Partridges Advice
To the PROTESTANTS of ENGLAND.
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NOW, to your cost, you see with grief and tears,
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The tricking Shams of the proceeding Years:
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You that now see, scornd to believe it then
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Imposd upon, even by the worst of Men.
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Now hang your Freedom on each Villains Sword;
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Cheated yourselves, taking your Princes Word.
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Thus folly still helps to compeeat your fate:
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And all that can be said, You Repent to late.
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But, come, chear up, Heaven will relieve your need;
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Tis from that Throne, your happy Fates decreed.
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He had his orders then to spare you too:
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A little Whipping is the Scholars due.
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The troops of Gods are brought you to carress:
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The dextrous Arts of Priests and Idleness.
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Religions scandal, to encrease Romes store;
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Which Fools believe, and mad Men do adore.
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Tricks made by Priests, the Ignorant to surprise.
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Who Sacred Writ and Reason do despise:
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But you know better, and have oft been told
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Of those damnd Cheats, you know they want your Gold.
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Preserve your Faith, your Ancestors have won:
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You know the Truth, the Mistick Three in One.
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Stoop not to Idols, nor lay Reason by.
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Give not your Faith up, nor yet tamely die.
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The Sun will rise, the Actors fill the Stage:
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And One and Twenty Months is not an Age.
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Therefore be Wise, attend the Hand Divine,
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Till the still Voice gives you the Sacred Sign.
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I.
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TOucht with a teeming strain of English growth,
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My burning Muse into a flame breaks forth
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In Sacred Passions, scorns to be afraid
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Of those vast Murders pious Rome hath made.
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A gracious Mother, merciful and good,
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Her Thoughts are murder, and her Bosoms blood.
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II.
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The Priests of Rome are like their Mother true,
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Lazy and Letcherous, yet Obedient too;
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Furnishd with all the Vice that Nature gives:
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They are the only Epicures that lives.
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Yet they converse with God, disperse their Powers,
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Confess your Wives, and also get you Heirs.
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III.
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Of all the Arts the Devil yet made choice,
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This thing of Popery was his Master-piece.
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For in revenge with Heaven, being at ods,
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He taught the Papists how to Eat their Gods.
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Then twould not be amiss, since thus they do,
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To make clear work, and Eat the Devil too.
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IV.
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Can you forswear your Faith, give God the lye,
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Cant with a Priest, and lay your Reason by:
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Lay down your Wealth to serve the Church & they
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That suck your Blood, when they pretend to Pray?
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Can ye be Priest-rid, and be awd by Threats?
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Can ye believe a Crew of Pious Cheats?
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V.
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Can ye believe a little Dow-bakd God,
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A Conjuring Bell, and a Good-Friday Rod,
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A Lying Legend, and a Priestly Curse,
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A Dish of Holy-water, and a Cross?
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When Rome grows Rampant, Hell itself contrives.
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When Satan Preacheth, Belzebub believes.
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VI.
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What Man can think the Inquisition good,
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When Church-men wash their Hands in Lay-mens Blood?
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Can ye adore a Cross, be damnd in Jest,
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Cheat all your Senses, and believe a Priest?
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Heretick cant believe, yere only fit:
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True slaves to Rome will never question it.
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VII.
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Should but a Priest say to his Zealot, Go
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Murder that Heretick: it must be so;
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He dares not ask the Reason: goes his ways,
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The Father says it; and the Fool obeys.
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What Man of Sense, but must amazed stand,
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To see Fools act, what Bloody Rogues command?
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VIII.
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Consider France and Spain, see whats there done;
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Under what Plagues those Neighbouring Nations groan.
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And all this done by Holy Churches care:
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For where Priests sway, be sure oppressions there.
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Priest! P--- on the name, I loath the very smell:
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Theyr wretched things, scarce good enough for Hell.
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IX.
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The Flux of Fate, that gives us hopes and fears,
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Sets Rome in Triumph; London all in Tears.
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That Brood, by Flames, that made your City rue,
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Will, if they can, next burn your Bodies too.
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Romes Bloody Bigots, Londons Fate once changd;
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Yet of a Crew of Rogues, but one Fool hangd.
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X.
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Apostate Church; a Faith built up in Blood.
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A lazy Priest, a little sensless God.
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All their Religions Lyes: its proofs a sin.
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When Scripture fails, then Miracles come in.
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Yet neer forget, nor it forgive them Knaves,
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While Martyrd Godfreys Blood for Vengeance craves.
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XI.
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Creation, What is that? What Noyse ye make?
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The Things not strange that Priests do undertake;
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Nay, and do more, the Church hath here the odds,
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God made but Man, but now the Priests make Gods.
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Never be bubled by a Popish Lye,
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Rather than that, resolve Revenge, and dye.
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XII.
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Let not Roms Court, Hozo proud, ere expect
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On English Men her lawless Laws t erect;
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Nor let the Popish-brood think to controul
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One single Attom of a true English Soul:
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God loaths their Worship, they hate Holy Writ,
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We hate their Faith, Hell waits to punish it.
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