THE
PRESBYTERY.
A SATYR.
Turba gravis paci placidoque inimico quieti.
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AS Alexanders hastned death did bring
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Each of his Captaines to be made a King,
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Even so our Bishops ruines did preferre
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Unto a Bishopricke each Presbyter;
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But the same dangers from their league arise,
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As ever did from th'others enmities;
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Yet here they differ, th'other did advance
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By their owne worth, these by their ignorance;
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Th'other were great before, these till their raigne
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Did first begin, were scarcely knowne for men;
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Th'other were fit to governe, so are these,
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As fit as Milk-Maids to weare Harnesses:
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Fine soules indeed! curdled of stench and dust,
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Borne for to break poore Chambermaids that rust
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For want of use, fine motly Prester-Johns,
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Old Pharises in new Editions;
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Young Blew-cap Jesuites, Religions Dawes,
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A Junto of Reformed Loyola's;
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Good Pulpit-Mountebankes, who with one breath
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Can either Quack a Spirituall Cure, or Death;
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Antipodes of Rome, who though their feet
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Seeme contrary, yet in one Centre meet;
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Spruce Christian Muftyes, but that Muftyes be
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Continued, these a sever'd quantitie,
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Who out of many Beads one Bracelet rise,
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And (if they be not hang'd up) make a noyse;
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Most holy Gegawes, which make Elders dance,
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But you are strucke by Scotch Musicians;
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Rattles of th'Gospel, which so active be,
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That deafen all the better Harmonie:
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Dodona's Grove, or whatsoever Knockes
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Will say, yo' are nothing else but vocall blockes,
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And yet from every trunck we almost see,
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Arise an Evangelicke Mercurie;
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Things, which in nothing but their lyes come neere
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The nature of the name they seeme to beare;
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Serious Jack-Puddings of Religion,
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The Antimasque of Reformation;
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The Phosphors of new light, those spots that run
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(To stop, not cleere the light) amidst the Sun;
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Geneva Fryars, they (with submission) lye,
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That say we'ave rooted out all Popery;
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Their Capes preserve it, onely that their hopes,
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Aspire unto plurality of Popes:
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That which poor Canterbury nere profest,
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Is now made good by every Parish-Priest,
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Brave times indeed! 'las whither are we hurl'd?
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What universall madnesse shakes the world?
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What is all space so empty, earth must come,
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And mount aloft to fill a Vacuum?
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Are our eares charm'd, that now all sounds displease,
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But a Scotch Bag-pipe? 'las what dayes are these!
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Wolsey might be a Deacon, and here con
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A farther lesson of Ambition:
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Nay, Machiavel, if he were now alive,
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Would he but change Religion, might thrive;
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Religion! 'las it is a crazie frame,
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And somewhat like the Synod, onely name,
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Which like the great Mogores renowned sway,
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The most are pleas'd to mention, none obey,
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Which like some glorious City ruined long,
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Do's onely live in Paper and the Tongue.
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Religion, which a blind man well might call
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Immense, but one that's deafe, not finde at all,
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That which the world doth generally disguise,
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That stamp by which all knavery currant is;
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Art thou thy selfe, great Nymph? or else doe some
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Deflowre thee, nay force thee away from home,
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And make thee doe their drudgery? O spleen,
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Couldst thou but rise as some lungs stretch'd ha been,
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Thou mightst boil out more hot, then ere one brother
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Could to pronounce damnation on another.
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Erected snakes, could but my anger now
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So farre degenerate as stoope to you,
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How could I thrash you and abuse you worse,
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Then you your selves can a rich Poet curse,
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Worse then you censure Usurers, when you look
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On the lanke reckonings of an Easter Booke:
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Alas, how could I daube you, worse then ere
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Hicks did his English Concordance besmeare;
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Or a hot Monke could with mouth-engines work
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Strange executions against the Turke?
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But Ile be still, a Country Maior can soon
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Quaffe all these vapours of Religion;
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What? quaffe them say you; yes, they cannot be
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Surcharg'd with too much Schoole-Divinitie;
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They doe not feed on Fathers, them they hate,
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Both as a hard and undigested meat;
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Nay, those that know them, intimately say,
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They cannot Conjure by the Kabbala:
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Nay, most oth' Patriarkes would be to seek,
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To tell their new confession in Greek;
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But they who want all weapons, will not strike,
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But each prove a Rhetoricall Vandike,
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Worse then the running o'th'raines, which fence
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Tells onely evill in the consequence;
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But this will be when th'King their Sermons heares,
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When Lesly reads, and Pryn regains his eares,
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When Edwards, that destroying Amurath,
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His Inquisitionary Swords shall sheath
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That puny Hercules, who fiercely sweats,
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To slay the Monsters he himselfe begets;
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The English Cadmus, whose most conquering pen
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Sowes Dragons teeth to raise up armed men,
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Who like the Maid to the great Victor sent,
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Makes poyson now become his nourishment,
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Who lest the growing Sectaries should not live,
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Beats them like Walnut Trees to make them thrive,
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That Church Lycurgus, who to stop the sinnes
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Of waste and drunkennesse, cut down the Vines,
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That venerable sonne of fury, that
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Makes modesty quite excommunicate,
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Which in the Classick Ordinance must come in,
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As numbred for the fix and thirtieth sinne,
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By him you know the Brotherhood, this one
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In time may make a Brotherhood alone:
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But they are Planets that at distance run,
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And Vines lookes like the picture of the Sun.
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