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 THE CORRVPT LIFE AND CONVER∣SATION, CVSTOMARY IN THE CITIE OF ROME. (Book 7)

THE SEVENTH SATYRE. (Book 7)

The ARGVMENT.

Know'st thou not, in what Citie, sinne (most) growes? He which but knowes the crimes of Rome, This knowes.

PErchance thou'dst know the holy conuersation Of Rome, renown'd, for her seuen-fold foundation. Old-Rome (if we may true Historians trust) Now in new-Rome lies buried in the dust. Papistry is a Sprig sprung-vp from Hell: An All-vice-bearing Branch, whose Boughs excell. Rome is a Den of Theeues, Worlds common-Stewes: A beastly Cell from whence all Sinne issues. He, that knowes not, Rome on seuen Hills to sit: Is ignorant in Stories, hath no Wit. Why art thou wroth (O Babylon) with me? If, by my Verse, thy knowne Crimes scourged be? O Wedlocke-hater, whose anointed Host Of fat-cram'd Clergie; warre serues for thee most.

So much dost Thou and thine sweete Marriage hate? Whores, before Wiues, to Loue and estimate. Thou, and thy Flockes are (sure) Spirituall: So much that Euill Spirit defiles you all. While Pope, Siricius, Priests their wiues gaine-saies: The Temples Sodome shield, to God they raise. Your Single liues, how chastely, closly led: Oft, Infants Golgothaes haue witnessed. Oh how much better were their foule Vowes broke? Than of Lewd Liues to beare so shamefull Yoke. Masculine Vertues ne're to Rome befall: Things carnall fit not men Spirituall. Oh, Romes Faith all her Males Emasculates: The World, with Pregnant Virgins exornates. And that her most pure Church, may purer be, Pure Friers, from their pure Nunnes pure Broods may see. Many a nimble Night-mare Sp'rit is knowne, To make such pure Sp'rit-hanted Virgins groane. Wiues of their owne thei'l none, Neighbours haue these: In such Flesh (may be) they can God well please. Religion, thus, hath foam'd vp Luxurie: A Lazie Life bred many a Prodigie. But yet (I hope) Romes Church and Chaire to pleasure, Thais (ith' Church) may iustly purchase treasure. Besides, much Gaine, much Godlinesse makes grow: No stinking Sauour can from Lucre flow. Oh, must Romes Corban, Temples pure prophane? Must God take Gifts from Strumpets filthy gaine? To horrid Whoredomes dost thou Pardons grant? From all good men all pardon thou must want. Captines haue Freedome, not for Ill, but Good: This Freedome was procur'd by Christs blest Blood.

But now, behold, huge Swarmes from Romes full stocke, Rare Pompe Pontificall, Spirituall Flocke; Myriades of Munckes, Armies of Eunuches kinde, All which twigs, sprigs sprung from thy Roote, I finde: Flockes of fat Sheepe, large Droues of Weathers faire: Cling close to Thee, thy Warfare stout they are. So many holy Fathers graue, thou hast, So many Nuns, angelike Virgins chaste: So many fat Papasinines vnmarried; Grylls off-Spring, in religious Armies carried: So many Sister-hoods, Fraternities, As ther be twinckling Stars in Frost-faire Skies. Deuouring Sons in Numbers Numberlesse; Sardanapalus Bands, in foule excesse: Legions of Locusts, Heards of holy Hogs; Foedifragous full Flocks, Worlds muddy Bogs. Their old-Religion holds of nothing more, Than Bacchus and their Bellies to adore. Monsters, whom Vertue cannot free from Vice: Such as from fertile Rome, spring in a trice, To feast at Fun'rals, and to drinke pots dry: Is Worke enough, is enough Piety. Much quiet, dainty Diet, Lazie Feast-dayes: Their fatted Bellies like blowne Bladders, raise. Feasters to be, not Fasters, they are knowne: Whose glutted Paunch so far is ouergrowne. What is a Munck? A Flesh-lump, A Wine-Pot: Whose Salt is Life, lest hee corrupt and rot. Circes (sure) turn'd, by Magicke Medicine, Swine into Munckes, or els, Munckes into Swine. 'Twixt Country-men and Moules ther's no such ods: As 'twixt old-Muncks, and our new-Munckey-clods.

What's Fryers frothy Troope? A Stygian Brood: Pamphagean Swarme of Locusts, lacking food. Wise Grasiers will not for one fa•• Oxe, buy A thousand two-foote, bare-foote Friers most fly. Many seeme proud, Christs naked Name t'embrace: Whose wicked Liues deny Christ to his Face. Many are fir'd with Zeale, whose Piety Is but gilt ore, Religion, Cruelty. Many of this Christ-preaching holy Hoste, Build Heau'n in Word, in Life build vp Hell most. Whoredome with these is a small-Sinne, and they, Guilty themselues, milde Mulcts vpon it lay. Thus, Rome one Stewes, these Staines permits in any: All Rome is (now) one Stewes, where first were many. Bishops, sweet Swarmes, in euer'y Cell, Muncks, Friers, Are Fathers, All; who this deny, are Lyers. For, they that Children get, must Fathers be: I know th'are Such; This Reason's firme for me. Haue I not stir'd this muddy Ditch of thine? Shall I thee shew the Popes Guarde soft and fine? Romes Purple Peeres, and Latian Cedars tall, Cardinall Chorus, glorious vnto all; For Worldly Ioyes, Earths Toyes no iot contending, Doe euen contemne, what each New-Moone can send-in. With Visage Sage, Gownes Flame-like, red Hats fine: Oh how their Liues doe shew, their Zeale doth shine? But truely (truth to say) their purple Clothes, Waxe red, being di'd•• in Blood and bloody Oathes. Christs Lambes they Butcher with inhumane spight: Thus, their Roabes red, thus waxe their Bonnets bright. Red-caps, disdaine pure Wine, drinke yee pure Blood: The Spirit springing thence, is much more good.

Thus, by such Ghostly guides Christs Flocks are fed: And Card'nals Functions are thus finished. Thus, Christ they serue, thus Christians liues they liue: Thus, vnto Christ they holy Worship giue. These Fathers fitly may be props of Hell: But, of Gods House, they cannot, halfe so well. Why seeke I Samplars? since full Stories writ, Romes Fathers filthy Liues set out most fit. Euen Sol doth shame, their cursed Crimes to see: My modest Muse may now (then) silent bee. Heere, oft-times fell a Starre, from a cleere Skie, A Cloudie Day brought vnchaste Chastitie. Romane Records doe filthy Foggs exhale; Her Scene obscene is as a lothsome tale. Rome, Vicious Rome, the Worlds Metropolis, The Metrapolitan Popes foule Chaire is. Gomorrha, scarce excell'd it in strange Crimes: So many Sin-Monsters raigne in their Climes. And, sure, but by that-fire which All must fry, Their frozen-Sins, nought els can liquifie. Rich Rome, for triumphs, Rome, most honoured: Is now the Empires Tayle, which (once) was Head. A Shambles of much Murther, Sincke of Sin: Shames Cell, Lusts Seate, a place to quaffe Wine in. Where you may many Harpeies, Mastiues see: Where proud Ambition, fly Sedition be. Rome, th'art blest Salems Character as right, As Christ is typ'd in thy Metropolite.