(1)
THE
True PRESBYTERIAN
Without DISGUISE:
OR, A
CHARACTER
OF A
Presbyterians Ways and Actions,
By Sir JOHN DENHAM, Knight.
Difficile est Satyram non scribere, namquis inique
patiens urbis tam ferrens, ut teneat se? Juv.
|
A Presbyter is such a Monstrous thing,
|
That loves Democracy, and hates a King;
|
For Royal Issue never making prayers,
|
Since Kingdoms (as he thinks) should have no Heirs,
|
But stand Elective; that the holy Crew
|
May (when their Zeal transports them) chuse a New.
|
And is so strongly grounded in belief,
|
That Antichrist his coming will be brief,
|
[?]s he dares swear (if he dares swear at all)
|
[T]he Quakers are ordain'd to make him fall:
|
From whence he grows impatient, and he says,
|
The wisest Counsels are but fond delays,
|
To hold him lingring in deluding hope,
|
Else long e're this he had subdu'd the Pope.
|
A Presbyter is he, whose heart doth hate
|
The man (how good so e're) advanc'd in State;
|
And finding his disease a Leprosie,
|
Doth judge that all in Court Gehezi's be;
|
Whilst he himself in Bribery is lost,
|
And lyes for gain unto the Holy Ghost.
|
When though in shew he seems a grave Tobias,
|
He is within a very Ananias.
|
The Lay-prophane-name (Lord) he hates, and says
|
It is th' approaching sign of the last days,
|
For Church-men to be stiled so; Nay more,
|
'Tis Usher to the Babylonian Whore.
|
The Bishops Habits, with the Tip and Rochets,
|
Beget in him such Fancies and such Crochets,
|
That he believes it is a thing as Evil
|
To look on them, as to behold the Devil.
|
And for the Government Episcopal,
|
That he condemns to be the worst of all;
|
Because the primest Times did suffer no man
|
T' exalt himself, for all was held in common:
|
Yet 'tis most strange, when he is most Zeal-sick,
|
Nothing can cure him but a Bishoprick,
|
Where once invested, proves without all scope,
|
Insulting, boundless, more than any Pope.
|
A Presbyter is he, that's never known
|
To think on others good, besides his own;
|
And all his Doctrine is of Hope, and Faith,
|
For Charity, 'tis Popery he saith:
|
And is not only silent in Good works,
|
But in his practice too, resembles Turks.
|
The Churches Ornaments, the Ring of Bells,
|
(Can he get Pow'r) 'tis ten to one he sells;
|
For his well-tuned ears cannot abide
|
A Jangling noise, but when his Neighbours chide.
|
A Presbyter is he, that never prays,
|
But all the world must hear him what he says;
|
And in that fash'on too, that all may see,
|
He is an open Modern Pharisee:
|
The name of Sabbath still he keeps ('tis true)
|
But so he is less Christian, more a Jew;
|
Nor setled form of Prayer his zeal will keep,
|
But preacheth all his purer Flock asleep:
|
To study what to say, where for to doubt
|
Of a presumed Grace to hold him out;
|
And to be learn'd is too too Humane thought,
|
Th' Apostles all (he says) were men untaught;
|
And thus he proves it for the best to be
|
A simple-Teacher of Divinity.
|
The Reverence which Ceremony brings,
|
Into the Sacred Church, his Conscience stings,
|
Which is so void of Grace, and so ill bent,
|
That kneel he will not at the Sacrament,
|
But sits more like a Judge, than like a Sinner,
|
And takes it just, as he receives his Dinner,
|
Thus do his saucy postures speak his Sin,
|
For as without, such is his Heart within.
|
A Presbyter is he, who doth defame
|
Those Reverend Ancestors from whence he came.
|
And like a Graceless Child, above all other,
|
Denies respect unto the Church his Mother;
|
His Chosen Protestants he scorns, as men
|
Not sav'd because they are not Brethren:
|
And lest his Doctrine should be counted new,
|
He wears an antient Beard to make it true.
|
A Presbyter is he, that thinks his place
|
At every Table is to say the Grace;
|
When the good-man, or when his child hath paid,
|
And thanks to God for King, and Realm, hath said,
|
He then starts up, and thinks his self a Debter
|
Till he doth cry (I pray you thank God better;)
|
When long he prays for every living thing,
|
But for the Catholick Church, and for the King.
|
A Presbyter is he, would wondrous fain
|
Be call'd Disciple by the Holy train.
|
Which to be worthy of he'l stray and erre
|
Ten miles to hear a silenc'd Minister;
|
He loves a Vesper Sermon, hates a Mattin,
|
As he detests the Fathers nam'd in Latin,
|
And as he Friday, Sunday makes in dyet,
|
Because the King, and Canons do deny it,
|
The self-same nature makes him to repair
|
To Week-day Lectures, more than Sundays prayer.
|
And as the man, must need's in all things erre,
|
He starves his Parson, crams his Lecturer.
|
A Presbyter is he, whose heart is bent
|
To cross the Kings designes in Parliament,
|
Where whilst the place of Burgess he doth bear,
|
He thinks he ows but small Allegiance there;
|
But stands at distance, as some higher thing,
|
Like a Licurgus, or a kind of King.
|
Then as an Errant, times bold Knights were wont
|
To seek out Monsters, and adventures hunt;
|
So with his wit, and valour, he doth try
|
How the Prerogative he may defie;
|
Thus he atempts, and first he fain would know
|
If that the Soveraign Power, be new, or no:
|
Or if it were not fitter, Kings should be
|
Confin'd unto a limited degree;
|
And for his part like a Plebean State,
|
Where the poor Mechanicks may still debate
|
All matters at their pleasure, not confin'd
|
To this, or that, but as they cause do find;
|
When though that every voice against him go,
|
He'l slay the Giant, with his single (no.)
|
He in his heart, though at a poor expence,
|
Abhors a gift that's call'd Benevolence;
|
For as his mind, so is his bounty bent,
|
And still unto the King molevolent.
|
He is the States-man, just enough precise,
|
The nearest Government to Scandalize.
|
Nor like a Drunkard , when he doth expose
|
In secret underneath the silent Rose.
|
To use his freedom, when the Pot might bear
|
The faults which closely he committed there,
|
But Shimei-like, to all the men he meets,
|
He spews his frantick Venome in the Streets:
|
And though he says the Spirit moves him to it,
|
The Devil is that Spirit made him do it.
|
A Presbyter is he, (else there is none)
|
That thinks the King will change Religion,
|
His doubtful thought, like to his Moon-blind eys,
|
Makes the beast start at every shape he spies.
|
And what his fond mistaken fancy breed,
|
He doth believe as firmly as the Creed:
|
From whence he doth proclaim a Fast [?]o all
|
That he allows to be Canonicall;
|
And then he consecrates a secret Room,
|
Where none but the Elected Sisters come:
|
When being met, doth Treason boldly Teach,
|
And will not Fast and Pray, but Fast and Preach;
|
Then strains a Text, whereon he may relate
|
The Churches danger, discontent of State,
|
And hold them there so long in fear and doubt,
|
That some do think 'tis danger to go out;
|
Believeing if they hear the Cieling crack,
|
The Bishops are behind them, at their back;
|
And so they sit bewailing one another,
|
Each groaning Sister howling to her Brother.
|
A Presbyter is he has Womens fears,
|
And yet will set the whole World by the ears:
|
Hee'l rail in publick if the King deny,
|
To let the Quarrel of the Spaniard die;
|
He storms to hear in France the Wars should cease
|
And that by Treaty there should be Peace:
|
For sure (saith he) the Church doth Honour want
|
When 'tis not truly called Militant,
|
And in plain truth, as far as I can find,
|
He bears the self-same Treasonable mind
|
As doth the Jesuit; for though they be
|
Tongue-Enemies in shew, their hearts agree.
|
And both professed foes, alike consent,
|
Both to betray the Anointed Innocent,
|
For though their manners differ, yet they aim
|
That either may the King or Kingdom maim:
|
The difference is this way understood,
|
One in Sedition, t'other deals in blood.
|
Their Characters abridg'd if you will have,
|
Each seems a Saint, yet either proves a Knave.
|
|
|
|
|
|