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Why do you thus th' old and new prison fill?
When that 's the only why; because you will?
Fain would you make God too thus tyrannous be,
And damn poor men by such a stiff decree.
Is 't property? Why do such numbers, then,
From God beg vengeance, and relief from men?
Why are th' estates and goods seiz❜d-on, of all
Whom covetous or malicious men miscall?
What's more our own than our own lives? But oh
Could Yeomans or could Bourchier find it so?
The barbarous coward, always us'd to fly,
Did know no other way to see men die.
Or is 't religion? What then mean your lyes,
Your sacrileges, and pulpit blasphemies?
Why are all sects let loose that ere had birth,
Since Luther's noise wak'd the lethargic Earth?
The Author went no further.
THE PURITAN AND THE PAPIST. A SATIRE.
The church of England, 'tis your protestation; But that's "New"-England by a small reservation.
So two rude waves, by storms together thrown,
Roar at each other, fight, and then grow one.
Religion is a circle; men contend,
And run the round in dispute, without end:
Now, in a circle, who go contrary,
Must, at the last, meet of necessity.
The Roman Catholic, to advance the cause,
Allows a lye, and calls it pia fraus;
The Puritan approves and does the same,
Dislikes nought in it but the Latin name:
He flows with his devices, and dares lye
In very deed, in truth, and verity.
He whines, and sighs out lyes with so much ruth,
As if he griev'd 'cause he could ne'er speak truth.
Lyes have possess'd the press so, as their due,
Twill scarce, I fear, henceforth print Bibles true.
Lyes for their next strong fort ha' th' pulpit chose;
There they throng out at th' preacher's mouth and
And, howe'er gross, are certain to beguile
The poor book-turners of the middle isle ;
Nay, to th' Almighty's self they have been bold
To lye; and their blasphemous minister told,
They might say false to God; for if they were
Beaten, he knew't not, for he was not there.
But God, who their great thankfulness did see,
Rewards them straight with another victory,
Just such an one as Brentford; and, sans doubt,
Will weary, ere 't be long, their gratitude out.
Not all the legends of the saints of old,
Not vast Baronius, nor sly Surius, hold
Such plenty of apparent lyes as are
In your own author, Jo. Browne Cleric. Par.
Besides what your small poets said or writ,
Brookes, Strode, and the baron of the saw-pit:
With many a mental reservation,
You'll maintain liberty :-Reserv'd "your own,"
For th' public good the sums rais'd you'll disburse;
-Reserv'd "the greater part, for your own purse."
You'll root the Cavaliers out, every man ;
-Faith, let it be reserv'd here "if ye can."
You'll make our gracious Charles a glorious king;
-Reserv'd "in Heaven"-for thither ye would bring
His royal head; the only secure room
For kings; where such as you will never come.
To keep th' estates o' th' subjects you pretend;
-Reserv'd" in your own trunks." You will defend
Power of dispensing oaths the Papists claim; Case hath got leave of God to do the same: For you do hate all swearing so, that when You've sworn an oath, ye break it straight again. A curse upon you! which hurts most these nations,
Cavaliers' swearing, or your protestations?
Nay, though oaths be by you so much abhor'd,
Y'allow "God damn me" in the Puritan Lord,
They keep the Bible from laymen; but ye
Avoid this, for ye have no laity.
They in a foreign and unknown tongue pray,
You in an unknown sense your prayers say;
So that this difference 'twixt you does ensue,―
Fools understand not them, not wise men you.
They an unprofitable zeal have got Of invocating saints, that hear them not: 'Twere well you did so; nought may more be fear'd, In your fond prayers, than that they should be heard.
To them your nonsense well enough might pass,
They'd ne'er see that i' th' divine looking-glass.
Nay, whether you 'd worship saints is not known,
For ye 'ave as yet, of your religion, none.
They by good-works think to be justifi'd:
You into the same errour deeper slide;
You think by works too justify'd to be,
And those ill-works-lyes, treason, perjury.
But, oh! your faith is mighty; that hath been,
As true faith ought to be, of things unseen:
At Wor'ster, Brentford, and Edgehill, we see,
Only by faith, ye 'ave got the victory.
Such is your faith, and some such unseen way,
The public faith at last your debts will pay.
They hold free-will (that nought their souls may bind)
As the great privilege of all mankind:
You're here more moderate; for 'tis your intent
To make 't a privilege but of parliament.
They forbid priests to marry: you worse do;
Their marriage you allow, yet punish too;
For you'd make priests so poor, that upon all
Who marry scorn and beggary must fall.
They a bold power o'er sacred scriptures take, Blot out some clauses, and some new ones make: Your great lord Jesuit Brookes publicly said, (Brookes, whom too little learning hath made mad) That to correct the Creed ye should do well, And blot out Christ's descending into Hell. Repent, wild man! or you 'll ne'er change, I fear, The sentence of your own descending there.
Yet modestly they use the Creed; for they Would take the Lord's Prayer root and branch away:
And wisely said a levite of our nation.
The Lord's-Prayer was a popish innovation.
Take heed, you'll grant ere long it should be said,
An't be but to desire your daily bread.
They keep the people ignorant: and you
Keep both the people and yourselves so too.
They blind obedience and blind duty teach:
You blind rebellion and blind faction preach;
Nor can I blame you much, that ye advance
That which can only save you, ignorance;
Though, Heaven be prais'd!.'t has oft been proved
Your ignorance is not invincible:
Nay, such bold lyes to God himself yé vaunt,
As if you'd fain keep him too ignorant.
Limbus and Purgatory they believe,
For lesser sinners; that is, I conceive,
Malignants only: you this trick does please;
For the same cause ye 'ave made new Limbuses,
Where we may lie imprison'd long, ere we
A day of judgment in your courts shall see.
But Pym can, like the pope, with this dispense,
And for a bribe deliver souls from thence.
Their councils claim infallibility:
Such must your conventicle-synod be;
And teachers from all parts of th' Earth ye call,
To make 't a council oecumenical.
They several times appoint from meats' t' abstain
You now for th' Irish wars a fast ordain;
And, that that kingdom might be sure to fast,
Ye take a course to starve them all at last :
Nay, though ye keep no eves, Fridays, nor Lent,
Not to dress meat on Sundays you're content;
Then you repeat, repeat, and pray, and pray,
Your teeth keep sabbath, and tongues working-
They preserve relics: you have few or none,
Unless the clout sent to John Pym be one;
Or Holles's rich widow, she who carry'd
A relic in her womb before she marry'd.
They in succeeding Peter take a pride:
So do you; for your master ye 'ave deny'd.
But chiefly Peter's privilege ye choose,
At your own wills to bind and to unloose.
He was a fisherman; you'll be so too,
When nothing but your ships are left to you:
He went to Rome; to Rome you back ward ride,
(Though both your goings are by some deny'd)
Nor is 't a contradiction, if we say,
You go to Rome the quite contrary way.
He dy'd o' th' cross; that death's unusual now;
The gallows is most like 't, and that's for you.
They love church-music; it offends your sense,
And therefore ye have sung it out from thence;
Which shows, if right your mind be understood,
You hate it not as music, but as good:
Your madness makes you sing as much as they
Dance who are bit with a tarantula.
But do not to yourselves, alas! appear
The most religious traitors that e'er were,
Because your troops singing of psalms do go;
There's many a traitor has march'd Holborn so.
Nor was't your wit this holy project bore;
Tweed and the Tyne have seen those tricks before.
They of strange miracles and wonders tell :
You are yourselves a kind of miracle;
Ev'n such a miracle as in writ divine
We read o' th' Devil's hurrying down the swine.
They have made images to speak: 'tis said,
You a dull image have your speaker made;
And, that your bounty in offerings might abound,
Ye 'ave to that idol giv'n six thousand pound.
They drive-out devils, they say: here ye begin
To differ, I confess you let them in.
They maintain transubstantiation;
You, by a contrary philosophers-stone,
To transubstantiate metals have the skill,
And turn the kingdom's gold to ir'n and steel.
I' th' sacrament ye differ; but 'tis noted,
Bread must be flesh, wine blood, if e'er 't be voted.
They make the pope their head; y' exalt for
Primate and metropolitan, master Pym;
Nay, White, who sits i' th' infallible chair,
And most infallibly speaks nonsense there;
Nay, Cromwell, Pury, Whistler, sir John Wray,
He who does say, and say, ands ay, and say;
Nay, Lowry, who does new church-government
And prophesies, like Jonas, 'midst the fish;
Who can such various business wisely sway,
Handling both herrings and bishops in one day :
Nay all your preachers, women, boys, and mer,
From master Calamy to mistress Ven,
Are perfect popes, in their own parish, grown;
For, to out-do the story of pope Joan,
Your women preach too, and are like to be
The whores of Babylon as much as she.
They depose kings by force: by force you'd do
But first use fair means to persuade them to it. They dare kill kings: and 'twixt yo here's the strife,
Paid you by some, to forfeit the nineteen?
Where's all the goods distrain'd, and plunders past?
For you're grown wretched pilfering knaves at
Descend to brass and pewter, till of late,
Like Midas, all ye touch'd must needs be plate.
By what vast hopes is your ambition fed?
'Tis writ in blood, and may be plainly read:
You must have places, and the kingdom sway;
The king must be a ward to your lord Say.
Your innocent speaker to the Rolls must rise;
Six thousand pound hath made him proud and wise.
Kimbolton for his father's place doth call,
Would be like him ;-would he were, face and all!
Isaack would always be lord-mayor; and so
May always be, as much as he is now.
For the five members, they so richly thrive,
That they would always be but members five.
Only Pym does his natural right enforce,
By th' mother's side he's master of the horse.
Most shall have places by these popular tricks,
The rest must be content with bishoprics.
For 'tis 'gainst superstition you're intent;
First to root out that great church-ornament,
Money and lands: your swords, alas! are drawn
Against the bishop, not his cap, or lawn.
O lot not such lewd sacrilege begin,
Tempted by Henry's rich, successful sin!
Henry! the monster-king of all that age;
Wild in his lust, but wilder in his rage.
Expect not you his fate, though Hotham thrives In imitating Henry's tricks for wives; Nor fewer churches hopes, than wives, to see Buried, and then their lands his own to be. Ye boundless tyrants! how do you outvy Th' Athenians' Thirty, Rome's Decemviry! In rage, injustice, cruelty, as far Above those men, as you in number are. What mysteries of iniquity do we see ! New prisons made to defend liberty! Our goods forc'd from us for property's sake; And all the real nonsense which ye make! Ship-money was unjustly ta'en, ye say; Unjustlier far, you take the ships away. The High Commission you call'd tyranny: Ye did! good God! what is the High Committee? Ye said that gifts and bribes preferments bought: By money and blood too they now are sought. To the king's will, the laws men strove to draw: The subjects' will is now become the law. 'Twas fear'd a new religion would begin : All new religions, now, are enter'd in. The king delinquents to protect did strive : What clubs,pikes, halberts, lighters, sav'd the Five! You think th' parl'ment like your state of grace; Whatever sins men do, they keep their place. Invasions then were fear'd against the state; And Strode swore last years would be eighty-eight. You bring-in foreign aid to your designs, First those great foreign forces of divines, With which ships from America were fraught; Rather may stinking tobacco still be ght From thence, I say; next, ye the Scots invite, Which you term brotherly-assistance, right; For England you intend with them to share: They, who, alas! but younger brothers are, Must have the monies for their portion; The houses and the lands will be your own. We thank you for the wounds which we endure, Whilst scratches and slight pricks ye seek to
• viz. 1642.
I'LL sing of heroes and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin, my Muse! but lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but love.
I broke them all, and put on new;
Tis this or nothing sure will do.
We thank you for true real fears, at last,
Which free us from so many false ones past;
We thank you for the blood which fats our coast,
As a just debt paid to great Strafford's ghost;
We thank you for the ills receiv'd, and all
Which yet by your good care in time we shall;
We thank you, and our gratitude's as great
As yours, when you thank'd God for being beat.
THE CHARACTER OF AN HOLY-SISTER.
SHE that can sit three sermons in a day,
And of those three scarce bear three words away;
She that can rob her husband, to repair
A budget-priest, that noses a long prayer;
She that with lamp-black purifies her shoes,
And with half-eyes and Bible softly goes;
She that her pockets with lay-gospel stuffs,
And edifies her looks with little ruffs;
She that loves sermons as she does the rest,
Still standing stiff that longest are the best ;
She that will lye, yet swear she hates a lyar,
Except it be the man that will lie by her;
She that at christenings thirsteth for more sack,
And draws the broadest handkerchief for cake;
She that sings psalms devoutly next the street,
And beats her maid i' th' kitchen, where none
She that will sit in shop for five hours space,
And register the sins of all that pass,
Damn at first sight, and proudly dares to say,
That none can possibly be sav'd but they
That hang religion in a naked ear,
And judge men's hearts according to their hair;
That could afford to doubt, who wrote best sense,
Moses, or Dod on the commandements;
She that can sigh, and cry “Queen Elizabeth,"
Rail at the pope, and scratch-out “sudden death :”?
And for all this can give no reason why:
This is an holy-sister, verily,
SOME COPIES OF VERSES,
TRANSLATED PARAPHRASTICALLY OUT OF ANACREON.
These sure (said I) will me obey;
These, sure, heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with thundering Jove,
And all th' immortal powers; but Love,
Love smil'd, and from m' enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love and soft desire.
Farewell then, heroes! farewell, kings!
And mighty numbers, mighty things!
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.
THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck-in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done,
The Moon and stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
IV. THE DUEL.
YES, I will love then, I will love ;
I will not now Love's rebel prove,
Though I was once his enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the combat him defy.
An helmet, spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax, I did wield.
Love in one hand his bow did take,
In th' other hand a dart did shake;
-But yet in vain the dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the bow;
So well my armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist:
But when I thought all danger past,
His quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of arrow or of dart
He shot himself into my heart.
The living and the killing arrow
Ran through the skin, the flesh, the blood,
And broke the bones, and scorch'd the marrow,
No trench of work or life withstood.
In vain I now the walls maintain;
I set out guards and scouts in vain ;
Since th' enemy does within remain.
In vain a breast-plate now I wear,
Since in my breast the foe I bear;
In vain my feet their swiftness try;
For from the body can they fly?
FT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old:
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This, I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
"Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
VI. THE ACCOUNT.
WHEN all the stars are by thee told
(The endless sums of heavenly gold);
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall;
Or when the drops that make the sea,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be;
Thou then, and thou alone, mays't prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more:
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy-three ;
Write then at Lesbos (let me see)
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And, next to these, let me present
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company;
Five hundred both effectively.
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I'm sure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye's an archer there.
Go on: this stop why dost thou make?
Thou think'st, perhaps that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his host.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African ;
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names
Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid one,
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the line,
IX. ANOTHER. UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowery beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing, And around it roses growing, What should I do but drink away The heat and troubles of the day? In this more than kingly state Love himself shall on me wait. Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up; And mingled cast into the cup Wit, and mirth, and noble fires, Vigorous health and gay desires. The wheel of life no less will stay In a smooth than rugged way : Since it equally doth flee, Let the motion pleasant be. Why do we precious ointments show'r ? Nobler wines why do we pour? Beauteous flowers why do we spread, Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses whilst I live, Now your wines and ointments give; After death I nothing crave, Let me alive my pleasures have, All are Stoics in the grave,
X. THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY Insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon
Life is no longer than thy mirth,
Happy insect, happy thou!
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
XI. THE SWALLOW, FOOLISH Prater, what dost thou So early at my window do, With thy tuneless serenade? Well 't had been had Tereus made Thee as dumb as Philomel; There his knife had done but well. In thy undiscovered nest Thou dost all the winter rest, And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, Free from the stormy seasons' noise: Free from th' ill thou'st done to me; Who disturbs or seeks-out thee? Hadst thou all the charming notes Of the wood's poetic throats, All thy art could never pay What thou hast ta'en from me away. Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away A dream out of my arms to-day; A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be By all that waking eyes may see, Thou, this damage to repair, Nothing half so sweet or fair, Nothing half so good, canst bring, Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.
ELEGY UPON ANACREON.
WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE, SPOKEN BY THE GOD OF LOVE.
How shall I lament thine end, My best servant and my friend?