Satyrs upon the Jesuits written in the year 1679, upon occasion of the plot, together with the Satyr against vertue, and some other pieces by the same hand.

SATYR I. Garnet's Ghost addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Cabal just after the Murder of Godfrey. (Book 1)

BY hell 'twas bravely done! what less than this? What sacrifice of meaner worth & price Could we have offer'd up for our success? So fare all they, who'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 reeking 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 ce∣ment: 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 Iesuits? 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 bread? And can you fail, or bungle in your trade? Shall one poor life your cowardice upbraid? Tame dastard slaves! who your profession shame, And fix disgrace on our great Founder's name.

Think what late Sect'ries (and 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, And 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 defied. 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 outdone 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 renoun. But hold! I wrong our Church and Cause, which need No foreign 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 Emperour, To give his poison stronger force and pow'r Mixt a God with't, and made it work more sure: Blest memory! which shall thro' 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 Hell's 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 bugbare-word, devis'd by Us to scare The sensless rout to slavishness and fear, Ne're known to aw the brave, and those that dare. Such weak and feeble things may serve for checks▪ To reign 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 of 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) Make them in steams of Blood & slaughter drown, Or with new weights of guilt still press 'em down Shame, faith, religion, honour, loyalty, Nature it self, whatever checks there be To loose and uncontroul'd impiety, Be all extinct in you; own no remorse But that you've balk'd a sin, have bin no worse, Or too much pitty shewn.—

Be diligent in mischief's 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 Iesuits, 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 And utterly blot out the cursed Race: Thrice damn'd be that Apostate Monk, from whom seize, Sprung first these Enemies of Us and Rome: Whose pois'nous Filth dropt from ingendring 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 bin thought fit t' have bin her Councellor, She should 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 successours, 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 doctrins did confute▪ And all, who would stand out in stiff defence, They gently claw'd and worried into sence: Better than all our Sorbon dotards now, Who would by dint of words our Foes subdue. This was the riged discipline of old, Which modern sots for Persecution hold:

Of which dull Annalists in story tell Strange legends, and huge bulky volumus swell With Martyr'd Fools, that lost their way to hell. From these, our Church's glorious Ancestours, We've learnt our arts & 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 proselites 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 soveraign 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'reran! He scorn'd like common Murderers to deal By parcels and piecemeal; he scorn'd Retail I'th' Trade 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 't had bin, 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 outsin a Monarch, born to Reign In Guilt, and all Competitors disdain: Dread Memory! whose each mention still can make Pale Hereticks with trembling Horrour 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 even wishes ere 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 scatter wide destruction 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 ly 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 bloud 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'le go With captive Ghosts t'attend me down below. Let these the Handsells of your vengeance be, Yet stop not here, nor flag in cruelty. Kill like a Plague or Inquisition; spare No Age, Degree, or Sex; onely to wear A Soul, onely 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, Though interceding for you, slay ev'n there. Spare not young Infants smiling at the brest, Who from relenting Fools their mercy wrest: Rip teeming Wombs, tear out the hated Brood From thence, & drown 'em in their Mothers bloud. Pity not Virgins, nor their tender cries, Though 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 the Victims to attone. 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 bloud Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the floud But slaughter'd Carcasses; till the whole Isle Become one tomb, become one funeral 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 barbarous Pict; What Spain nor Eighty eight could ere devise, With all its fleet and fraught of cruelties; What ne're Medina wish'd, much less could dare, And bloudier 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, Forein 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 waste 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.