Babels balm: or The honey-combe of Romes religion With a neate draining and straining-out of the rammish honey thereof. Sung in tenne most elegant elegies in Latine, by that most worthy Christian satyrist, Master George Good-vvinne. And translated into tenne English satyres, by the Muses most vnworthy Eccho, Iohn Vicars.

OF THAT BLASPHE∣MOVS FALSE-FICTI∣ON OF MERIT, AND OF WORKS OF SVPEREROGATION, to the Derogation of Christs honour. (Book 5)

THE FIFTH SATYRE. (Book 5)

The ARGVMENT.

On Romes Bawds brow is branded Blasphemie; Whose Marke, marke here, in this grosse Heresie.

WHo (Pseudo. Prophet, of false Prophets) can Thy thundring Blasphemies discusse or scan? Christ merited (Thou'lt say) that thou mightst merit: And Merits dipt in his Bloud dost inherit. With Merits mingling Christ, dost Monsters make: Which from Workes-wages, and Faith, fashion take. Strange iugling Trickes of Merits, thou dost plot: And mak'st Christs-selfe to merit God knowes what▪ By Merits, thou (for so the Bargaine's made, Twixt God and Thee) hast for Gods Kingdome paid. Saluations Sterne, and Foredecke, Merits are: Thy Faith's in Christ, for Faiths Deseruing-share.

Sole Faith is no Faith; is a Carkasse dead, Nothing almost, rude lumpe, a fant'sie fled. With Merits, Grace-Mediatrixe saues (thou sayst) But vaine is Hope on God alone that's plac't. Faith fixt on God, confusde, retires, retorts; But fixt on Thee, Thy goodnesse, It supports. Faith Physicke is; trust in Physicion's fraile: And, without thine owne worke, Both these will faile. Thy pray'r, is, Lord, for Merits, Mercie show: And thy desires desired as debts that grow. Boldly thou'dst breake-ope heau'n Gates by Merit: And make thy selfe and thine, Gods Throne inherit. As Ixion did his Cloud, thou'lt this imbrace: As thy chiefe Light, Delight, and heauenly Grace. Merits superfluous scums and scraps thou'lt sell: (Apothecarie kinde) to All not well. Who ere wants Merits, thou canst fill him full: And out of Trunks and Treasuries, them pull. The Iust doe supererogate, thou'lt say: And for himselfe and his, On, merit may. Such Iust are superarrogating Elues: And merit not for Others nor themselues. Stealing Saints Merits, thereby to get gold: Th'art Merits-Thiefe, Merits vnfruitfull mold. I wonder where this Chest of Merits stood: Ith' dayes of our Isachian Patriarchs good. Did Rome keepe this trim Treasure of such worth▪ That afterwards Romes Lord might bring it forth? For, if Romes Ioue a golden gobbet haue: He'le straight raine-downe a showre of Merits braue. Gods gifts are free, the Elect get grace vnbought: The Popes gifts are at most deare prices sought.

Ith' Scriptures, none, can Tubs of Merits finde: But, there (we reade) Grace gratis giues (most kinde) Vpon Christs bloud, God, our soules health did place: Canst thou then sell this Ransome (Pedler base) Tis a deepe Whirlepoole of most impious bane: Which muds the stinking Laerna of thy braine. Christ ne're (thou sayst) t'vs Righteousnesse imputes: Yet Rome, Saints-Righteousnesse, t'vs attributes. Did free Saint Francis gran•• what Christ did not? Thy pate and partie Physicke might haue got. For (sure) all Saints (that none might Merits lacke) Their Merits hid, ith' corners of thy Sacke. At Rome also Merits Exchange doth stand: Whose golden Keyes, are at thy chiefe command. Porter whereof thou art, but in good time: Thou mayst be Butler, and so higher climbe. And as Seas waues all on a heape doe flow; Nereus being ne're the lesse, when backe they goe: So thou alone dost all Saints Merits take: And, sell thou ne're so many, they ne're slake. Tis in thy power to poure-out Merits treasure: For, all Store's trusted to the Stewards pleasure. Romes gracious streames from her full veines doe thrill▪ That gratefull ones may gratis drinke their fill. Alas Christs troubled, Truth disgraced grace: What Goods, what gifts, giues Man, God to abase? Hebrews and Greeks, no word for Merit haue: Both Couenants God in Greeke and Hebrew gaue. The Faithfull liue not by their Righteousnesse: Life and soules health the Iust by Faith possesse. Saints haue receiu'd, but Crownes did ne're bestow: And none to lend their Righteousnesse, I know.

Who in himselfe perfection seekes; Ith' Gra••e, Seekes Life; which, he may seeke, but ne're shall haue. He makes vp Merit, that he so may see, Christs Passion spoild, and God no God to be. Say Peter, when as Christ beheld thee weeping: What Merits helpt thee? who had them in keeping? Gods grace, is no grace, if not gratis giuen: Dost thou deserue it? Grace is from thee driuen. By sinne, first Adam, Hell to vs did Merit: By second Adam, we may Heau'n inherit. But whose foule Seed can giue a faire conception? If no mans can, can I wretch, all infection? My faith's most firme, that me poore wretch to saue: Himselfe God valent, and Christ volent gaue. Each, operist-Papist, scraps of workes doth add: And of's owne purenesse is halfe-Botcher badd. In's life time oft times he workes aid doth trust: But, dying, he all's Workes away will thrust.* 1.1 O helpelesse Hope, on Merits to relie! Who, trust such faithlesse faith, soone fall thereby. Such haplesse Hope, by hoping spoiles poore wretches: Whose care to keepe, by too much care bewitches. Sole Faith is Sole Cause, of Soules health assur'd: Christ sayes to th' sicke, beleeue, and thou art cur'd. When Christ our Lord with soules betrothings hath; His Nuptials busie Bride-Maide is sole faith. The debtour, than the Creditour's more base: If workes make God our debtour, where's his grace? Can Workes worke-out my punishments remission? To worke my Blisse, adde Merits least addition? Can I by Merits my soules sore-eyes cure? Are These the Sop••, sweet Wash-Bals, blots to pure?

Must heau'ns blest Haruest, workes base huskes require? Must one-howers worke; enioy Ioy infinite? Must I with Merit-Oyle, enlight my feet? Lest I with lightlesse lampe, the Bridegroome meet? Whom, Christs Words, Wounds, laue, saue, and sanctifie: Can worthlesse Workes, those better beautifie? Can Merits driue-backe Deaths darts deadly rage? Is merit my soules wholesome soueraigne Sage? Can Trash pay Treasure, Drugs and Drosse, pay gold? Can mites, with mounts, minutes with myriads hold? Can my deserts, Christs death, deserts, deserue? Such proud opinions from true wisdome swerue. Since by Christs Bloud, 'tis plaine, I gaine saluation: Heau'ns wrath, base merit, brings to consternation. I liue no•• of my selfe; if so, I die: God is my life, the life of God wish I. Whats'ere is try de ith' Furnace of Gods frowne: Is quickly, quite with furious flames, burnt downe. What if mans Workes to th' world seeme ne're so faire: If God be Iudge, all men most guiltie are. Who, Guiltie, does Gods will? vnlesse he doe it, By God, first Facient; He, poore patient, to it. All's else a Shaddow, Christ the Substance pure: Christ is (alone) my Life, Saluation sure. Christs Price and Ransome, my Redemption payd: What then can man (all payd) to pay, be made? Moyses, all liuers liues ith Bloud, did place: So in Christs Bloud shed, is my life, my grace. Vertue, is Vice; if Grace, by Christ be none: And if we ought doe well, 'tis Gods alone. Nor (sure) did God confect, but Gall infect, Those Eyes; which on Christs Price haue ill aspect.

O let Christs precious Bloud my blest Bath be: And not one drop of least desert in me. O, be't my care, my selfe, a Wretch to view: And no desert (but death) to be my due. O me, me most vnworthy, heau'n to see: So conscious am I of desert in me. My eyes confirme, my inward-parts confesse: Of Merit, my sad soules great emptinesse. I feele defects, my life ore-laide with woe: And I poore wretch (these gone) doe nought else know. Gold, Iasper Stones, are foule, with Christs bloud plac't: Must not deserts dregs, (then) be more abac't. When I am wrencht and drencht in Christs deere blood: O let my Merits, be hells burning Wood. Say, I had liu'd well, yet my hope might faile me: But hauing liu'd ill, death will (sure) assaile me. Oh, from deaths danger who shall me wretch raise▪ Herein (sweet Sauiour) Thine be all the praise. The hand-writing of Sinne Christ quite defac't, Which tane from Satan, on his Crosse he plac't. If Christ Gods onely Sonne, Lifes orient Sun; For Me, a Seruant, dire death would not shun: Can I, a Slaue, Christs death, as my due claime? And challenge Life, because Christ death did tame? Bloud should flow from my deepe torne worne heart: And all my Marrow, should sad teares impart. I merit nought; my selfe, by no meanes saue; Christ, my Redeemers death, this, to me gaue: O may I die e're Christs Grace through me die: For, in me, of me, for me, nought haue I. O wash me, well ith' Well of thy good will: Lest, guiltie me, my guiltie deeds doe kill.

O may my fil••hs of flesh, my life lewd, base. Deare Christ, be folded in thy kinde embrace. Satans dire Darts assault me (Victor great) Giue me sharpe shafts, that I may Satan beat. I am, ith' world, soyld, spoyld, (O Iesu good) Laue, saue my soule, ith' Brooke of thy blest blood. I burne with selfe-loue, (O great Lord of Loue) To burne with thy Loue, grant grace from aboue. As Lord, the Spirit; as Tyrant, flesh I serue; Oh tame the Tyrant flesh, my soule preserue. Lest Earth me take, lest Hell me terrifie: O hold me, heat me, with heau'ns Feruencie. Let Earths fraile Ioyes to Heau'••s firme Ioyes giue place: And sacred loue of good, Earths Mud quite chase. I hate all mine, and that I be not mine: I seeke thee, Christ; and sue to be all thi••e. O let thy large, thy Seamlesse coate (most faire) Paliate my natiue filth, and leaue none bare. O Lambe of God, slaine from the worlds creation: Thy proper-Worke, be my Propitiation. With thy deare Saints (O Sauiour Christ I craue) Me, thy most Suppliant, submisse seruant, saue. The euill of guilt, and p••nishment I know: This, this indeed's the Merit I can show. But th' euill of guilt and paine and hells fierce flame, Yea hells great Lord; I know heau'ns Lord did tame. This is my constant faiths confession; hence, Ile not be forc'd by fraud or violence. He which (O Christ) trusts not thy sole sweet Merit. Shewes he's not thine, and shall not thine inherit. Since all thy gracious gifts, me farre surpasse: Can my naught, nothing, merit ought (alas.

Whos' ere (O Christ) an hundreth Pence Thee owes: Vnto ten thousand Talents, My debt growes. Within Mee, Sinne: a Massie Mountaine hath: Sins Mountaine to remoue, Lord, strength my Faith. Least I (O God by Deaths sting wounded be: Behold my Sauiours Wounds wide-ope, for mee. O Thou which Bottlest vp Thy Saints Teares, All: Let not, these of thy Seruant, fruitlesse fall. The Bane of Sinne, my Blood of Teares descries: And me, my sweet Redeemers thirst, euen fries, Free me, from Death, and from lifes guilt me cleare: And for my Spots, O let Christs Stripes appeare. If Christ for's Seruant, vndue debts did pay: Let not the Seruant pay, what's payd, I pray. O Iesus, which of heart, reines, Searcher art: To thee, I (here) sacrifice reines, and heart. I thee beseech, euen by thy bloody Sweat: Thy Teare••, Feares, Flouts; whom Iewes vniustly beat? Let all my hope, to thy sure Seale be fixt; With none of my selfe-Meri•• to be mixt. This is my serious, pious protestation: Confirm'd, from false dogmaticke alteration. Christ hath ingul••t me in his Sea of Loue. Bare, poore, impure, I'm (here) a milke-white Doue. Here is my Hope, firme Faith, Pledge of saluation: This, this faire foun••, flowes to my restauration. If th' Ocean of Christs Bloud; me, all keepe in: 'Twill purely purge my Blots and Spots of sinne. Let this, th••, this, blest Lambe with's holy hide: Cloath me, and let me, thine (O Christ) abide. Sweet Sauiour of the world, Iesus most kinde: Let me thy Mercies, in thy Merits finde.

Gold, Incense, Myrrh, of Praise, I humbly bring; As Lord, take Incense; Man, Myrrh; Gold, as King. What-ere is Thine, and thou to th' World mad'st free: All those, Thy Loue, makes proper vnto mee. With godlesse Goates, adiudge mee not to stand: But, with thy Sheepe, set me at Thy Right Hand. Whom Thou held'st deare, and deare for me didst pay? Now, count not Vile, as willing my decay. For, without Thee (O Christ) I say, and shall: I, either Death deserue, or Nought at all. But, since, for vanquisht Me, thou'rt Victor-wise: My paine is Thine; Thy Palme, is made my prize. My due-Deaths-draft (O Christ) Thou first drank'st vp: When, Thou for mee, didst say, Let passe this Cup. O let my Death, by thee, be Deaths decay: And in thy Loue, to leaue Life, no delay. Let Grace, be my lifes louely Morning-light: Then Glory, will beeth' Euening-Starre most bright. By thy deare Death, and Life, let mee, Deaths due: Obtaine sure hold on Lifes Hire, most vndue. And let thy glorious Beames of Goodnesse shine Vpon this sparkling Faith, faint heart of mine. Yea, where all plenteous pleasures, from thy Torrent, And Loue-Flo••ds flow, from thy still-streaming Current: Let mee drink deepe, from that deepe Spring most cleere, And with Thy Blood My thirsty Heart re-cheere. Let Thy Death be my Hoste; Thy Paines, my Pay; Thy Crosse, my Crowne, Thy Sores, my Salues alway. Whilest Life doth last (O Christ) I'le deadly hate, Thy Romish Riuall, I'le repudiate. Thus, then, Mans Lies, Blasphemies arrogate, Merit by's Workes; from Christs Deeds derogate.

Thus, to Mans Merits, Christ must now giue place: And to Romes Ruler render Throne and Grace. And, thus, Christs godly goodly Vicar, hath Gods Power disdain'd, prophan'd the Name of Faith. His Merits Meritoriously doe Merit, That he should Hell, but neuer Heau'n inherit. For Merits, Heau'n Hee'l sell, the Church defile: And Christ to Belial Hee dates reconcile. O Rome, is this thy Zeale? thy Church so faire? Did Christ charge Peter thus for's Flocke to care? With such Tartarean termes (Church-Scourger braue) Dar'st Thou Gods Iustice, free-grace, whip, depraue? If any sense in thy blunt Brest doth stay: Antichrists noted Notes, these be, thou'lt say. But, I am hopelesse, by my Verse, to frame On th' Anuill of thy Heart, Sense of thy Shame. See, then, Romes Faith, Romes holy Church, now see: How like to Peters, Hee and his Faith bee.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Note this mysterie of iniqui••i••.