For who can longer hold? when every Press,
The Bar and Pulpit too has broke the Peace?
When every scribling Fool at the alarms
Has drawn his Pen, and rises up in Arms?
And not a dullPretender of the Town,
But vents his gall in Pamphlet up and down?
When all with licence rail, and who will not,
Must be almost suspected of the PLOT,
And bring his Zeal or else his Parts in doubt?
In vain our Preaching Tribe attack the Foes,
In vain their weak Artillery oppose;
Mistaken honest men, who gravely blame,
And hope that gentle Doctrine should reclaim.
Are Texts, and such exploded trifles fit
T'impose, and sham upon a Jesuit?
Would they the dull old Fisher-men compare
With mighty Suarez, and great Escobar?
Such thred-bare proofs, and stale Authorities
May Us poor simple Hereticks suffice:
But to a fear'd Ignatian's Conscience,
Harden'd, as his own Face, with Impudence,
Whose Faith in contradiction bore, whom Lies,
Nor Non-sense, nor Impossibilities,
Nor shame, nor death, nor damning can assail:
Not these mild fruitless methods will avail.
'Tis pointed Satyr, and the sharps of Wit
For such a prize are th' only Weapons fit:
Nor needs there Art, or Genius here to use,
Where Indignation can create a muse:
Should Parts, and Nature fail, yet very spite
Would make the arrant'st Wild, or Withers write.
It is resolv'd: henceforth an endless War,
I and my Muse with them, and theirs declare;
Whom neither open Malice of the Foes,
Nor private Daggers, nor St. Omers Dose,
Nor all, that Godfrey felt, or Monarchs fear,
Shall from my vow'd, and sworn revenge deter.
Sooner shall false Court Favourites prove just,
And faithful to their Kings, and Countrys trust:
Sooner shall they detect the tricks of State,
And knav'ry, suits, and bribes, and flatt'ry hate:
Bawds shall turn Nuns, Salt D------s grow chast,
And Paint, and Pride, and Lechery detest:
Popes shall for Kings Supremacy decide,
And Cardinals for Huguenots be try'd:
Sooner (which is the great'st impossible)
Shall the vile Brood of Loyola, and Hell
Give o'er to Plot, be Villains, and Rebel;
Than I with utmost spite, and venegeance cease
To prosecute, and plague their cursed race.
The rage of Poets damn'd, of Womens Pride
Contemn'd, and scorn'd, or proffer'd lust denied:
The malice of Réligious angry Zeal,
And all, cashier'd resenting States-men feel:
What prompts dire Hags in their own blood to write
And sell their very souls to Hell for spite:
All this urge on my rank envenom'd spleen,
And with keen Satyr edg my stabbing Pen:
That its each home-set thrust their blood may draw
Each drop of Ink like Aquafortis gnaw.
Red hot with vengeance thus, I'll brand disgrace
So deep, no time shall e'er the marks deface:
Till my severe and exemplary doom
Spread wider than their guilt, till it become
More dreaded than the Bor, and frighten worse
Than damning Pope's Anathema's, and curse.