(I)
A
Congratulation
OF THE
Protestant-Joyner
TO
Anthony King of Poland,
Upon his Arrival in the Lower World
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WElcom, my Lord, unto these Stygian Plains;
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Welcom unto a Land where Discord reigns:
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This is a Land Your Lordship will approve,
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From whence these States hope you will ne'r remove;
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Welcom to These, as to the States above.
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From Them I'm come, and this bless'd News I bring,
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Discord is dead and they have chose You KING.
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Pride, Envy, Malice, Hell would soon decay,
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Should Peace appear, and Discord fade away.
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Anth. Thanks Friend, whoe'r thou art, for this bless'd News;
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The Name of King I hate, yet can't refuse;
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I wish some other Name they would confer.
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Joyn. What think You then, my Lord, of Emperour
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Anth. Spoke like a Roman Soul; who, though they hate
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The Name of Kings, yet Emperours create.
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Joyn. Or, if these please not, what if You should be
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Dubb'd of Mankind Plenipotentiary?
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Anth. Spoke like a Non-con's Soul, that very Name
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Does all my Vitals heat, and sets my Soul on flame.
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Let me embrace, and hug thee in my Arms;
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That Hogen-mogen word is full of Charms:
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There's Beauty in't, that leads my Soul away,
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And I must follow, though I go astray,
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Joyn. What means my Lord by that recanting Speech?
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To go astray implies You've made some breach.
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Anth. The observation of it does imply
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You have been bold i'th' world as well as I.
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Joyn. 'Tis true, my Lord, I aim'd at mighty Things,
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To Subvert Kingdoms, and to Murder Kings;
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To teach the Nation to be Picts once more,
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And die their Skins with their own crimson Gore:
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That is the truest stain, that ne'r will out;
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Witness His Father, murder'd by the Rout.
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Anth. That's the dead-bone, which (touching)bleeds a-new;
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And that's the cause I did the Son pursue:
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Like Cataline, our Mischiefs are not sure;
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But by effecting greater to secure.
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Joyn. But since i'th' world Your Taper does not shine,
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Like Damocles tho Presbyterians dine;
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The Sword of Justice trembles o'r their head,
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And hangs secur'd but by one single Thread;
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There needs no Atrapos to cut the String,
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One blast of Treason more against their KING,
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Does all the Vengeance on their own heads bring.
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Anth. You seem a Convert now; Prithee declare,
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What is your Name? From whence, and what you were?
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Joyn. My Lord, survey this Face, and You will find
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(With a small recollecting of Your mind)
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What my Profession was, and what's my Name,
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By whom employ'd, from whence, and what I am.
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Anth. I seriously observe you, but can't tell,
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You are so alter'd since you came to Hell;
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But guess you are a Man of no great Fame;
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Nor ever had, until of late, a Name:
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A Name, I mean, that does deserve Renown
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For Murder, or for striking at the Crown.
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Joyn. Small Shrubs, my Lord, may tall as Cedars grow;
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What was John Leyden and Massanello?
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What was Wat Tyler and Jack Straw of late?
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And our prodigious Oliver's great Fate,
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That made all Europe shake? To such a height
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I might have rose; but Fortune ow'd a spight,
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And struck it home just in the nick of Time;
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And for a Throne, I did a Gallows clime.
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My Lord, you sure may know me now; ---------
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Your Name is Colledge, and I pity you.
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But prithee tell me, for I fain would know,
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In all my journey hither, to and fro,
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I could not spy one glimmering light of Heav'n;
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For all was dark, but what from hence was giv'n,
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Only some Link-boys Skeletons did ply
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I'th' way, with Lights most dreadful to the eye.
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What is the reason? For I've heard men tell
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Strange Stories, and that viewing Heav'n is Hell,
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And not enjoy't; Prithee what shall I do?
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I'd give a world that happy place to view.
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Joyn. The reason is, You did in Holland die;
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A place that to the Centre lies so nigh,
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That you're no sooner dead, but you are here;
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It is a shorter cut by half a year:
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It lies so low and sunk so deep i' th' Sea,
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It wants the use o' th' Primum Mobile.
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Had you in England staid, and dy'd as I,
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You might have clipt the Air, and reach'd the Skie.
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Anth. But since I'm forc'd into this dark abode,
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Describe the pleasures of that blessed Road:
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I fancy that some pleasure will ensue,
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To hear that told which I shall never view.
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Joyn. No sooner was my Soul discharg'd of Clay,
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But up it sprang, and pinion'd quick its way;
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I pass'd the Orbs, with wonder and delight,
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And wa'n't took notice of in all my flight;
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At last, on Heav'ns Battlements I stay'd,
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And all that bright Imperian round survey'd;
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Observ'd how th' Primum Mobile did fly
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Ten thousand times more swifter than the Eye:
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The vast Expance did all with Glory shine,
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And ev'ry thing I saw was all Divine;
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A Gate of Pearl did on my right hand stand,
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And Peter, (as I guess, by th' Keys in's hand)
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Who ope'd the door, and all pure Souls receiv'd.
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I thought to enter too, but was deceiv'd.
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Anth. What happiness to those blest Souls was giv'n!
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Who'd plague their King and Countrey to lose Heav'n!
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Joyn. He took me by the hand, and turn'd me round;
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Bid me avaunt, for that was holy Ground:
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Yonder's your Road; down there the Angels fell,
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And so must you. At which I struck at Hell;
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For in a moment (so quick was my Fate!)
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My Head was dash'd against Hells Iron-gate,
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(Which then was shut) A wonder to the Crowd!
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Open the door! I boldly yaul'd aloud:
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A Thund'ring Voice I heard; From whence? From who
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D'ye come? I strait reply'd I came from Yon;
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I
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(4)
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I am a Joyner by my Trade, and come
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To fit and Wainscot up his Lordship's Room.
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At which the Gates flew ope, I entred in,
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Swept clean the Room of all things there but Sin;
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She must remain, and your Companion be,
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Forever, and to vast Eternity.
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Anth. I'm mad! I rave! The Vulture gnaws my Breast!
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I wou'd repose, but 'tis in vain to rest.
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No rest is here! My scorching Entrails burn!
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And all my Guts to horrid Snakes do turn!
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Oh, cursed Fate! that I should die so soon,
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When all my Treasons scarce did reach their Noon!
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Oh! had I but a little longer stood,
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I would have made the Nation flow with Bloud:
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But I am dead; yet still I must Rebel,
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And add more Flames unto the Flames of Hell;
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I'll make grim Pluto tremble in his Throne,
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And all the Subterranean Empire groan;
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I'll make 'em drink again the bitter Cup,
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And undermine their Hell, and blow 'em up.
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With that he foam'd at mouth, hung out his Tongue,
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(At which a horrid ugly Scorpion hung;)
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His Eyes so hot did glow, made Fiends admire;
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And burnt so fierce, as Hell itself cry'd Fire:
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But a shagg'd Fiend appear'd, and in a trice
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Hurl'd his hot Soul into a Hell of Ice;
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Where may each Traytor, that their KINGS controul,
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Find this Estate entail'd upon their Soul.
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