Bradshaw's ghost, a poem, or, A dialogue between John Bradshaw, ferry-man Charon, Oliver Cromwel, Francis Ravilliack, and Ignatius Loyola, 1660

BRADSHAW'S GHOST; A POEM: OR, A Dialogue between John Bradshaw, Ferry-man Charon, Oliver Cromwel, Francis Ravilliack, and Ignatius Loyola. 1660.

Bradsh.

COME, Charon, come — Cha. VVhat unexpected shade Is this that thus imploreth Charon's aid?

Brad.

'Tis I. Char. Raven, I know that tone, That durst to boad destruction to a Throne: Thy guilt's too heavy, and in vain implores A Scullers help; your Lordship should have Oars. Lay down your Burthen, then I'le carry you; I cannot waft Bradshaw and a Murtherer too. Have you drunk Lethe yet that you'ave forgot Noll lately pass'd; alas, he broke my Boat: Besides the Foord is shallow. Brad. Never think Of that, your danger then is less to sink. 'Tis strange, shall I water want? It cannot be: I have spilt Blood enough to make a Sea. By all that's bad, we'le swim it o're: then come, My Keel shall plow my Mare Mortuum. Let but the winds be good, and we'le prevail, Curses and Sighs shall swell the labouring Sail.

Char.

First, let met know what haste hath brought thee here: Didst thou ride Post upon the three-leg'd Mare? Or did thy Murthering Soul unto this Foord Fly from the point of some Revenging Sword?

Brad.

I Murthered not my self; and none but I Dur•…•… attempt that venturous Act, to vie VVith Hell for th' Ruff, and double o're again The seventy seven-fold Punishment of Cain. My P••••ow was my block, and Swans did bring My Scarlet Soul upon their milky wing.

Char.

'Tis strange; yea, and unnatural, to see That such a Rogue should dye, and naturally: Sure millions would have Ravished thy Breath, But that none durst attempt that deed but Death. For Justice could not be Reveng'd on you, Unless ••e could kill Soul and Body too. But why do you come here? get you to Hell For to Read Lectures unto Machiavel: Your Borgia could do that, and I have Reason To keep you back; Pluto would think it Treason. You and your Partner sure will pluck him down, Hell is not dark enough to hide his Crown.

Brad.

Charon, don't fear, I'le warrant we'le agree, For Hell and I were ne're at enmity.

Char.

Give me your Naulum, then take here this cup Of Lethe, think 'tis Blood, and swill it up.—

Brad.

That won't wash Guilt, 'tis as good let it alone: And as for Money, I will give you none. — I've a Commission, mind from whom I am sent; You're Ferry-man unto the Parliament. —

Char.

Lambert hath shut that Door, and as for me, You shall not enter here without a Fee. Should I waft Round-heads o're for nought, I find, C•…•…elion-like, my Sails must live by wind. Had you the Bishops Lands, and could not bring One Tithe to me? at least an Offering. You shall not o're on tick, for pay you must; VVhen Infidels do meet, ne're talk of trust.

Bradsh.

There's Six-pence. Cha. What's the Motto? O, 'tis thus; The Common-wealth of England; God with us. You VVorship Coin, your Golden Calves, I see, Have got a pretty stamp, a Deity. But prithee, Bradshaw, now thou art come, lets know How thou and Pride did chance to fall so low. You went for Saints on Earth, were 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not far More fit for you i'th' Heavens to shine a Star?

Brad.

My Brother Pride his thoughts on Hell did fix, For to brew merry Beer and Ale with Styx. His Trash would not vent there; the Angels they, He thought drank nothing but Ambrosia: And somewhat else besides increas'd his Fears, There was a grudge betwixt him and the Bears. And Charon, as to me your Questions are Most Foolish; know you not that Charles is there? To drive black Pluto's Coach I'de rather dain, Than to be VVaggoner to Charles's wain.

Char.

VVere you out, you shou'd scarce come in again: This Ferry-boat was never made for Man. But you may go 'cause you're Noli's stalking-horse, Rather for Beast, or something that is worse.

Brad.

More Ass I; but I am rid on't I suppose, And shall be even with him in spight of's Nose. I must confess my Purple Robes alone Did serve to make a Foot-stall for his Throne. Nought could be done, I say't to my Disgrace, By's Iron-sides, but for my brazen face: I scorn'd to pluck off Hat to Majesty▪ Although I made him pluck off's Head to me: Though he amazed, it stir'd not me; his Breath Cou'd not move me, although it frightned Death.

My Perjur'd Soul cou'd easily dispence To cut a way for Noll through Innocence. Yet enter'd not I on the Mine before I thought my self secure of half the Ore: I thought my gains were good, the stakes being down; I quickly made a Foot-ball of the Crown: But Noll trip'd up my heels, that surly Soul; And I was glad at last I escap'd the Goal. He got the gain, and lost his Soul and all, That Jone might sell her Kitchen-stuff at White-hall. Here's Land: what Clouds are these? what, does Hell turn Out all her Lights? 'cause she for me might mourn. Has Pluto Tinder-boxes? Char. No. Brad. What then? Hath Noll a Nose will light those Flames agen?

Char.

Beware, lest hood-wink'd thus, you stray go on Close by Coetus, then by Acheron. Cerberus longs to see you, he'l afford Three Salutations to you in one word. Fling him a Heart, for there belongs a fee To the Door-keeper as well as unto me.

Bradsh.

Thanks for this needless Counsel: But ne'r tell Me that I ere was out of the way to Hell. Cromwel the Great being Link-boy, sure he knows The way, if not, we'l follow both his Nose. Farewel. But now I stray, the darkness is So great, I shall not find the way to miss: I ne'r walk'd wrong, though I am ne'r right, for where So e're I am, Hell properly is there. But stay, what's that? why should I be afraid Of what is but the Shadow of a Shade? Methinks I hear a voice, which crys, stand back: Why, who art thou? Rav. I am Ravilliack.

Brad.

What empty thing art thou? As for my part, I am as th' Soul of th' Rump shou'd be a fart Lately let, you shortly shall have more; Lambert hath kick'd their Arse-ships out of door.

Rav.

Welcom, most Reverend shade; then you art sent With an Embassage from the Parliament.

Brad.

No: for Infernal Aid we always were Sure to have that as well in Peace as War. Your Counsel needless was, for we were so evil, None there but cou'd be Tutor to a Devil. I'me come to commence Villain, something more; I did perform my Acts on Earth before: The World and Hell my Merits know, and to Be short, Ravilliack, I'le take place of you.

Rav.

Pardon, bold Shade, if I desire to know If ever you've deserv'd that place or no. First, we'l dispute, what do you think of that? And we'l choose Pluto for to moderate.

Brad.

Go, Pupil, undergraduate Friend; tush he That well can Judge, must more than Devil be. If that we must, let's be try'd by such things As well do know what 'tis to Murther Kings. Such should be Judges for us: Ay, such shou'd, Whose guilty Souls speak nothing under Blood. Fiends of a double die, such as do scorn To swear, unless they're sure to be forsworn: Nor for Secluded Members they are sent, For Judges we'l have an Old Parliament; There's Members here enough, why do I stick? Enough to make a Body Politick.

Rav.

Pretty State-Monster, a fine hoddy doddy, One, as they say, that is more Arse than Body.

Brad.

Disdain 'um not, you cannot parallel Such true false-hearted Devils not in Hell. There was no Reason for't; though Lambert bore A spight to th' House to turn it out o'th' door: To me it always seem'd exceeding fit, What Members, pray you, 'sides the Rump shall sit? Yet 'cause you stand upon't, I'le ne'r abuse Your Priviledge: Ravilliack, you may chuse. I and my Partners shall not value you, With Machiavel, and all Loyola's crew. Farewel, prepare against the Judges Call, For I must speak a word or two with Noll. Lye, Swear, Forswear, all this I'le grant to you: Nay, and your Mental Reservations too. You shall Condemn your selves, you'l see in fine, And Bellarmine shall confute Bellarmine.

Oliver.

VVelcom to mourning; welcom, Shade in brief, You're very welcom to the Joys of Grief. I pray do you no Letters with you carry? Nor from soft Richard, nor from simple Harry. Me-thinks 'tis very strange, that Thurlow's grown So proud, he will not write a word for Jone. Poor wretch, her Breeding ne'r taught her a word, She knew no Character but that o'th' Sword; Though Lambert's VVife and I to th' cotquean Did read the Horn-book o're and o're agen. But waving Pusses Majesty, pray how Doth Mice and Rats in the House of Commons do? Their leaving of the House, makes me to think That the Foundation e're belong will sink.

Brad.

My heart is almost broke, you can't believe How I am vex'd: I made no more to grieve, Now all things do concur to misery, All because you and I did disagree. Fools that we were, to mind we did not call, Satan divided against himself, must fall.

Oliver.

Tush, that is onely Scripture; why, I say That all the Bible is Apocrypha.

Brad.

VVhat if we went for Saints? 'tis all one thing For to abuse the Scripture and the King. Nay, our Thanksgivings too were always least, VVhen such long Graces we had at a Feast, Before you wou'd kill, you'd have Peters Call, And make your Enemy a Mock-Funeral. He laughs your Army's Sanctified VVord; His VVit did lend an edge unto your Sword. Nay, and the Devil doth on Scripture call, Then when he would be Devil most of all.

Oliver.

'Tis very true. But prethee let me know A brief Relation, how all things do go.

Brad.

VVhy Noll, 'twould make a heart of stone Relent, A Booth does dare the House of Parliament. They talk of Kings: Nay, which is worse, I do Fear all the Nation will turn Honest too. One true Religion hies unto its Mother; The Church and Taxes do avert another. One thing or other makes 'um all to cry VVe'l be Apostates to Apostacy. Things are so bad, they'd all be good, wer't not For these three Fiends, Vain, Haslerig, and Scot. Dippers and Quakers they their Lepers be; All in the Nations Discord do agree. Vain was Anointed Rogue, though so to do, VVere for to lose the Oyl and Labour too. Noll, why were you not King? when you did see A Pilate was, you well might Herod be.

Oliver.

VVhy, I was more; the truth to lay you down, No Hat but mine ith' Kingdom wore a Crown. I onely Lords created, truly seeing Me out of nothing leap into a Being. I made 'um better than my self, Earls then, It was below 'um to be Gentlemen. VVhat odds have Awls and Swords when they go to't? I vampt the old worn-out Hewson Lord to boot.

Brad.

You Hewson'd it, 'tis twenty now to ten, But that his Lordship's at his Last agen.

Oliver.

But heark, now Quakerism begins to down: Think you that Puritans will put on Lawn?

Brad.

No; white is Innocent: nay, I'le tell you what, The VVhore of Babylon's Smock is made of that. Peters to try this Turkish point, thought meet A while for to do penance in a sheet.

Oliver.

That was a merry Rogue, and truth to tell, I lik'd his way of Laughing Men to Hell: Dull heavy looks I like not, I protest, Except in Quakers, such as are possest.

Brad.

Alas, the Times are Honest like to be; Men must not wear Cloaks for Piety.

Satan will go no more to Church I fear, If that the Fashion brings up such lewd ware: To let him have no Pew, it were uncivil; VVhere Surplices are Jerkins, farewel Devil.

Oliver.

In my Time 'twas not so; the Clergy-men Had not such plenty sure of Linnen then. The Bishops were so poor, that they, alack, VVere glad they had a Surplice next their back: I strip'd their Mother Church, and without jest, I think that Scotch-cloth fits Religion best; For pray now, why should not the wear of Cloaks As well fit John of Styles, as John of Nokes? As for the honest Scotch, we ne'r shall want Their Aid, for they have took the Covenant: 'Gainst all that's good, they are quite Bankrupt now, They Sold their King and their Religion too. They against Nature sin, should they be good; They're born perfidious, and shou'd They Love Religion, then we needs must all Confess that Act to be unnatural. None yet was ever good, till he forgot, And was ashamed of the Name of Scot.

Brad.

The Court is set, I must away, and try To bear away the Prize of Villany. I a Sollicitor want, and may go look For one, unless I chance to meet with Cook.

Oliver.

Go on and prosper; as for th' other, he Is an honest man, if but compar'd to thee: If Murther can add merit to thy Praise, The Elizian Fields can ne'r supply thee Bays. But why talk I of Bays? I there did Flatter, Thy Symon's Neck better becomes a Halter.

Brad.

Ravilliack, speak, for I will give thee first, Or any odds, because thy Cause is worst.

Ravilliack's Oration.

Rav.

Know then, most Reverend Loyola, I do My self and cause both recommend to you: VVere I indifferent bad, I'de ne'r engage Your Devil-ship into my Patronage. This Hand brought Harry's Letter, whose sad date Ended his days, I was the Post of Fate. He scarcely Read a Sentence, I did doom His Life unto a period should come. I made the Flower-de-luce to bleed, and yield For to be quarter'd in a bloody Field: I Murther'd Harry, whose Auspicious Birth Presag'd a League even 'twixt Heaven and Earth: And what doth aggravate my business, I Did kill Religion out of Piety. I offer'd up that Sacrifice alone, None else durst make an Altar of the Throne: And shall I now be brought in Competition With Bradshaw? Youngest Son unto Perdition. I bath'd my self all over in the Flood; He onely wash'd his hand in Royal Blood.

He thinks one Action will Surname him Great, When all my Life was a Religious Cheat: But talk detracts from deeds. Not Tully's wrack Of words could reach unto Ravilliack. I'le say no more, but keep the place, were it For nothing but 'cause I am a Jesuit.

Bradshaw's Oration.

Brad.

You've said too much, but not enough; go to: There is not one of th' Rump but's worse than you. You kill'd the King of France, and then all's said; I King of France and England Murthered. My fault exceeds yours, and more weight doth carry Than it, by how much Charles excedeth Harry: Yours was Lay-murther. Sacriledge mine. You can't Like me boast: You a King kill'd, I a Saint. They me ith' Book of Martyrs will Remember, And as to Faux, give a day in November. Your Murther was Religious; true, and I Committed too a Pious Villany. In Charles I kill'd the Church, that's more than you; I Sacrific'd the Priest and Temple too: I made the Cushions Blocks: The Butchers wore The Sleeves that Canterbury had before. I Capel slew, if they the Saints did track I slew, they'd muster up an Almanack: Their Bloods wou'd add new Rubricks, whilst that they Blush all the Year into one Holy-day. Nor sin'd I singly, I made hundreds be Co-partners with me in that Villany. I made them sin, in that I made 'um joyn, So that I challenge all their Sins as mine. I did Hell far more Service than you can, 'Twas I that favoured the Puritan: Nay, I did Love the Scots and Quakers too, Ravilliack, Cook must have the place of you. You'l not be in my class: Nay, all my pack Of Hell-hounds are above Ravilliack. Not one of Charles's Silver hairs I shed, In value but might purchase Harry's Head. And does your Dagger think for to out-brave My Ax? I kill'd, but yet debar'd a Grave: So that in hindring Charles a Tomb-stone, I A Monument built to my own Infamy. I pluck'd his Statue down; what should I have For my Deserts? I Murthered his Grave: Nor was I this alone content to do, I made Cloaks Preach him Traytor, Tyrant too: And made 'um swear't, I did so watch their waters, All Treason did commit, except the Traytors. What think you then, that he deserved hath, That kill'd both the Defender, and the Faith? Judge all! and if the place you me deny, Why then you'r worser Devils all than I.

Loyola's Oration.

Loyola.

'Tis bravely said of both: Nor can I tell, If this Man, or if that Man do excell: Degrees are wanting due to both to give, For they must be beyond superlative. They both are Rogues in grain, both dipt in blood Of Kings — But yet me-thinks I shou'd Give one the place: It grieves me sore to see The Rump thus baffle my Society. Bradshaw did kill a God: My Rogue comes after, And can amount no higher than Man-slaughter. The thoughts of Bradshaw's worth doth make me mad, For's one that hath out-done whatever's bad. O that I liv'd but again, that I Might be the Founder of a Rump, and dy! For their Association scorns to be Companions with my Society. Learning is needless, they a way have hit, That makes 'um to be wise beyond all wit. Like Foxes Tayls (I must unto you tell) One Rump doth far a thousand Heads excell. They cut Mens throats by Law: Nay, and they do Make Justice guilty of the Murther too. So when you say, the King's kill'd, 'tis not meant By Bradshaw, but by my Lord President. Their Labouring Souls first bring forth Mischief, then They Christn'd after it was cast; so when Rape, Murther, Sacriledge, call'd that Pious Hector Their God-Son, Butcher Cromwel, Lord Protector.

Cowards oth' Rump were Worthies: Fleetwood thus From's Valour scorn'd to be call'd Valourous. See what an Act of Parliament can do! If they but Vote him Valourous, he is so: For though the sniveling Sinner deserv'd banging, For he had ne'r the wit to merit hanging. Strange Operation of the Rump, the Fool The Devil, he's but Clerk to their Close-stool. For the Rumpish Members Honour, I think fit We Act that Member first of all should sit. I like this topsy-turvy, we'l be led By England, and the Arse shall be the Head: And next Thanksgiving-dinner, our Old Nick Shall feed on Rump, 'twill make him Politick. We'l Knight it, if your Judgments be like mine, It shall be Sir Rump, we'l have no more Sir Loyn. They should be welcom all, but that I fear They would prescribe new Models to us here: They merit not this place alone, but well Do for themselves deserve another Hell. But 'cause here are not all, till th' other please To come, let's Entertain and Honour these. In the mean time, that Bradshaw may Inherit Present Possession of his former Merit, To him as Rump oth' Rump let us present The Chair, for he was still their Fundament. If you think fit, all I'de have you do, 'S to speak your mind then in a word or two.

Applaudunt Omnes.

Because thou'st done so ill, thou hast done well; Bradshaw, thou art Lord President of Hell.

FINIS.

Notes

• Tyburn,
• Nolls Wife.
• 2 of Olivers Sons.
• Olivers Secr.
• Olivers Wife.