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 II. (Book 2)

NAy, if our sins are grown so high of late, That Heav'n no longer can adjourn our fate; May't please some milder vengeance to devise Plague, Fire, Sword, Dearth, or any thing but this. Let it rain scalding showres of Brimstone down, To burn us, as of old the lustful Town: Let a new deluge overwhelm agen, And drown at once our Land, and Lives, and Sin. Thus gladly we'll compound, all this we'll pay, To have these worst of Ills remov'd away. Judgments of other kinds are often sent In mercy onely, not for punishment: But where these light, they shew a Nations fate Is given up and past for reprobate. When God his stock of wrath on Egypt spent, To make a stubborn Land and King repent, Sparing the rest, had he this one Plague sent;

For this alone his People had been quit, And Pharaoh circumcis'd a Proselyte. Wonder no longer why no cure like these Was known or suffer'd in the primitive days: They never sinn'd enough to merit it, 'Twas therefore what Heavens just pow'r thought fit, To scourge this later and more sinful age With all the dregs and squeesings of his rage. Too dearly is proud Spain with England quit For all her loss sustain'd in Eighty eight; For all the Ills our warlike Virgin wrought, Or Drake or Rawleigh her great Scourges brought. Amply was she reveng'd in that one birth, When Hell for her the Biscain Plague brought forth; Great Counter-plague! in which unhappy we Pay back her sufferings with full usury: Than whom alone none ever was design'd T'entail a wider curse on Human kind, But he who first begot us, and first sinn'd.

Happy the World had been, and happy Thou, (Less damn'd at least, and less accurst than now) If early with less guilt in War th'hadst dy'd, And from ensuing mischiefs Mankind freed. Or when thou view'dst the Holy Land and Tomb, Th'hadst suffer'd there thy brother Traytors doom. Curst be the womb that with the Firebrand teem'd, Which ever since has the whole Globe inflam'd; More curst that ill-aim'd Shot, that basely mist That maim'd a limb, but spar'd thy hated brest, And made th' at once a Cripple and a Priest. But why this wish? The Church if so might lack Champions, Good works, and Saints for the Almanack. These are the Ianizaries of the Cause, The Life Guard of the Roman Sultan, chose To break the force of Huguenots and Foes. The Churches Hawkers in Divinity, Who 'stead of Lace and Ribbons, Doctrine cry: Romes Strowlers, who survey each Continent, Its trinkets and commodities to vent.

Export the Gospel like mere ware for sale, And truck'd for Indigo and Cutchineal. As the known Factors here the Brethren once Swopt Christ about for Bodkins, Rings, and Spoons. And shall these great Apostles be contemn'd, And thus by scoffing Hereticks defam'd? They by whose means both Indies now enjoy The two choice blessings Pox and Popery; Which buried else in ignorance had been, Nor known the worth of Beads and Bellarmine, It pitied holy Mother Church to see A world so drown'd in gross Idolatry. It griev'd to see such goodly Nations hold Bad Errors, and unpardonable Gold. Strange! what a godly zeal can Coyn infuse! What charity Pieces of Eight produce! So you were chose the fittest to reclaim The Pagan World, and give't a Christian Name. And great was the success; whole Myriads stood At Font, and were baptiz'd in their own bloud.

Millions of Souls were hurl'd from hence to burn Before their time, be damn'd before their turn. Yet these were in compassion sent to Hell, The rest reserv'd in spite, and worse to feel, Compell'd instead of Fiends to worship you, The more inhuman Devils of the two. Rare way and method of conversion this, To make your Votaries your Sacrifice! If to destroy be Reformation thought, A Plague as well might the good work have wrought Now see we why your Founder weary grown, Would lay his former Trade of Killing down; He found 'twas dull, he found a Gown would be A fitter case and badge of cruelty. Each snivelling Hero Seas of Bloud can spil, When wrongs provoke, and Honour bids him kill. Each tiny Bully Lives can freely bleed, When prest by Wine or Punk to knock o'th' head: Give me your through-pac'd Rogue, who scorns to be Prompted by poor Revenge or Injury, But does it of true inbred cruelty:

Your cool and sober Murderer, who prays And stabs at the same time, who one hand has Stretch'd up to Heav'n, t'other to make the Pass. So the late Saints of blessed memory, Cut throats in godly pure sincerity: So they with lifted hands and eyes devout Said Grace, and carv'd a slaughter'd Monarch out. When the first Traitor Cain (too good to be Thought Patron of this black Fraternity) His bloudy Tragedy of old design'd, One death alone quench'd his revengful mind, Content with but a quarter of Mankind: Had he been Iesuit, had he but put on Their savage cruelty, the rest had gone: His hand had sent old Adam after too, And forc'd the Godhead to create anew. And yet 'twere well, were their foul guilt but thought Bare sin: 'tis something ev'n to own a fault. But here the boldest flights of wickedness Are stampt Religion, and for currant pass.

The blackest, ugliest, horrid'st, damned'st deed, For which Hell flames, the Schools a little need, If done by Holy Church is sanctified. This consecrates the blessed Work and Tool, Nor must we ever after think 'em foul. To undo Realms, kill Parents, murder Kings, Are thus but petty trifles, venial things, Not worth a Confessor; nay Heav'n shall be It self invok'd t'abet th' impiety. " Grant, gracious Lord, (Some reverend Villain prays) " That this the bold Assertor of our Cause " May with success accomplish that great end, " For which he was by thee and us design'd. " Do thou t'his Arm and Sword thy strength im∣part, " And guide 'em steddy to the Tyrants heart. " Grant him for every meritorious thrust " Degrees of bliss above among the Just; " Where holy Garnet and S. Guy are plac'd, " Whom works like this before have thither rais'd.

" Where they are interceding for us now; " For sure they're there. Yes questionless, and so Good Nero is and Dioclesian too, And that great ancient Saint Herostratus, And the late godly Martyr at Tholouse. Dare something worthy Newgate and the Tow'r, If you'l be canoniz'd and Heav'n ensure. Dull primitive Fools of old! who would be good? Who would by vertue reach the blest abode? Far other are the ways found out of late, Which Mortals to that happy place translate: Rebellion, Treason, Murder, Massacre, The chief Ingredients now of Saintship are, And Tyburn onely stocks the Calendar. Unhappy Iudas, whose ill fate or chance Threw him upon gross times of ignorance; Who knew not how to value or esteem The worth and merit of a glorious crime! Should his kind Stars have let him acted now, H'ad dy'd absolv'd, and dy'd a Martyr too.

Hear'st thou, great God, such daring blasphemy, And letst thy patient Thunder still lie by? Strike and avenge, lest impious Atheists say, Chance guides the world, & has usurp'd thy sway; Lest these proud prosperous Villains too confess, Thou'rt sensless, as they make thy Images. Thou just and sacred Power! wilt thou admit Such Guests should in thy glorious presence sit? If Heav'n can with such company dispense, Well did the Indian pray, Might he keep thence. But this we onely feign, all vain and false, As their own Legends, Miracles, and Tales; Either the groundless calumnies of spite, Or idle rants of Poetry and Wit. We wish they were: but you hear Garnet cry, " I did it, and would do't again; had I " As much of Bloud, as many Lives as Rome " Has spilt in what the Fools call Martyrdom; " As many Souls as Sins; I'de freely stake " All them and more for Mother Churches sake.

" For that I'll stride o're Crowns, swim through a Flood, " Made up of slaughter'd Monarch's Brains and Blood. " For that no lives of Hereticks I'll spare, " But reap 'em down with less remorse and care " Than Tarquin did the poppy-heads of old, " Or we drop beads, by which our prayer's are told. Bravely resolved? and 'twas as bravely dar'd But (lo!) the Recompence and great Reward, The wight is to the Almanack preferr'd. Rare motives to be damn'd for holy Cause, A few red letters, and some painted straws. Fools! who thus truck with Hell by Mohatra And play their Souls against no stakes away. 'Tis strang with what an holy impudence The Villian caught, his innocence maintains: Denies with oaths the fact untill it be Less guilt to own it then the perjury: By th' Mass and blessed Sacraments he swears, This Mary's Milk, and t'other Mary's Tears; And the whole muster-roll in Calendars.

Not yet swallow the Falsehood? if all this Won't gain a resty Faith; he will on's Knees The Evangelists and Ladie's Psalter kiss To vouch the Lye: nay more, to make it good Mortgage his Soul upon't, his Heaven and God. Damn'd faithless Hereticks, hard to convince, Who trust no Verdict, but dull obvious Sense. Unconscionable Courts, who Priests deny Their Benefit o'th Clergy, Perjury. Room for the Martyr'd Saints! behold they come! With what a noble Scorn they meet their Doom? Not Knights o'th Post, nor often carted Whores Shew more of Impudence, or less Remorss. O glorious and heroick Constancy! That can forswear upon the Cart, and die With gasping Souls expiring in a Lye. None but tame Sheepish Criminals repent, Who fear that idle Bugbear Punishment: Your Gallant Sinner scorns that Cowardice, The poor regret of having done amiss: Brave he, to his first Principles still true,

Can face Damnation, Sin with Hell in view: And bid it take the Soul, he does bequeath And blow it thither with his dying Breath. Dare such as these profess Religions Name? Who, should they own't, and be believed, would shame It's Practice out o'th World, would Atheists make Firm in their Creed, and vouch it at the Stake? Is Heaven for such, whose Deeds make Hell too good Too mild a Penance for their cursed Brood? For whose unheard-of Crimes and damned Sake Fate must below new sorts of Torture make, Since, when of old it fram'd that place of Doom, 'Twas thought no Guilt like this could thither come Base recreant Souls! would you have Kings trust you? Who never yet kept your Allegiance true To any but Hell's Prince? who with more ease Can swallow down most solemn Perjuries Than Bullies common Oaths and canting Lies? Are the French Harries Fates so soon forgot?

Our last blest Tudor? or the Powder-Plot? And those fine Streamers that adorned so long The Bridge and Westminister, and yet had hung, Were they not stoln, and now for Relicks gone? Think Tories loyal, or Scotch Covenanters; Rob'd Tygers gentle; courteous, fasting Bears, Atheists devout, and thrice-wrack'd Mariners: Take Goats for Chast, and cloyster'd Marmosites, For plain and open two-edg'd Parasites: Believe Bawds mod••st, and the shameless Stews, And binding Drunkard Oaths, and Strumpet's Vows: And when in them these Contradictions meet, Then hope to find 'em in a Loyolite: To whom, tho gasping, should I credit give, I'd think 'twere Sin, and damn'd like unbelief. Oh for the Swedish Law enacted here! No Scarecrow frightens like a Priest Guelder: Hunt them, as Beavers are, force them to buy Their Lives with Ransom of their Lechery. Or let that wholsome Statute be reviv'd, Which England heretofore from Wolves reliev'd:

Tax every Shire instead of them to bring Each Year a certain Tale of Iesuits in: And let their mangled Quarters hang the Ile To scare all future Vermin from the Soil. Monsters avaunt! may some kind Whirlwindsweep Our Land and drown these Locusts in the deep: Hence ye loth'd Objects of our Scorn and Hate, With all the Curses of an injur'd State: Go foul Impostors, to some duller Soil, Some easier Nation with your Cheats beguile: Where your gross common Gulleries may pass, To slur and top on bubbled Consciences: Where Ignorance and th' Inquisition Rules, Where the vile Herd of poor Implicit Fools Are damn'd contentedly, where they are led Blindfold to Hell, and thank and pay their Guide. Go where all your black Tribe, before are gon, Follow Chastel, Ravillac, Clement down, Your Catesby, Faux, and Garnet, thousands more, And those, who hence have lately rais'd the Score. Where the Grand Traitor now and all the Crew

Of his Disciples must receive their Due: Where Flames and Tortures of Eternal Date Must punish you, yet ne're can expiate: Learn duller Fiends your unknown Cruelties, Such as no Wit, but yours could ere devise, No Guilt but yours deserve; make Hell confess It self out done, its Devils damn'd for less.