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Broadside ballad entitled 'The presbytery. A satyr'





Turba gravis paci placidoque inimico quieti.

AS Alexanders hastned death did bring
Each of his Captaines to be made a King,
Even so our Bishops ruines did preferre
Unto a Bishopricke each Presbyter;
But the same dangers from their league arise,
As ever did from th'others enmities;
Yet here they differ, th'other did advance
By their owne worth, these by their ignorance ;
Th'other were great before, these till their raigne
Did first begin, were scarcely knowne for men ;
Th'other were sit to governe, so are these,
As sit as Milk-Maids to weare Harnesses:
Fine soules indeed! curdled of stench and dust,
Borne for to break poore Chambermaids that rust
For want of use, fine motly Prester-Johns,
Old Pharises in new Editions;
Young Blew-cap Jesuites, Religions Dawes,
A Junto of Reformed Loyola's ;
Good Pulpit-Mountebankes, who with one breath
Can either Quack a Spirituall Cure, or Death ;
Antipodes of Rome, who though their feet
Seeme contrary, yet in one Centre meet;
Spruce Christian Mustyes, but that Muscyes be
Continued, these a sever'd quantitie,
Who out of many Beads one Bracelet rise,
And (if they be not hang'd up) make a noyse;
Most holy Gegawes,which make Elders dance,
Bat you are strucke by Scotch Musicians;
Rattles ot th'Gospel, which so active be,
That deafen all the better Harmonie:
Dodona's Grove, or what soever Knockes
Will say, yo'are nothing else but vocall blockes,
And yet from every trunck we alocost [?] see,
Arise an Evangelicke Mercurie;
Things, which in nothing but their lyes come neere
The nature ot the name they see me to beare;
Serious Jack-Puddings of Religion,
The Antimasque of Reformation;
The Phasphors of new light, those spots that run
(To stop, not cleere the light) amidst the Sun;
Geneva Fryars, they (with submission) lye,
That say we'ave rooted out all Popery;
Their Capes preserve it,onely that their hopes,
A (pire unto plurality of Popes :
That which poor Canterbury nere prosest,
Is now made good by every Parish-priest,
Brave times indeed ! 'las whither are we hurl'd ?
What universall madnesse shakes the world ?
What is all space so empty, earth must come,
And mount aloft to fill a Vacuum?
Are our eares charm'd, that now all sounds displease,
But a Scotch Bag-pipe? 'las what dayes are these!
Walsey might be a Deacon, and here con
A farther lesson of Ambition ;
Nay, Machiavel, if he were now alive,
Would he but change Religion, might thrive ;
Religion ! 'las it is a crazie frame,               
And somewhat like the Synod, onely name,
Which like the great Megores renowned sway,
The most are pleas'd to mention, none obey,
Which like some glorious City ruined long,
Do's onely live in Paper and the Tongue.

Religion, which a blind man well might call            
Immense, but one that's dease, not finde at all,
That which the world doth generally disguise,
That stamp by which all knavery currant is;
Art thou thy selfe, great Nymph? or else doe some
Deflowre thee, nay force thee away from home,
And make thee doe their drudgery? O spleen,
Couldst thou but rise as some lungs strerch'd ha been,
Thou mightst boil out more hot,then ere one brother
Could to pronounce damnation on another.

Erected snakes, could but my anger now
So farre degenerate as stoope to you,
How could I thrash you and abuse you worse,
Then you your selves can a rich Poet curse,
Worse then you censure Usurers, when you look
On the lanke reckonings of an Easter Booke:
Alas, how could I daube you, worse then ere
Hicks did his English Concordance besmeare;
Or a hot Monke couId with mouth-engines work
Strange executions against the Turke?
But Ille be still, a Country Maior can soon
Quaffe all these vapours of Religion;
What? quaffe them say you ; yes, they cannot be
Surcharg'd with too much Schoole-Divinitie;
They doe not feed on Fathers,them they hate,
Both as a hard and undigested meat;
Nay, those that know them, intimately say,
They cannot Conjure by the Kabbala:
Nay, most oth' Patriarkes would be to seek,
To tell their new confession in Greek;
But they who want all weapons, will not strike,
But each prove a Rhetoricall Vandike,
Worse then the running o'th'raines, which sence
Tells onely evill in the consequence;
But this will be when th'King their Sermons heares,
When Lesly reads, and Pryn regains his eares,
When Edwards, that destroying Amurath,
His Inquisitionary Swords shall sheath
That puny Hercules, who siercely sweats,
To slay the Monsters he himselfe begets;
The English Cadmus, whose most conquering pen
Sowes Dragons teeth to raise up armed men,
Who like the Maid to the great Victor sent,
Makes poyson now become his nourishment,
Who lest the growing Sectaries should not live,
Beats them like Walnut Trees to make them thrive,
That Church Lycurgus, who to slop the sinnes
Of waste and drunkennesse, cut down the Vines,
That venerable sonne of fury, that
Makes modesly quite excommunicate,
Which in the Classick Ordinance must come in,
As numbered for the six and thirtieth sinne,
By him you know the Brotherhood, this one
In time may make a Brotherhood alone:
But they are Planets that at distance run,
And Vines lookes like the picture of the Sun.


Printed in the Yeare 16[ ]

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Probable date published: 1647-   shelfmark: Ry.III.a.10(120)
Broadside ballad entitled 'The presbytery. A satyr'
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