A
PARALLEL
BETWIXT
POPERY and PHANATICISM,
IN A
LETTER to T.S.
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SIR,
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IM informd, your Royal Jurat
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In lection was to be your Curate:
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Im likewise told y are disappointed,
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By Mandate from the Lords Anointed.
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Your Congregation sure is Righteous
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Thats worth the care of Charles and Titus.
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Titus and Charles had had more fitness,
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For Charles is second with a Witness.
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But since he faild, let fancy help it,
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And well suppose him in your Pulpit,
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Which would have lookd, when he was got int,
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Like an Oat-Meal Tub, with a PLOT int:
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(To say who made the Plot, would rub,
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But sure some Cooper made the Tub)
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There might you hear him talk at once Sir,
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Geneva, London, Rome, and Munster;
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For all Religions in the Town
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Are cloakd in his Camelion Gown.
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For as the Ancients usd to scan
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Nine Taylors to one single Man;
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And others learnedly have writ,
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That thrice three Spinsters make one Wit:
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So he, though h left them all in lurches,
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Is Product of as many Churches.
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Tho some affirm, when theres but Nine,
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That neithers due to this Divine:
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However, hes esteemd by some
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The mighty Bulwark against Rome;
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Yet others say with cause enough,
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His Girdle onlys Cannon-Proof:
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Yet thats Defence enough for us,
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For hes all over Blunderbus.
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But Sir, since Arbitrary Power
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Hath useless made your Glass of hour,
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And laid Embargo upon O------
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By luck we have retrievd his Notes;
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Which since he was denyd to preach,
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Took pet, and dwindled to a Speech.
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Behold the double Saviour of your Nation,
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Who daily preach and swear for your Salvation!
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Behold the wicked Priest, and Jesuit-taker!
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Behold the Kings most excellent Oath-maker,
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Who now comes down out of his endless Bounty,
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To raise new Vicegerents for your County!
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I have tryd all Religions once, some twice,
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Divd like an Indian for the Pearl of Price;
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Walkd like a Glow-worm by my Light within,
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Have learnt to eat my God, and stab my King:
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Only I never lovd the Quakers bauling,
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For fear indeed they should have spoild my Calling.
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I wish my stay at Omers had been shorter,
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For they ene usd me like a very Porter,
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To drink, and carry Letters; yet their steering
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Mended my hand a little in my swearing.
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At length in Englands Church I cast my Anchor,
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And there discoverd all the Jesuits Rancor,
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Ript up the Plot, prevented the Kings fall,
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Savd the ingrateful Lawn-sleeves (Rascals all);
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Strung up some dozen of Ignatius Race,
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Sent Stafford to his own uncertain place:
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And when as one man they departed hence
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With all the Oaths and Vows of Innocence,
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I shewd the World their Mental Reservations,
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The Juggles of their Oaths and Protestations:
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In short, I pent mens Faith to that degree,
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They hardly would believe or them or me.
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That Church hath bin so traind with sense and reason,
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They hate implicite Faith as bad as Treason:
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Not that they doubt the Plot (for all their jeering,)
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But tis for better Reasons than my swearing.
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This mads my Soul; and I shall find a time
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To make them fall, unless they help me climb:
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With Oxford too Im at no less defiance,
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Who dirtily refusd me her Alliance,
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Till I could prove that Swearing was a Science;
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Whereas the very posture of the Actor
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Shews tis no Science, but a Manufacture.
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Theres nere a Gown-man but myself, I tell ye,
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Without a Legion of Popes ins Belly:
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Nay, in your godly Country re some Betrayers,
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For there Id like t have been trapand to Prayers,
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As if Id nought to do but sing or say;
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Twas but upon last Commination day,
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The silly Rat had baited Hooks with Hooks,
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Thinking to decoy me into Prayrs with Books.
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Besides, amongst all People but the Blades,
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Swearing and Cursing are two several Trades.
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But such an Insect in Divinity
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Cannot deserve an angry Thought from me,
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Who dare to grapple the whole Hierarchy.
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Mind they their Trade, and canvas Paul and Luke,
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I am above their Censure and Rebuke,
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Nor do I fear their friend your Loyal Duke.
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One single godly Speech of mine defid
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Your Princes Favourite, and your Countrys Pride.
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When I came ratling with a Coach and six,
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King Coels supream Burgesses to fix,
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I stumd the Mobile, and changd their Choices,
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And stalking with their Ears obtaind their Voices:
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By which he sees (if Heavn do not forbid)
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That I can undo all his Father did.
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But after all my most industrious searches,
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Sir Francis Draking, as it were the Churches,
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I find my subtle Masters told me true,
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They have no toppers of a Plot like you.
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At that, enragd, up starts a Loyal Youth,
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Quoth he, Sans swearing, thou hast once spoke truth:
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Th Religion (if thou hast it) is profound,
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And thou art turnd from Rome exactly round;
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Rome and Geneva are a sort of Twins,
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Sworn Sisters, and sworn Enemies to Kings:
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And for all you look so Protestantly big,
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Youre still a Papist Masquerade in Whig.
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Phanaticism is Popery improvd.
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Their bold Ignatius strikes to your Buchanan,
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Their Irish to your English Forty and One;
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Their Plots are bubbles to your late Intrigue,
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Your Covnant hath out-killd their holy League.
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A strange harmonious Discord there appears,
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Betwixt your darling Shibboleth, and theirs;
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Touch but their Strings, and all your Octaves shake,
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And tho some ceremonious Jars you make,
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The Tybur disembogues into your Lake.
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So two false Gamesters quarrel when they meet
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A true, to blind and reinforce the Cheat.
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Ye both agree your Monarch to betray,
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Depose and Murder, tho a different way:
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Both level your Church-Censures at the Crown,
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Ye both pursue the King; but this Ile own,
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They pitch your Game, you fairly hunt it down.
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So have I seen a Royal Stag erewhile
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Fall by your Hounds that hath escapd their toyl;
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Nor must your Subjects fairer Quarter hope,
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Or from your single or the clusterd Pope;
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They must be Slaves to which soere prevails,
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And either roast, or stink to death in Gaols.
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No Age nor Sex but must his Censures share;
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They dart Anathemas, yet more severe,
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From their accumulative Porphry Chair:
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He, modest Man, but censures for your Faults;
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They damn for Cloths and Gestures, yea even Thoughts;
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And all the Choice ye have, unless ye turn,
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Must be a Halter to avoid an Urn,
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As if twere better to hang than burn.
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Not only th Ague, but all other Ills
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Are curd by th Jesuits Powder, and your Pills,
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By which ye purgd the Church, and scourd the Nation,
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In order to a thorough Reformation.
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Ye both assert with Apostolic Buff,
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Convince with Back-sword, and with Pistol-proof,
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And ominous Sulphur make your Reasons tough:
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Their Faith in Absolution makes them sin,
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Yours in Election hath as fruitful been.
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For wheres the difference, bating the Priests Fee,
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That God forgives, or that he will not see;
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Not that your Friends will Damn for six Pence less,
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Ye spend in Capons what ye save in Cash:
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Your Basons, Tankards, Caudle-Cups, and Spoons,
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Turn to as good account as Duckatoons.
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The service of their Church, and of your Cause,
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Blanches the breach of all the sacred Laws:
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Ye deal with Oaths as Potters with their Clay,
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Ye take them by the lump, and then essay
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To mould them for your turn; if that wont do,
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Ye break m strait, and fall to work with new.
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The only two that ever seemd to sham ye,
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Were theirs of Secrecy, and your Solemn Dam--me;
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Ye abhor Repentance both, even when ye dye,
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And your last Breath is spent in Perjury:
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For who with more Astonishment can look
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On their St. Coleman, than on your St. Cook?
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The Saints are much alike for all their din,
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For theirs forswear the Fact, and yours the Sin.
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Yere like a bad half Crown with one fair side,
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Whose loyal Stamp doth the base Metal hide,
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Th other will own the Brass, and justifie t,
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But by your edges ye may both be tryd.
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Hence Tories say, whether you rule the Isle,
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Or th Jesuits, is only Cross and Pile;
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But CHARLES they say hath bin too wisely bred,
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To venture them withs Cross, or you withs Head.
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