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 IV. S. Ignatius his Image brought in, dis∣covering the Rogueries of the Jesu∣its, and ridiculous Superstition of the Church of Rome. (Book 4)

ONce I was common Wood, a shapeless Log, Thrown out a Pissing-post for every Dog: The Workman yet in doubt what course to take, Whether I'd best a Saint or Hog-trough make, After debate resolv'd me for a Saint, And thus fam'd Loyola I represent: And well I may resemble him, for he As stupid was, as much a Block as I. My right Leg maim'd at halt I seem to stand, To tell the Wounds at Pampelune sustain'd.

My Sword and Souldiers Armour here had been, But they may in Monserrats Church be seen: Those there to blessed Virgin I laid down For Cassock, Surcingle, and shaven Crown, The spiritual Garb in which I now am shown. With due Accoutrements and fit disguise I might for Centinel of Corn suffice: As once the well-hung God of old stood guard, And the invading Crows from Forrage scar'd. Now on my Head the Birds their Reliques leave, And Spiders in my mouth their Arras weave: And persecuted Rats oft find in me A Refuge and religious Sanctuary. But you profaner Hereticks, who e're The Inquisition and its vengeance fear, I charge stand off, at peril come not near: None at twelve score untruss, break wind, or piss; He enters Fox his Lists that dares transgress:

For I'm by Holy Church in reverence had, And all good Catholick Folk implore my aid. These Pictures which you see my Story give, The Acts and Monuments of me alive: That Frame wherein with Pilgrims weeds I stand, Contains my Travels to the Holy Land. This me and my Decemvirate at Rome, When I for Grant of my great Order come. There with Devotion rapt I hang in Air, With Dove (like Mahomets) whisp'ring in my ear. Here Virgin in Galesh of Clouds descends, To be my safeguard from assaulting Fiends. Those Tables by, and Crutches of the lame, My great Atchievments since my death proclaim: Pox, Ague, Dropsie, Palsie, Stone, and Gout, Legions of Maladies by me cast out, More than the College know, or ever fill Quacks Wiping Paper and the Weekly Bill.

What Peter's shadow did of old, the same Is fancied done by my all pow'rful Name; For which some wear't about their Necks and Arms, To guard from Dangers, Sicknesses, and Harms; And some on Wombs the barren to relieve, A Miracle I better did alive. Oft I by crafty Iesuit am taught Wonders to do, and many a juggling Feat. Sometimes with Chaffing Dish behind me put, I sweat like Clapt Debauch in Hot House shut, And drip like any Spitchcock'd Huguenot. Sometimes by secret Springs I learn to stir, As Paste-board Saints dance by miraculous Wire Then I Tradescant's Rarities outdo, Sands Waterworks and German Clockwork too, Or any choice Device at Barthol'mew. Sometimes I utter Oracles by Priest, Instead of a Familiar possest.

The Church I vindicate, Luther confute, And cause Amazement in the gaping Rout. Such holy Cheats, such Hocus Tricks as these, For Miracles amongst the Rabble pass. By this in their Esteem I daily grow, In Wealth enrich'd, increas'd in Vot'ries too. This draws each year vast Numbers to my Tomb, More than in Pilgrimage to Mecca come. This brings each week new Presents to my Shrine, And makes it those of Indian Gods outshine. This gives a Chalice, that a Golden Cross, Another massie Candlesticks bestows: Some Altar Cloths of costly work and price, Plush, Tissue, Ermin, Silks of noblest Dies, The Birth and Passion in Embroideries: Some Jewels, rich as those th' Aegyptian Punk In Jellies to her Roman Stallion drunk.

Some offer gorgeous Robes, which serve to wear When I on Holydays in state appear; When I'm in pomp on high Processions shown, Like Pageants of Lord Mayor or Skimmington. Lucullus could not such a Wardrobe boast, Less those of Popes at their Election cost; Less those, which Sicily's Tyrant heretofore From plunder'd Gods and Iove's own Shoulders tore. Hither as to some Fair the Rabble come, To barter for the Merchandize of Rome; Where Priests like Mountebanks on Stage appear, T'expose the Frippery of their hallow'd Ware: This is the Lab'ratory of their Trade, The Shop where all their staple Drugs are made; Prescriptions and Receipts to bring in Gain, All from the Church Dispensatories ta'en. The Pope's Elixir, Holy Water's here, Which they with Chymick Art distill'd prepare:

Choice above Goddards Drops, and all the Trash Of modern Quacks; this is that Sovereign Wash For fetching Spots and Morphew from the Face, And scowring dirty Cloaths and Consciences. One drop of this, if us'd, had pow'r to fray The Legion from the Hogs of Gadara: This would have silenc'd quite the Wiltshire Drum, And made the prating Fiend of Mascon dumb. That Vessel consecrated Oyl contains, Kept sacred as the fam'd Ampoulle of France; Which some profaner Hereticks would use For liquoring Wheels of Jacks, and Boots, and Shooes: This makes the Chrism, which mixt with Snot of Priests, Anoints young Catholicks for the Church's lists; And when they're crost, confest, and die; by this Their lanching Souls slide off to endless Bliss: As Lapland Saints when they on Broomsticks fly, By help of Magick Unctions mount the Sky.

You Altar-Pix of Gold is the Adobe And safe Repository of their God. A Cross is fix'd upon't the Fiends to fright, And Flies which would the Deity beshite; And Mice, which oft might unprepar'd receive, And to lewd Scoffers cause of scandal give. Here are perform'd the Conjurings and Spells, For Christning Saints, and Hawks and Carriers Bells; For hallowing Shreds, and Grains, and Salt, and Bawms, Shrines, Crosses, Medals, Shells, and Waxen Lambs: Of wondrous virtue all (you must believe) And from all sorts of Ill preservative; From Plague, Infection, Thunder, Storm, and Hail, Love, Grief, Want, Debt, Sin, and the Devil and all. Here Beads are blest, and Pater nosters fram'd, (By some the Tallies of Devotion nam'd) Which of their Pray'rs and Oraisons keep tale, Lest they and Heav'n should in the reck'ning fail.

Here Sacred Lights, the Altars graceful Pride, Are by Priests breath perfum'd and sanctified; Made some of Wax, of Hereticks Tallow some; A Gift which Irish Emma sent to Rome: For which great Merit worthily (we're told) She's now amongst her Country Saints inroll'd. Here holy Banners are reserv'd in store, And Flags, such as the fam'd Armado bore: And hallow'd Swords and Daggers kept for use When resty Kings the Papal Yoke refuse: And consecrated Ratsbane, to be laid For Heretick Vermin which the Church invade. But that which brings in most of Wealth and Gain, Does best the Priests swoln Tripes and Purses strain; Here they each week their constant Auctions hold Of Reliques, which by Candles Inch are sold: Saints by the dozen here are set to sale, Like Mortals wrought in Gingerbread on Stall.

Hither are loads from emptied Charnels brought, And Voiders of the Worms from Sextons bought, Which serve for Retail through the World to vent, Such as of late were to the Savoy sent: Hair from the Skulls of dying Strumpets shorn, And Felons Bones from rifled Gibbets torn; Like those which some old Hag at midnight steals, For Witchcrafts, Amulets, and Charms, and Spells, Are past for sacred to the cheap'ning Rout; And worn on Fingers, Breasts, and Ears about. This boasts a Scrap of me, and that a Bit Of good S. George, S. Patrick, or S. Kit. These Locks S. Bridgets were, and those S. Clares; Some for S. Catharines go, and some for hers That wip'd her Saviours feet, wash'd with her tears. Here you may see my wounded Leg, and here Those which to China bore the great Xavier.

Here may you the grand Traitor's Halter see, Some call't the Arms of the Society: Here is his Lanthorn too, but Faux his not, That was embezl'd by the Huguenot. Here Garnet's Straws, and Beck••t's Bones and Hair, For murd'ring whom some Tails are said to wear, As learned Capgrave does record their sate, And faithful British Histories relate. Those are S. Laurence Coals expos'd to view, Strangly preserv'd and kept alive till now. That's the fam'd Wildefortis wondrous Beard, For which her Maidenhead the Tyrant spar'd. Yon is the Baptist's Coat, and one of's Heads, The rest are shewn in many a place besides; And of his Teeth as many Sets there are, As on their Belts six Operators wear. Here Blessed Maries Milk, not yet turn'd sour, Renown'd (like Ass's) for its healing pow'r, Ten Holland Kine scarce in a year give more.

Here is her Manteau, and a Smock of hers, Fellow to that which once reliev'd Poictiers; Besides her Husbands Utensils of Trade, Wherewith some prove that Images were made. Here is the Souldiers Spear, and Passion Nails, Whose quantity would serve for building Pauls: Chips some from Holy Cross, from Tyburn some, Honour'd by many a Iesuits Martyrdom: All held of special and miraculous Pow'r, Not Tabor more approv'd for Agues cure: Here Shooes, which once perhaps at Newgate hung, Angled for Charity that past along, Now for S. Peter's go, and th' Office bear For Priests, they did for lesser Villains there. These are the Fathers Implements and Tools, Their gawdy Trangums for inveigling Fools: These serve for Baits the simple to ensnare, Like Children spirited with Toys at Fair.

Nor are they half the Artifices yet, By which the Vulgar they delude and cheat: Which should I undertake, much easier I Much sooner might compute what Sins there be Wip'd off and pardon'd at a Iubilee. What Bribes enrich the Datary each year, Or Vices treated on by Escobar: How many Whores in Rome profess the Trade, Or greater numbers by Confession made. One undertakes by Scale of Miles to tell The Bounds, Dimensions, and Extent of Hell; How far and wide th'Infernal Monarch reigns, How many German Leagues his Realm con∣tains: Who are his Ministers, pretends to know, And all their several Offices below: How many Chaudrons he each year expends In Coals for roasting Huguenots and Fiends:

And with as much exactness states the case, As if h'ad been Surveyor of the place. Another frights the Rout with rusul Stories, Of wild Chimaera's, Limbo's, Purgatories, And bloated Souls in smoaky durance hung, Like a Westphalia Gammon or Neats Tongue, To be redeem'd with Masses and a Song. A good round Summ must the Deliverance buy, For none may there swear out on poverty. Your rich and bounteous Shades are onely eas'd, No Fleet or Kings Bench Ghosts are thence re∣leas'd. A third the wicked and debauch'd to please, Crys up the vertue of Indulgences, And all the rates of Vices does assess; What price they in the holy Chamber bear, And Customs for each Sin imported there: How you at best advantages may buy Patents for Sacrilege and Simony.

What Tax is in the Leach'ry-Office laid On Panders, Bawds, and Whores, that ply the Trade: What costs a Rape, or Incest, and how cheap You may an Harlot or an Ingle keep; How easie Murder may afforded be For one, two, three, or a whole Family; But not of Hereticks, there no Pardon lacks, 'Tis one o'th' Churches meritorious Acts. For venial Trifles less and slighter Faults, They ne're deserve the trouble of your thoughts. Ten Ave Maries mumbled to the Cross Clear scores of twice ten thousand such as those: Some are at sound of christen'd Bell forgiven, And some by squirt of Holy Water driven: Others by Anthems plaid are charm'd away, As men cure Bites of the Tarantula. But nothing with the Crowd does more en∣hance The value of these holy Charlatans,

Than when the Wonders of the Mass they view, Where spiritual Jugglers their chief Mast'ry shew Hey Iingo, Sirs! What's this? 'tis Bread you see; Presto be gone! 'tis now a Deity. Two grains of Dough, with Cross and stamp of Priest, And five small words pronounc'd, make up their Christ. To this they all fall down, this all adore, And strait devour what they ador'd before: Down goes the tiny Saviour at a bit, To be digested, and at length beshit: From Altar to Close Stool or Jakes preferr'd, First Wafer, next a God, and then a— 'Tis this that does th'astonish'd Rout amuse, And Reverence to shaven Crown infuse: To see a silly, sinful, mortal Wight His Maker make, create the Infinite. None boggles at th'impossibility; Alas, 'tis wondrous heavenly Mystery!

None dares the mighty God-maker blaspheme, Nor his most open Crimes and Vices blame: Saw he those hands that held his God before, Strait grope himself, and by and by a Whore; Should they his aged Father kill or worse, His Sisters, Daughters, Wife, himself too force. And here I might (if I but durst) reveal What pranks are plaid in the Confessional: How haunted Virgins have been dispossest, And Devils were cast out to let in Priest: What Fathers act with Novices alone, And what to Punks in shriving Seats is done; Who thither flock to Ghostly Confessor, To clear old debts, and tick with Heav'n for more. Oft have I seen these hallow'd Altars stain'd With Rapes, those Pews with Buggeries profan'd: Not great Cellier, nor any greater Bawd, Of Note and long experience in the Trade, Has more and fouler Scenes of Lust survey'd.

But I these dang'rous Truths forbear to tell, For fear I should the Inquisition feel. Should I tell all their countless Knaveries, Their Cheats, and Shamms, and Forgeries, and Lies. Their Cringings, Crossings, Censings, Sprinklings, Chrisms, Their Conjurings, and Spells, and Exorcisms; Their motly Habits, Manciples, and Stoles, Albs, Ammits, Rochets, Chimers, Hoods, and Cowls. Should I tell all their several Services, Their Trentals, Masses, Dirges, Rosaries; Their solemn Pomps, their Pageants, and Parades, Their holy Masques, and spiritual Cavalcades, With thousand Antick Tricks and Gambols more; 'Twould swell the summ to such a mighty score, That I at length should more volum'nous grow, Than Crabb, or Surius, lying Fox, or Stow. Believe what e're I have related here, As true as if 'twere spoke from Porph'ry Chair.

If I have feign'd in ought or broach'd a Lie, Let worst of Fates attend me, let me be Pist on by Porter, Groom, and Oyster-whore, Or find my Grave in Jakes and Common-shore: Or make next Bonfire for the Powder-plot, The sport of every sneering Huguenot. There like a Martyr'd Pope in Flames expire, And no kind Catholick dare quench the Fire.