The apostate prince, or, A satyr against the present King of Poland by Richard Burridge.

THE Apostate Prince: OR, A Satyr Against the KING of POLAND.

NOW, like a Porcupine, I dart my Pen Against the least of Kings, and worst of Men, What Sat'rist can forbear the lashing you, Who neither will to Man nor Heav'n be true? Who ran from Saxony to cruel Rome Only the Throne of Poland to assume, That ticklish Seat of Empire; which allows None there to Rule, but what will pay their Vows To such like Saints, which commonly depart The World upon a Ladder, or a Cart.

Fie, fie, a Christian Prince his God betray! Change his Religion, the Apostate play, For such a Diadem which must not be Entail'd upon your Line successively? The Jews, the Turks, who falsly do believe, Do Laugh to see your Faith pinn'd on your Sle••ve; And I do fear, you will, as Pride does Swell, Turn Atheist next, to be a King in Hell.

Scandal to Princes, scorn of Kings, and shame To Christendom, infernal is thy Fame! A Prince affront his God with Deeds so foul That they stain Heaven, and deform the Soul! O horror, and amaze! what hast thou done? My Blood congeals, and scarce has pow'r to run, To think thou art to Pride, that base born Slave Of Hell, so much a Friend, that you can leave A Church so well Reform'd so True, Sincere, Pure, Orthodox, and Holy, to adhere To that Communion which does Canonize Men for nefurious Impieties; To make their Peace with God, invoke the Dead Stanislaus of Polish Saints the head: But good St. † 1.1 Flacrius, I do suppose, You call on most, that he may guard your Nose From those Disasters which attend the sport Of Venus, in a lustful Prince's Court.

Into what Errors are the Papists led! To think their Jugglers do release the Dead From Purgatory; it's a feigned Flame, Which doth such simple Fools as you are Tame. As under ev'ry Poplar, Elm, and Oak, The Ethnicks did their senseless Stocks Invoke; So they to Images, and † 1.2 Pictures bow, As if they Sense had got their Zeal to know. Your Priests drink Wine, give Laymen only Meat; O Romish Faith! it's but a holy Cheat. Pray, what avails ‖ 1.3 Wax-hands; Indulgences, Censers, Odd-numbers (damned Fopperies!) To'ards Heaven? Or, what Grace doth Flagelling, Crossing with Holy-water, to you bring? None: Nor does Agnus Dei's Sir, preserve You from Enchantments; from the Truth you swerve. Your Beads will serve you, as a Scale, to tell How many Miles it's from Warsaw, to Hell.

Apostles Christen'd Men, as Scripture tells, But Rome, as well as Men, do Christen Bells. If Pilgrimaging merits Heaven, take A Trip to England, for the Blessing sake.

Here may you see fair Winifria's strange Well; And old St. German's, where he once did dwell; At Canterbury base St. Becket's Shrine, For the deserved end of which Divine, A King was Flaug'd; here may you likewise see Tyburn, that triple, consecrated Tree; From whence, St. Coleman, Whitebread, Pickering, And Langhorn, went to Heaven in a String. Since for a better we our King did change, A Chappel has been (you will think it strange. 'Cause not Loretto's) brought from Heunsloe-heath, Eleven Miles, it's true, upon my Faith. But if strange Reliques you've a mind to see, You must tramp France, proud Spain, and Italy, And other foreign Parts; though once we'd here A Nail, which fix'd Christ to the Cross; a Spear, With which Longinus pierc'd our Saviour's Side, When he between Two Malefactors Dy'd.

The Lustful Flames of Whoring Carmelites, Proud Cardinals, Rich Abbots, Lazarites, May make you dread those endless pains of Fire, They represent by leacherous Desire; To prompt their Fury of debauched Heat, They need not † 1.4 Compostella Scallops eat; Their Heat without 'em Swells their burning Veins, And, where their Host is consecrated, Reigns.

The Nunneries, where Parents Daughters thrust, And Maiden-heads are sacrific'd to Lust, They're to your Clergy, dedicated Stews, There handsome Paramours they pick, and choose; What need Maids to be Whores range Christendom, When they may be as well Debauch'd at home For nothing; without acting that damn'd Crime Of sending ‖ 1.5 Babes to Hell, Rome's nat'ral Clime? Was Blood upon each murd'ring Nun to fly, As Judgments to detect Barbarity, They could not then about their Gardens tread, But Vengeance would spurt from the private Dead In reaking Wrath of stifled Infants, Blood, To drown their Parents in a crimson Flood.

Perhaps the Pope's Infallibility Makes you to be in love with Papistry; But, knew you all that Hist'ries of 'em tell, You would not run so fast with them to Hell: The Lives of John the Thirteenth, Hildebrand, And others, put the Devils to a stand, For fear their Pride, and grand Impiety, Should claim o'er Spirits, a Supremacy: Such as will take from Emperors their Right, For that Prerogative in Hell will Fight.

But, hark you me: Another Trick they do, They Make their God, and then they Eat him too.

If Rats, or Mice, should chew this holy Meat, The Creature then does the Creator Eat; This Metamorphosis is very odd, Lo, Bread's made Flesh; a Priest can make his God; That Wine they can so soon to Blood convert, Surely it must be done by Magick Art! What Prodigies of Sin! — These Poys'ners shun, And, to the healing Balm of Luther run; Leave Poland, and then let the Dyet choose One purposely bred up his Soul to lose.

Although by Bell, by Book, and Candle, they Will curse you, if you'll not their Church obey; Laugh at their slight Anathema's, and hate The Pope, whom God does Excommunicate. Like our first Martyrs (with immortal Praise May it be spoken) in Marian days, None of our Pastors of the Church of Rome, Walking with Crooks, and Mitres, durst presume To hazard the Salvation of their Souls On spurious Faith; the fear of Death controuls Their foolish Doctrine; tells 'em, if they die, They die great Villains to assert a Lie.

Base Profligate, your Honour Heraldry May justly paint with black Iniquity; Yet other Colours may, as Emblems, shew That many Qualities belong to you. Gules in the first place may adorn your Arms, To shew, a bloody Faith your Conscience charms.

Next Or, to shew you're Impudent and Bold; Your Heav'n to hazard for a Crown of Gold; Then Vert, to signifie, at any time, Your mind is Fresh, and Brisk, to act a Crime For Interest; the Blazon, let it be, Set out with all the marks of Infamy; Two Jesuits, the Supporters; on each Hand, The Motto, God and Justice I withstand.

Arouze, ye drouzy Imps, and do not Sleep; For, if a Register of time you keep In Hell, now change the Epocha, and Year, A New-Style make, as well as Papists here; And when Old-Nick does find such silly Fools, Who will for Wealth, or Honour sell their Souls, Much after this same form, And manner, let The Bond be Sign'd; and hereunto I set My Hand and Seal, the first of June, N. S.— In the third Year, since Fredrick's Wickedness Revolted from a true Belief, which made Infernal Markets have but little Trade.

Though Hell's Applause you have, yet, when you Die; Satan will have a very careful Eyë Over your most perfidious Soul, for fear Your growing Pride should snatch at Empire there; He knows, with Oathes, you'd make the Damn'd believe Strange Matters, and the Wits of Hell deceive, With sugar'd Words, till your usurping Pride Had got the Brimstone Forces on your Side; Then ev'ry Day you'd lessen more and more His Strength, as you had Conti's heretofore.

I am afraid in your dull frigid Clime, There is approaching a distracted Time, Wherein the Wrath of Heav'n will soon Rejoyce, To plague you for the Crown, the People's Choice. But what care you, brave Champion for the Pope, Who dreads no Vengeance, nor for Bliss doth hope? For one short Moment of Regalian Sway, High Heav'n you would, though damn'd for't, Disobey.

Were you by th' Turks Besieg'd, too hardly prest, For Liberty, or for a Crown at least, You'd Swear, till Oathes from Hell, did Devils draw, The Alcoran were truer than the Law: To Moses you'd prefer his Mahomet; (Who, in his pendant Tomb, at Moecha, yet Deceives the blinded Turks) Swear him alone, Greater than the World's Saviour on his Throne: Swear that the Musselman's true Sanctity, The unbelieving Christian does Outvy: A Thousand other Falshoods Swear too, which Shall raise your Fame in Hell t'a higher Pitch Than tott'ring Poland's Throne; whose Steps ascend To Ruine faithless Princes in the End.

Perhaps, now Crown'd, you think, your Greatness can Protect you from the common Lot of Man; Tho' Kings are stiled Gods, yet must they Die, Their Scepters, Riches, Crowns, nor Dignity, Cann't save them from the Power of that Fate, Which will not grant to Life a longer Date: Nay, had you all Endowments, which adorn The Mind, or Body, Death such Gifts will Scorn:

The Beauty of Young Absalom; or Age Of Lamech's Son; the Policy of Sage Achitophel, nor Height of Saul; the Son Of Kish, the Wisdom of King Solomon; Or matchless Strength of Sampson, could not be Defence enough against Mortality.

I'm apt to think thou'rt wicked Julian's Ghost, Who, in the middle of a num'rous Host, Smitten by God, flung up, towards the Sky, Handfuls of Blood, to shew he did Defie The force of Heaven to the last: But now, Some hurly burly-being rais'd below, Among the Damned, you have stol'n away From those dark Shades, into the Beams of Day: If Man, you must descend of that Fell Wretch, A Monster whilst on Earth, who was no Sketch, But perfect Picture of as horrid Crimes, You count the Glory of the Present Times; Who would, when dreadful Thunder-claps broke through The Mounts of Heaven, and swift Lightning flew About the limpid Air, in proud Disdain, Throw counterfeited Thunder back again, To make Resemblance that his Majesty, Was equal to the Powers of the Sky. That you might see your Errors all, and fear The Scourge of God, I wish, there might appear Comets, extending frightful, blazing Tails, A Navy which through Clouds of Fire Sails; Warr'ours in a confused Enmity, With stranger Apparitions in the Sky,

Which might portend some heavy Punishment Was due to you, unless you do Repent: But, ah! I dread, thou'rt too much harden'd in The Love of Monarchy, thy darling Sin; Good Counsel you will spurn against, and count Them all as Foes, who'd have you to dismount Your Iv'ry Throne; a Bliss, you think, so good, That God in Competition with you stood About it, if he should Displeasure shew, By dire Signs, which from his Anger flew.

Who would, besides your self, have all this Shame, Only to be a gawdy Thing in Name? Power you've none; for the Republick Rules As it thinks fit; Crowns are but lent by Poles: Your Queen durst not be there, unless, like you, She'll head-long damn her Soul, and Body too: Because a Gentleman, they let you wear A Sword, but of your drawing it take care; For, if you offer there to be Uncivil, They'll drive you, and your Saxons to the Devil. Such is your high Ambition, (which would feign, By grand Rebellion, over Angels Reign) That Laws of Nations, Bonds, and solemn Leagues, No Infl'ence have on you, your dark Intrigues With Hell, in whose behalf you draw your Sword, Make you, with Kings and Princes, break your Word Your Pride, with which you meet your Glory, can Deceitful be to God, as well as Man.

Does Hell, and Rome, already stir you up To fill the ever-thirsting Harlot's Cup?

With Blood of Innocence, without a Cause, Damn'd, and be double damn'd your bloody Laws. Must Lifeland now be Plunder'd, Ravaged, Made a Sepulchre for the Massacred? The Streams of sweet Duina be Intwin'd With Romish Rage, and under Blood Confin'd? It's hard, but Riga will, (I do not doubt) For Sweden's Honour, hold your Fury out.

If you Dominion over them should have, Rogues sent to Gallies, or an Algier Slave, Would have less Bondage; so they'll Freedom choose; Rather than, like the French, wear Wooden Shoes. As a Bassaw, when some Deaf Mute doth blow The Fatal Trumpet at his Door, and shew The Sultan's Ribbon'd Orders, for his Head, Trembles, wax Pale, and, with the Fright, half Dead, Resigns his Life, Resistance being vain, Against the force of a Despotick Reign; So to great Taxes, must the Swedes then bow, And not presume to ask, why it is so; Sic volo, & sic jubeo compels, When Vassals, to obey against their Wills: Nay, more than this, your Rage will Violate Those Holy Altars, which they Consecrate Unto a Sacred Deity, that's true, And not to Saints, their Fathers never knew.

Have we, like They, a ten Years War maintain'd With France, till we that Throne had almost drain'd Of all it's Wealth, for weeping Europe's Good, Made Flanders Drunk, and Reel with Humane Blood:

At Ryswick made an Honourable Peace; And, shall not Wars yet in her Bowels cease? To please the Humour of your hellish Reign, Janus must open all his Gates again.

Is this the Thanks which Caesar has, to bring To all the Universe Peace-Offering? Has he, for this, so often cross'd the Main, (Where Neptune Homage paid, and all his Train) To Face the French, and make the Eagle fly, With Olive, from the Crescent Enemy; Ventur'd his Life for all, without Excuse; Fierce Ireland in Person did Reduce; Where that Attempt, performed at the Boyn, To everlasting Story Fame will joyn: There in the great Exploit, a Random Shot, (Which had it's dying Orders near forgot,) Did Wound the King, but God the Fate withstood, It being not design'd for Royal Blood: Vertue and Fortune seemed to contend, Which of the two should be his greatest Friend; Angels, amaz'd to see him Baffle Fate, With Crowns of Lawrel did upon him wait, To all his Foes, his Presence (like the Soyl, Which Poys'nous Insects Kills) was Killing; while The Hero rush'd through Blood, and Smoke, to Fight, The Unsuccessful James did take a Flight, To tell the News to Him, which doth supply His wants, more for the Queen's Dexterity In Bed, than out of Pity to the Fate, Which has reduc'd him to so mean a State.

Now think but what our KING has undergone, That Europe might not be by France undone; How He has broke her Chains of Misery, To set her free, for all Eternity; Then Thoughts would quickly to your Conscience tell, To break her Peace deserves the Pains of Hell. Without a Cause to Gore thy Neighbour's Prince! All Kings should joyn to punish the Offence.

Deserter of the Faith, what hast thou done? False Judas, cruel Herod, Cain, or none, Who are tormented in the Flames of Hell, Did, when they liv'd on Earth, so much Rebel Against their God as you; Cain strove to Please Him, but in vain; a horrid Dread did sieze The Soul of Judas, he was sore Dismay'd, That he (like you) his Master had Betray'd; And, as for cursed Herod's Cruelty, Fear prompt him to secure his Regency: Thus Murd'rers of a Brother, and the Lord Of Life, young Infants, wicked Crimes abhorr'd (Yea, one especially) by all the World, I can excuse, but on you must be hurl'd My Wrath. O wicked Runagate, reflect Upon a future State, do not neglect That great Concern, return to Saxony, And, laying Crowns aside, to Heaven cry, To make you but the least amongst the Blest▪ Which lean their Heads on faithful Abra'm's Breast; But, hold! bid I a Pilate to Repent, It is as strange as Flesh to Rome in Lent;

For; now you have an earthly Crown, you slight Your way to God, in hopes a hallow'd Light Will guide your Steps to Heaven, when you Die, So, this I Note on your Impiety, Non-Recantation to the World doth tell, Your Coronation will be next in Hell. The Plagues which God and Man can heap on you, Are but, base Ruler, thy deserved due: Were there but such an one as Ravillac (That would but Laugh at Tortures on the Rack, So he could wash his Hands in Royal Gore) To Stab you, Europe would the Fact adore: That ev'ry Deed of Murder would prefer His Noble Soul, to be a Shining Star Of Heaven; Heaven would the Murd'rer Greet, Nay, come Half-way, the Regicide to meet.

FINIS.

Notes

• † 1.1

  There are many Saints whose Aid and Assistance they Implore in particular Diseases, and Distemper of Body; as St. Venisa for the Green-sickness, St. Liberius for the Fistula, St. Flacrius for the French-Pox, &c. See Stopford's Pagano-Papismus, Chap. 4.
• † 1.2

  At Fouchial in Madera, I have seen the Picture of our Saviour carrying his Cross, painted on the out-side of one of their Churches; to which the Portuguieze paid so much Veneration, that they kneeled in the open Street, and sang before it for near a quarter of an Hour: O su∣perstition exceeding the Heathen!
• ‖ 1.3

  Stopford again tells us in these words, cap. 17. In some Churches the Candles are put out with a Wax hand, which signifies the hand of Judas, which was as it were of Wax; that is, flexible to evil, by which Christ our King, and true Light, was Betrayed, and, as much as in him lay, Extinguished.
• † 1.4

  He tells us from another Author, cap. 18. Many leacherous Men and Women resort to Compostella, to eat Scallops for the kindling of Lust, and encrease of Nature, under the name of a Pilgrimage to St. James his Shrine.
• ‖ 1.5

  H. T. in his Abridgement of Christian Doctrines, being one of your own Writers, that unbaptized Children dying, go to the nethermost part of Hell, where they endure the sense of Loss, though not of Pain, and are ever excluded from the Face of God.