aside with the Baptismall Vow The Eunuch if amongst your Classick Cinders Could not have said here 's water then what hinders What else would ye but in your vast desire Forestall Christ's Office and baptize with fire When at the Table of the Lord we stay For Bread and Wine ye send us empty away Whom we must therefore worse than Papists call For they give half but you give none at all And with your Pharisaick Demagogs Call it a giving Childrens bread to Dogs Classicks take heed 't will be remembered Ye gave Christs hungry people stones for bread For Funerals y' have brought us to that pass No burial but the burial of an Asse Methinks a word were sweet in such a place Where Death even looks the People in the face Through the Deceased's Coffin such a sight Would of an ATHEIST turn a PROSELITE Nay very Dreams do sometimes men convert The Phansie turning Preacher to the Heart When could your words pierce deeper than imprest VVhen Fear and Sorrow have possest the breast Dumb Dogs that from the House of Mourning sneak Leaving the more relenting stones to speak Strange kind of Brethren neither will give bread To those that live nor bury those are dead But what My Saviour said so say I too Forgive them Lord they know not what they do But ye may see if on your Schisms ye look You dearly want our Divine Service-Book In which is wrapt up such a Form of Prayer As next Christs Pattern does transcend compare Nothing being in 't but of approved worth Nothing but what the Sacred Text holds forth Even in its phrase and method signifi'd In terms express or at the least imply'd It pass'd the persecution 't were a story Too dire and dismal for your DIRECTORY This they have left us for the CHURCHES good Seal'd and deliver'd with their own hearts blood A Heavenly Legacy By my consent It shall be call'd The Bishops TESTAMEMT VVhich you that slight were you your turns to take Ye would be brought I doubt as Bears to th' stake VVhilst for your IDOL none a Faggot kiss Bishops have bled Bishops have broyl'd for this But Faction and Ambition were the cause And not Religion Conscience or the Laws The Mitre and the means belonging to 't Was that which set this holy war on foot And finding now the Spirits Sword to fail The arm of flesh must help it to prevail VVhen Rebels draw the Sword upon their KING Into the fire they must the Scabberd fling No dallying now down goes the Church's hedge To make an open way for SACRILEDGE And the Scotch Boar forthwith's invited in To be partaker of the Prey and Sin VVho seeing in what straight our Classicks lay Though he scarce patience had to keep away But like a Garrison that must resign On terms though ne'r so hard rather than pine Or as the Scythians that have never fled Their Countrey Confines but for want of bread So said these SCOTS come up and let us go There 's Corn in Aegypt yea and Flesh-pots too But stay awhile the Jewes must Sampson bind Or we have Castles in the Air design'd They must take Strafford off whose single worth Does weigh down all the Vertue of the North Thus Wentworth dy'd whose Innocence was such That all the Law in England could not touch Thus fell the Churches Champion hurry'd hence To leave the Temple void of a defence Nor is this scum yet to assistance drawn Till they to them their Souls in Cov'nant pawn Hinc illae lachrymae Hence these Traytors bring The Land infected with the cursed thing This long time Loyal Learned Church must bow To the Scotch Kirk she is her Mistris now The Copy's set and ENGLAND it appears Must follow 't though in bloudy Characters Now comes the Army which did you but see You 'd swear it were a Goal-deliverie First came the Pedlar Lashley with his pack Not of smal wares but Oatmeal at his back Next came the Horse which so beheltred were A man would think them going to a Fair. The Trumpet sounded boote-sele long But Deil a boot or Saddle in the throng Except some Jockie galled with a botch Got a blew Cap to gratifie his notch I wonder they ne'r in the stirrop hung For either foot was with a halter strung By which it doth evidently appear They came to do much execution here Their boots were wisps they on their Legs did draw Who then can say they were not worth a straw Thus on their Galloways while the Army jogs Ye'd swear their muckle Horse were Mastiff Dogs On whose keen backs they did their bums endorse As men condemn'd to ride the wooden horse The Foot march'd in such haste as I suppose Many a leg there was out-ran his hose Their clothes so tatter'd were one would have swore That they had been in fight the day before For every Suite so scollop'd was with rags Like Dung-hill-Rakers that had rob'd their bags O had the Army stood a little still What work had there been for a Paper-mill But that in those so antiquated Cuts The ' Squiers of the body had their Huts Of all the Shirts upon their backs was found Scarce so much Lint would dress a single wound I might march on but here 's enough of these Volumns must speak their Bags and Baggages Now Presbyterians view your proper studds These are the Saints ye fetcht for all our Goods And because those were not enough they sold Their Sovereign Lord and Master too for Gold See now your Images your golden Calves With price and pray'r procur'd in your behalves And by vast sums it plainly does appear That truly these have been your brethren dear And certainly you here the Jewes out-do To give your ear-rings and your Lop-ears too Nay such a false such an impost'rous Crew Are yet to learn the way of meaning true And have a form of fallacy in KIRK Mecha would not accept it for her Turk Thus in pretence to bring the Gospel to us Ye throng'd in swarms of Locusts to undo us Panthers and Tygres a ravenous race Of Harpies that forestall the saying Grace Harpies I do correct my hasty pen These Miscreants had not the face of men These are your friendly friends indeed these are Saints Canoniz'd in Satans Calendar Dissention kindled Zealots that desire Like Salamanders still to live in fire Yet to these Vagrants have ye as I said Your KING your Country your Church betrayd This was the Crew wherewith ye England vext Doubtless ye mean to bring the Devil next But wicked Wagg'ners see what ye have done Aspiring to the Charriot of the Sun Like busie Flyes ye at the Candle aim And scorch your selves to Cinders in the flame Was it for this ye waded through a floud Of Widdows tears and a red Sea of bloud When to your selves ye did propound whole Realms An INDEPENDENT all the plot o'rwhelms And on the tropick of your trophies stands Murd'ring your KING when you
BELLUM Presbyteriale Or as much said for the PRESBYTER As may be TOGETHER WITH THEIR COVENANTS CATASTROPHE Held forth in an Heroick Poem By Matth. Stevenson Gent. Tantum Relligio potuit suadere malorum LONDON Printed for A. Rice and are to be sold in St. Paul's Churchyard 1661. To my very good Friend DR. COLLINS SIR I Joy to hear of your Conformity and think what comfort it must needs be to that Reverend Father your Bishop I wish you many and happy dayes in your Cassock and Surplice nor am I less glad you have cast off your mourning Cloak of Presbytery which I am sure S. Paul will never send you back to Troas for Praestat recurrere quam malè currere These twenty years has the Church like another Rebecca laboured of two Nations in her troubled womb the Presbyterians endeavouring might and main to supplant the Bishops and plant a company of stinking Elders in their places But God be thanked the Confederates have miss'd their mark My Title-page speaks of War but peace to you Tu tantùm vivere pugna Inque pios dominae posse redire sinus Which for the better understanding of such as never arriv'd at Corinth is thus Fight you to scape And safe retreat into your Ladies Lap. But Sir did not my good meaning hope for some Candour and acceptance I should never have had the confidence to present your judicious eye with a Toy so beneath you Sir I wish you well nay more that you were a Bishop and that you may soon be so is the hearty Prayer of him that was sometime a Member of yours but still is and ever shall be SIR Your humble Servant M. STEVENSON BELLUM Presbyteriale HAve ye not seen the Coles that lively burn Of their own Ashes make themselves an Urn And on occasion from their shady bed Make speedy resurrection from the Dead Such are those Classick Glowings that long lie Rak'd up in Embers of Obscurity Whose envious Sparks the Presbyterian locks In his close breast as in a Tinderbox And but the dread of just Revenge doth hinder Would turn the Surplice Lawn-sleeves to Tinder Nay for a little profit or a Name Set ev'n the sacred Temple on a flame His Spleen has its Dimensions so out-swoln No man can think the fire from Heav'n was stoln Which like those Lamps reserved from the Air Continue burning many hundred year So Presbyterians age to age conceal The fiery bowels of their lurking zeal As if the sulph'rous Cakes of that deep Cell Were as eternal as the fire of Hell They wrap the White Witch in a Cloud of night Dark as the Curtains of false FAUX his light Til mischief prompts them to 't then then they double Their flames make the Church State their stubble And would forestall their fury is so fierce The Conflagration of the Universe Some smaller lights hover to and again Which we call Will i th' Wisp or Lanthorn men These like the Gloworm that terrestrial star Do sometimes glitter sometimes disappear Or like Joan's Candle else this twinkling train Are out and in and in and out again These are those lights upon the Stage we see Ye going now to act your Tragedie Those Heresies I mean those Schisms and Sects By you directed to those sad effects You the Pyrites are these sparks are some Of those that from your flinty bosoms come You are the Stone the Steel Sulphur and Match These only Tinder are and apt to catch In sum thus only differ your Conditions You are the Aetna these the Evomitions And more than this your actions vary not One is the Canon th' other the Case-shot For in a word 't is plain ye both conspire To set the Kingdom and the Church on fire And to that end the furious brood of Smec Judging themselves too long kept under Deck As eager Mastiffs that have long time lain Under restraint of a commanding chain And now got loose there 's nothing in their way Which to their teeth shall not become a prey So 't is these Classick Currs do nothing fear But like Acteons Dogs their Master tear Well had it been and had I had my will These Tygres should have been kept muzled still Foxes I say that our Church-Vine deface And plant their stinking Elders in the place Which they begin for now of late these Rabbies Have made Cathedrals like old wildred Abbies And with the Draggon with all fury press To drive the Church into the Wilderness With their black brood of Angels Sons of Hell They help the Devil against St. Michael There you may look before you and behind And in the Windows read your envious mind Which makes me wonder how that Clergy looks To have their Elders learn'd and burn their Books But this of all I do the strangest deem That Presbyterians who would Christians seem Should so forget themselves as not afford A reverence to the shadow of their LORD But he must suffer by the English Jew As in his Person so his Pourtraict too Cause crucifying at Jerusalem Was not enough he now is ston'd by them Nay and his Mother that stands weeping by Must have her Scene too in the Tragedy Like men possess'd they dwell amongst the Tombs And rifle Graves and dead mens resting Rooms Whom the blest Virgin cannot exorcise With all the holy water of her Eyes Pitty us Heaven that labour of a Curse Were Hell broke loose we could not sure be worse The Bishop doubtless with much quiet bears His losses and forgives the Plunderers Who in so Sacrilegious steps have trod They have not spar'd the very House of God And thus methinks I hear them check their Care Can Servants better than their Masters fare To rob the Church a sin is of that stature Heathens abhorr'd it by the light of Nature A num'rous Army before Delphos fell Though it were but the Devil's Oracle With us the Case to greater sin does vary For God's own House does need a Sanctuary But this our shame O may it ne'r be known The hands that robb'd our GOD have been our own And what a vain excuse we do alledge Pull Idols down and commit Sacriledge Thus PRESBYTERS ye see what ye have done Brought CHURCH and STATE into Confusion EPISCOPACY as it well appears Has prosper'd in this Church a thousand years Look back upon the Church you may derive Its Institution from the Primitive In sacred Scripture no where it appears Titus and Timothy were PRESBYTERS True such there were with Bishops if you 'l hav 't Contemporary but subordinate It were a fond Conceit and over-reach'd To say the Ass was Balaam cause he preach'd To rule without a King is to no boot And shall the Church have neither Head nor Foot What Order in the Church or State would be We are convinc'd by our late ANARCHY When notwithstanding all the Lights ye boast We were in Darkness worse than Aegypt lost Aegyptians Prince and Peasant the Text saics Arose not from
had bound his hands You that Malignant call'd the Cavallier Who is Malignant now JACK PRESBYTER What have ye gotten you and your Scotch Lyon That built up Babel and demolisht Sion This Up-start Viper all the wealth does share By you begotten on the womb of war Thus they whose hopes had made them more than proud For their so long'd for Juno grasp'd a cloud Nor is there Law more right more just more due Than Plunder-Masters should be plunder'd too Now they have left off action in this Nation And are turn'd wholly into Contemplation Which contradicts the Academick Art Where Theory succeeds the practick part Platonick Presbyters how do their Fancies range For sights i th' air and prodigies more strange Than true That Monster in the News books read Of which the Parson brought the Wife to bed This is a Fable and was got 't is plain As Jove once got Minerva of his brain But if ye could not Treason once a foot Drive on with Arms Bug-bears shall never do 't A rout of holy Hell-hounds that have wrought Treason that others never durst have thought For aggravation of whose punishment God has not thought ye worthy to repent As if it were a sin that while ye live Heav'n never had intention to forgive Or sure so mild so mercifull a PRINCE Might of your stubborness your hearts convince But they and often so it comes to pass Whose hands were Iron have their faces brass Guilt feeds the fire whose inward burning throws This cloud of smoak upon your duskie brows And brands ye with Cain's mark where e'r ye go Any man may a PRESBYTERIAN know And without judging doubtless men may say 't It is a Prologue to your future fate Who thus forestall the Office of the Shrieve And hang your selves in spite of a reprieve THE EXECUTION OF THE COVENANT Burnt by the Common Hang-man Ed. Dun Presbyter May 22. 1661. THe news I pray what doth this Throng infer Do ye not know DUN is turn'd Presbyter Well then I see the Bretheren in spite Of BISHOPS have obtain'd a PROSELITE One that will soon be on the Rigid Score And be a cause of turning many more Make him an ELDER then Indeed ye shall For he is one that may Advance you all That he is now a BROTHER you must grant For I did see him take the COVENANT Take it indeed yet you must understand 'T was but to give 't the honour of his Hand Which he vouchsaf'd with freedom and a smile And strait commits it to the Fun'ral pile In which he shew'd himself a CHRISTIAN right To let the works of darkness come to light Bark then PHANATICKS who like Demophon Glow in the shade and freeze still in the Sun Howl Millenaries Independents too And Anabaptists that Heretick Crew Of Presbyterian By-blows If these flashes Be sacred to you come and Urn the Ashes For we esteem the Reliques of these Sheets Too dirty and debaucht to pave our streets This Mouth-Granado from that Scotch Witch came To set three glorious Kingdoms in a flame A Covenant No 't was a Conspiracy Plotted by Brethren in Iniquity Treason to which the acts of Catiline Sylla and Marius were deem'd Divine Bold Assassins that durst attempt all ill And Hollocaust whole Kingdoms to Self-will Mend mend for shame your Brother else will look To hang the Authors as he burnt the Book But he presumes or hopes ye'l rather turn Than follow your black Juncto to the Urn. While I thus thinking am who would desire Were it to roast a RUMP a fitter fire In which it now hath pleas'd the Fates to grant The Dissolution of the COVENANT FINIS