well to Wife might he his Byblis take!
“Wou'd God! in all things we had partners bin
“Besides our Parents, and our fatal Kin:
“Wou'd thou wert nobler, I more meanly born,
“Then guiltless I'd despair'd, and suffer'd scorn:
“Happy that Maid unknown, whoe're shall prove
“so blest, so envied to deserve thy love.

124

“Unhappy me! whom the same womb did joyn,
“Which now forbids me ever to be thine:
“Curst fate! that we alone in that agree,
“By which we ever must divided be.
“And must we be? what meant my Vision then?
“Are they, and all their dear presages vain?
“Have Dreams no credit, but with easie love?
“Or do they hit sometimes, and faithful prove?
“The Gods forbid! yet those whom I invoke,
“Have lov'd like me, have their own Sisters took:
“Great Saturn, and his greater Off-spring Jove,
“Both stock'd their Heaven with Incestuous love:
“Gods have their priviledge: why do I strive
“To strain my Hopes to their Prerogative?

“No, let me banish this forbidden fire,
“Or quench it with my Blood, and with't expire:
“Unstain'd in honour, and unhurt in fame,
“Let the Grave bury my Love, and Shame:
“But when at my last hour I gasping lie,
“Let only my kind Murderer be by:

125

“Let him, while I breath out my soul in sighs,
“Or gaz't away, look on with pitying eyes:
“Let him (for sure he can't deny me this)
“Seal my cold Lips with one dear parting Kiss.

“Besides, 'twere vain should I alone agree
“To what anothers Will must ratifie;
“Cou'd I be so abandon'd to consent;
“What I have pass for good and innocent,
“He may perhaps as worst of Crimes resent.
“Yet we amongst our Race examples find
“Of Brothers, who have been to Sisters kind:
“Fam'd Canace cou'd thus successful prove,
“Cou'd Crown her wishes in a Brother's love.
“But whence cou'd I these instances produce?
“How came I witty to my ruin thus?
“Whither will this mad frenzy hurry on?
“Hence, hence, you naughty flames, far hence be gone,
“Nor let me e're the shameful Passion own.

126

“And yet shou'd he address; I shou'd forgive,
“I fear, I fear, I shou'd his suit receive:
“Shall therefore I, who cou'd not love disown
“Offer'd by him, not mine to make him known?
“And canst thou speak? can thy bold tongue declare?
“Yes, Love shall force:—and now methinks I dare.
“But lest fond modesty at length refuse,
“I will some sure, and better method chuse:
“A Letter shall my secret flames disclose,
“And hide my Blushes, but reveal their cause.

This takes, and 'tis resolv'd as soon as said,
With this she rais'd her self upon her bed,
And propping with her hand her leaning head:
“Happen what will (says she) I'll make him know
“What pains, what raging pains I undergo:
“Ah me! I rave! what tempests shake my breast?
“And where? O where will this distraction rest?
Trembling, her Thoughts endite, and oft her Eye
Looks back for fear of conscious spies too nigh:

127

One hand her Paper, t'other holds her Pen,
And Tears supply that Ink her Lines must drain.

Now she begins, now stops, and stopping frames
New doubts, now writes, and now her writing damns.
She writes, defaces, alters, likes, and blames:
Oft throws in hast her Pen, and Paper by,
Then takes 'em up again as hastily:
Unsteddy her resolves, fickle, and vain,
No sooner made, but strait unmade again:
What her desires would have, she does not know,
Displeas'd with all, what e're she goes to do:
At once contending, shame, and hope, and fear,
Wrack her tost mind, and in her looks appear.
Sister was wrote; but soon misguiding doubt
Recalls it, and the guilty word blots out.
Again she pauses, and again begins,
At length her Pen drops out these hasty Lines.

128

“Kind health, which you, and only you can grant.
“Which, if deny'd, she must for ever want;
“To you your Lover sends: ah! blushing Shame
“In silence bids her Paper hide her name:
“Wou'd God the fatal Message might be done
“Without annexing it, nor Byblis known,
“E're blest success her hopes, and wishes crown.

“And had I now my smother'd greif conceal'd,
“It might by tokens past have been reveal'd:
“A thousand proofs were ready to impart
“The inward anguish of my wounded heart:
“Oft, as your sight a sudden blush did raise,
“My blood came up to meet you at my face:
“Oft (if you call to mind) my longing Eyes
“Betray'd in looks my souls too thin disguise:
“Think how their Tears, think how my heaving Breast
“Oft in deep sighs some cause unknown confest:
“Think how these Arms did oft with fierce embrace,

129

“Eager as my desires, about you press:
“These Lips too, when they cou'd so happy prove,
“(Had you but mark'd) with close warm kisses strove
“To whisper something more than Sisters Love.

“And yet, though rankling grief my mind distrest,
“Tho raging flames within burn up my breast,
“Long time I did the mighty pain endure,
“Long strove to bring the fierce disease to cure:
“Witness, ye cruel Pow'rs, who did inspire
“This strange, this fatal, this resistless fire,
“Witness, what pains (for you alone can know)
“This helpless wretch to quench't did undergo:
“A thousand Racks, and Martyrdoms, and more
“Than a weak Virgin can be thought, I bore:
“O'rematch'd in pow'r at last, I'm forc'd to yield,
“And to the conqu'ring God resign the field:
“To you, dear cause of all, I make address,
“From you with humble pray'rs I beg redress:

130

“You rule alone my arbitrary fate,
“And life, and death on your disposal wait:
“Ordain, as you think fit; deny, or grant,
“Yet know no stranger is your suppliant.
“But she, who, tho to you by Blood allied
“In nearest bonds, in nearer wou'd be tied.

“Let doting age debate of Law, and Right,
“And gravely state the bounds of just, and fit;
“Whose Wisdom's but their Envy, to destroy
“And bar those pleasures, which they can't enjoy:
“Our blooming years, more sprightly, and more gay,
“By Nature we're design'd for love and play:
“Youth knows no check, but leaps weak Vertu's fence,
“And briskly hunts the noble chase of Sense:
“Without dull thinking we enjoyment trace,
“And call that lawful, whatsoe're does please.
“Nor will our guilt want instances alone,
“'Tis what the glorious Gods above have done:

131

“Let's follow where those great examples went,
“Nor think that Sin, where Heaven's a precedent.

“Let neither awe of Fathers frowns, nor shame
“For ought that can be told by blabbing fame
“Nor any gastlier fantom, fear can frame,
“Frighten or stop us in our way to bliss,
“But boldly let us rush on happiness:
“Where glorious hazards shall enhanse delight,
“And that, that makes it dangerous, make it great:

“Relation too, which does our fault increase,
“Will serve that fault the better to disguise?
“That lets us now in private often meet
“Bless'd opportunities for stoln delight:
“In publick often we embrace, and kiss,
“And fear no jealous, no suspecting eyes.
“How little more remains for me to crave!
“How little more for you to give! O save
“A wretched Maid undone by Love, and you,
“Who does in tears, and dying accents sue;

132

“Who bleeds that Passion, she had ne're reveal'd,
“If not by Love, Almighty Love compell'd:
“Nor ever let her mournful Tomb complain,
“Here Byblis lies, kill'd by your cold disdain.

Here forc'd to end, for want of room, not will
To add, her lines the crowded Margin fill,
Nor space allow for more: she trembling, folds
The Paper, which her shameful Message holds;
And sealing, as she wept with boading fear,
She wet her Signet with a falling Tear.
This done, a trusty Messenger she call'd,
And in kind words the whisper'd Errand told:
“Go, carry this with faithful care, she said,
“To my dear,—there she paus'd a while, and staid,
And by and by—Brother—was heard to add:
As she deliver'd it with her commands,
The Letter fell from out her trembling hands,
Dismay'd with the ill Omen, she anew
Doubted success, and held, yet bad him go.

133

He goes, and after quick admission got
To Caunus hands the fatal secret brought:
Soon as the doubtful Youth a glance had cast
On the first lines, and guest by them the rest,
Strait horror, and amazement fill'd his breast:
Impatient with his rage, he could not stay
To see the end, but threw't half read away.
Scarce could his hands the trembling wretch forbear,
Nor did his tongue those angry threatnings spare:
“Fly hence, nor longer my chaf'd fury trust,
“Thou cursed Pander of detested Lust;
“Fly quickly hence, and to thy swiftness owe
“Thy life, a forfeit to my vengeance due:
“Which, had not danger of my Honour crost,
“Thou'dst paid by this, and been sent back a Ghost,

He the rough orders strait obeys, and bears
The killing news to wretched Byblis ears;
Like striking Thunder the fierce tidings stun,
And to her heart quicker than lightning run:

134

The frighted blood forsakes her ghastly face,
And a short death doth every Member seize:
But soon as sense returns, her frenzy too
Returns, and in these words breaks forth anew.

“And justly serv'd;—for why did foolish I
“Consent to make this rash discovery?
“Why did I thus in hasty lines reveal
“That dang'rous secret, Honour wou'd conceal?
“I shou'd have first with art disguis'd the hook,
“And seen how well the gawdy bait had took,
“And found him hung at least before I strook:
“From shore I shou'd have first descri'd the wind
“Whether 'twould prove to my adventure kind,
“E're I to untry'd Seas my self resign'd:
“Now dash'd on Rocks, unable to retire,
“I must i'th wreck of all my hopes expire,

“And was not I by tokens plain enough
“Fore-warn'd to quit my inauspicious Love?
“Did not the Fates my ill success foretell,
“When from my hands th' unhappy Letter fell?

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“So should my hopes have done, and my design,
“That, or the day should then have alter'd been;
“But rather the unlucky day; when Heaven
“Such ominous proofs of its dislike had given:
“And so it had, had not mad Passion sway'd,
“And Reason been by blinder Love misled.

“Besides (alas!) I shou'd my self have gone,
“Nor made my Pen a proxy to my Tongue;
“Much more I cou'd have spoke, much more have told,
“Than a short Letter's narrow room would hold:
“He might have seen my looks, my wishing Eyes
“My melting Tears, and heard my begging Sighs;
“About his Neck I could have flung my Arms,
“And been all over Love, all over Charms;
“Grasp'd, and hung on his Knees, and there have dyed,
“There breath'd my gasping Soul out, if denied:
“This and ten thousand things I might have done
“To make my Passion with advantage known;

136

“Which if they each could not have bent his mind,
“Yet surely all had forc'd him to be kind.

“Perhaps he, whom I sent, was too in fault,
“Nor rightly tim'd his Message, as he ought;
“I fear he went in some ill-chosen hour,
“When cloudy weather made his temper lour.
“Not those calm seasons of the mind, which prove,
“The fittest to receive the seeds of Love;

“These things have ruin'd me; for doubtless he
“Is made of humane flesh, and blood, like me;
“He suck'd no Tygress sure, nor Mountain Bear,
“Nor does his Breast relentless Marble wear.
“He must, he shall consent, again I'll try,
“And try again, if he again deny:
“No scorn, no harsh repulse, or rough defeat
“Shall ever my desire, or hopes rebate.
“My earnest suits shall never give him rest,
“While Life, and Love more durable, shall last:
“Alive I'll press, till breath in pray'rs be lost,
“And after come a kind beseeching Ghost.

137

“For, if I might, what I have done, recall,
“The first point were, not to have don't at all;
“But since 'tis done, the second to be gain'd
“Is now to have, what I have sought, attain'd:
“For he, though I should now my wishes quit,
“Can never my unchast attempts forget:
“Should I desist, 'twill be believ'd that I
“By slightly asking, taught him to deny;
“Or that I tempted him with wily fraud,
“And snares for his unwary honour laid:
“Or, what I sent (and the belief were just)
“Were not th' efforts of Love, but shameful Lust.

“In fine, I now dare any thing that's ill;
“I've writ, I have solicited, my will
“Has been debauch'd; and shou'd I thus give out,
“I cannot chast, and innocent be thought:
“Much there is wanting still to be fulfill'd,
“Much to my wish, but little to my guilt.

138

She spoke; but such is her unsetled mind,
It shifts from thought to thought, like veering wind,
Now to this point, and now to that inclin'd:
What she could wish had unattempted been:
She strait is eager to attempt agen:
What she repents, she acts; and now lets loose
The reins to Love, nor any bounds allows,
Repulse upon repulse umov'd she bears,
And still sues on, while she her suit despairs.

139

A SATYR

Upon a WOMAN, who by her Falshood and Scorn was the Death of my Friend.

No she shall ne're escape, if Gods there be,
Unless they perjur'd grow, and false as she;
Though no strange Judgment yet the Murd'ress seize
To punish her, and quit the partial Skies:
Though no revenging lightning yet has flasht
From thence, that might her criminal beauties blast:
Tho they in their old lustre still prevail,
By no disease, nor guilt it self made pale.

140

Guilt, which should blackest Moors themselves but own,
Would make through all their night new blushes dawn:
Though that kind soul, who now augments the blest,
Thither too soon by her unkindness chas'd.
(Where may it be her small'st, and lightest doom,
(For that's not half my curse) never to come)
Though he, when prompted by the high'st despair,
Ne're mention'd her without an Hymn, or Prayer,
And could by all her scorn be forc'd no more
Than Martyrs to revile what they adore.
Who, had he curst her with his dying breath;
Had done but just, and Heaven had forgave:
Tho ill-made Law no Sentence has ordain'd
For her, no Statute has her Guilt arraign'd.
(For Hangmen, Womens Scorn, and Doctors skill,
All by a licenc'd way of murder kill.)

141

Tho she from Justice of all these go free
And boast perhaps in her success, and cry,
'Twas but a little harmless perjury:
Yet think she not, she still secure shall prove,
Or that none dare avenge an injur'd Love:
I rise in Judgement, am to be to her
Both Witness, Judge, and Executioner:
Arm'd with dire Satyr, and resentful spite,
I come to haunt her with the ghosts of Wit.
My Ink unbid starts out, and flies on her,
Like blood upon some touching murderer:
And shou'd that fail, rather than want, I wou'd,
Like Haggs, to curse her, write in my own blood.

Ye spightful pow'rs (if any there can be,
That boast a worse, and keener spite than I)
Assist with Malice, and your mighty aid
My sworn Revenge, and help me Rhime her dead:
Grant I may fix such brands of Infamy,
So plain, so deeply grav'd on her, that she,

142

Her Skill, Patches, nor Paint, all joyn'd can hide,
And which shall lasting as her Soul abide:
Grant my strong hate may such strong poison cast,
That every breath may taint, and rot, and blast,
Till one large Gangrene quite o'respread her fame
With foul contagion; till her odious name,
Spit at, and curst by every mouth like mine,
Be terror to her self, and all her line.

Vilest of that viler Sex, who damn'd us all!
Ordain'd to cause, and plague us for our fall!
WOMAN! nay worse! for she can nought be said,
But Mummy by some Dev'l inhabited:
Not made in Heaven's Mint, but base coin'd,
She wears an humane image stampt on Fiend;
And whoso Marriage would with her contract,
Is Witch by Law, and that a meer compact:
Her Soul (if any Soul in her there be)
By Hell was breath'd into her in a lye,
And its whole stock of falshood there was lent,
As if hereafter to be true it meant:

143

Bawd Nature taught her jilting, when she made
And by her make, design'd her for the trade:
Hence 'twas she daub'd her with a painted Face,
That she at once might better cheat, and please:
All those gay charming looks, that court the eye,
Are but an ambush to hide treachery;
Mischief adorn'd with pomp, and smooth disguise,
A painted skin stuff'd full of guile and lyes;
Within a gawdy Case, a nasty Soul,
Like T--- of quality in a gilt Close-stool:
Such on a Cloud those flatt'ring colours are,
Which only serve to dress a Tempest fair.
So Men upon this Earth's fair surface dwell,
Within are Fiends, and at the center Hell:
Court-promises, the Leagues, which States-men make
With more convenience, and more ease to break,
The Faith, a Jesuit in allegiance swears,
Or a Town-jilt to keeping Coxcombs bears,
Are firm, and certain all, compar'd with hers:

144

Early in falshood, at her Font she lied,
And should ev'n then for Perjury been tried:
Her Conscience stretch'd, and open as the Stews,
But laughs at Oaths, and plays with solemn Vows.
And at her mouth swallows down perjur'd breath,
More glib than bits of Lechery beneath:
Less serious known, when she doth most protest,
Than thoughts of arrantest Buffoons in jest:
More cheap, than the vile mercenariest Squire,
That plies for Half-crown Fees at Westminster,
And trades in staple-Oaths, and Swears to hire:
Less Guilt than hers, less breach of Oath, and Word
Has stood aloft, and look'd through Penance board;
And he that trusts her in a Death-bed Prayer,
Has Faith to merit, and save any thing, but her.

But since her Guilt description does out-go;
I'll try if it out-strip my Curses too;

145

Curses, which may they equal my just hate,
My wish, and her desert, be each so great,
Each heard like Pray'rs, and Heaven make 'em fate.

First, for her Beauties, which the Mischief brought,
May she affected, they be borrow'd thought,
By her own hand, not that of Nature wrought:
Her Credit, Honour, Portion, Health, and those
Prove light, and frail, as her broke Faith, and Vows.
Some base unnam'd Disease, her Carkass foul,
And make her Body ugly, as her Soul.
Cankers, and Ulcers eat her, till she be,
Shun'd like Infection, loath'd like Infamy.
Strength quite expir'd, may she alone retain
The snuff of Life, may that unquench'd remain,
As in the damn'd, to keep her fresh for pain:
Hot Lust light on her, and the plague of Pride
On that, this ever scorn'd, as that denied:
Ach, Anguish, horror, grief, dishonour, shame
Pursue at once her body, soul, and fame:

146

If e're the Devil-love must enter her
(For nothing sure but Fiends can enter there)
May she a just and true tormenter find,
And that like an ill-conscience rack her mind:
Be some Diseas'd, and ugly wretch her fate,
She doom'd to love of one, whom all else hate.
May he hate her, and may her destiny
Be to despair, and yet love on, and die;
Or to invent some wittier punishment,
May he, to plague her, out of spite consent;
May the old fumbler, though disabled quite,
Have strength to give her Claps, but no delight:
May he of her unjustly jealous be
For one that's worse, and uglier far than he:
May's Impotence balk, and torment her lust,
Yet scarcely her to dreams, or wishes trust:
Forc'd to be chast, may she suspected be,
Share none o'th' Pleasure, all the Infamy.

147

In fine, that I all curses may compleat
(For I've but curs'd in jest, raillied yet)
Whate're the Sex deserves, or feels, or fears,
May all those plagues be hers, and only hers;
Whate're great Favourites turn'd out of doors,
Scorn'd Lovers, bilk'd and disappointed Whores,
Or losing Gamesters vent, what Curses e're
Are spoke by sinners raving in despair:
All those fall on her, as they're all her due,
Till spite can't think, nor Heav'n inflict anew:
May then (for once I will be kind, and pray)
No madness take her use of Sense away;
But may she in full strength of Reason be,
To feel, and understand her misery;
Plagu'd so, till she think damning a release,
And humbly pray to go to Hell for ease:
Yet may not all these suff'rings here attone
Her sin, and may she still go sinning on,

148

Tick up in Perjury, and run o'th Score,
Till on her Soul she can get trust no more:
Then may she Stupid, and Repentless die,
And Heav'n it self forgive no more than I,
But so be damn'd of meer necessity.

FINIS.