Satires upon the Jesuits: Satire IV

Once I was common wood, a shapeless log,
Thrown out a kennel post for every dog;
The workman, yet in doubt what course to take,
Whether I'd best a saint, or hog-trough make,
After debate resolved me for a saint,
And thus tamed Loyola I represent:
And well I may resemble him, for he
As stupid was, as much a block as me.
My right leg maimed, at halt I seem to stand,
To tell the wounds at Pampelune sustained.
My sword, and soldier's armour here had been,
But they may in Montserrat's church be seen:
Those to the blessed Virgin I laid down
For cassock, sursingle, and shaven crown,
The spiritual garb, in which I now am shown,
With due accoutrements, and fit disguise
I might for sentinel of corn suffice;
As once the lusty god of old stood guard,
And the invading crows from forage scared.
Now on my head the birds their relics leave,
And spiders in my mouth their arras weave;
And persecuted rats oft find in me
A refuge, and religious sanctuary.
But you profaner heretics, whoe'er
The Inquisition and its vengeance fear,
I charge, stand off, at peril come not near;
Let none at twelve score impiously untruss,
He enters Fox's lists that dare transgress;
For I'm by holy church in reverence had,
And all good catholic folk implore my aid.

These pictures, which you see, my story give,
The acts and monuments of me alive;
That frame, wherein with pilgrim weeds I stand,
Contains my travels to the Holy Land;
This, me and my Decemvirate at Rome,
When I for grant of my great order come.
There, with devotion wrapt, I hang in air,
With dove, like Mahomet's, whispering in my ear;
Here, Virgin in calash of clouds descends,
To be my safeguard from assaulting fiends.

Those tables by, and crutches of the lame,
My great achievements since my death proclaim:
Plague, ague, dropsy, palsy, stone, and gout,
Legions of maladies by me cast out,
More than the college knows, or ever fill
Quack's wiping-paper, and the weekly bill.
What Peter's shadow did of old, the same
Is fancied done by my all-powerful name;
For which some wear't about their necks and arms,
To guard from dangers, sicknesses, and harms;
And Borne on wombs the barren to relieve,
A miracle I better did alive.

I by crafty Jesuit am taught
Wonders to do, and many a juggling feat.
Sometimes with chafing-dish behind me put,
I sweat like debauchee in hothouse shut,
And drip like any spitchcocked Huguenot;
Sometimes by secret springs I learn to stir,
As pasteboard saints dance by miraculous wire;
Then I Tradescant's rarities outdo,
Sand's water-works, and German clock-work too,
Or any choice device at Bartholomew.
Sometimes I utter oracles, by priest
Instead of a familiar possessed.
The church I vindicate, Luther confute,
And cause amazement in the gaping rout.
Such holy cheats, such hocus tricks, as these,
For miracles amongst the rabble pass.
By this, in their esteem I daily grow,
In wealth enriched, increased in votaries too;
This draws each year vast numbers to my tomb,
More than in pilgrimage to Mecca come;
This brings each week new presents to my shrine,
And makes it those of India gods outshine;
This gives a chalice, that a golden cross,
Another massy candlesticks bestows,
Some, altar-cloths of costly work and price,
Plush, tissue, ermine, silks of noblest dies,
The Birth and Passion in embroideries;
Some jewels, rich as those the Ægyptian punk
In jellies to her Roman lover drunk;
Some offer gorgeous robes, which serve to wear
When I on holy days in state appear;
When I'm in pomp on high processions shown,
Like pageants of Lord Mayor, or Skimmington.
Lucullus could not such a wardrobe boast;
Less those of popes at their election cost;
Less those, which Sicily's tyrant heretofore
From plundered gods, and Jove's own shoulders tore.
Hither, as to some fair, the rabble come,
To barter for the merchandize of Rome;
Where priests, like mountebanks, on stage appear,
To expose the frippery of their hallowed ware;
This is the laboratory of their trade,
The shop where all their staple drugs are made;
Prescriptions and receipts to bring in gain,
All from the church dispensatories ta'en.

The pope's elixir, holy water's here,
Which they with chemic art distilled prepare;
Choice above Goddard's drops, and all the trash
Of modern quacks; this is that sovereign wash
For fetching spots and morphew from the face,
And scouring dirty clothes, and consciences.
One drop of this, if used, had power to fray
The legion from the hogs of Gadara;
This would have silenced quite the Wiltshire Drum,
And made the prating fiend of Mascon dumb.

That vessel consecrated oil contains,
Kept sacred, as the famed ampoule of France,
Which some profaner heretics would use
For liquoring wheels of jacks, of boots, and shoes;
This makes the chrism, which, mixed by cunning priests,
Anoints young catholics for the church's lists;
And when they're crossed, confessed, and die, by this
Their launching souls slide off to endless bliss;
As Lapland saints, when they on broomsticks fly,
By help of magic unctions mount the sky.

Yon altar-pix of gold is the abode
And safe repository of their god.
A cross is fixed upon 't the fiends to scare,
And flies which would the deity besmear;

And mice, which oft might unprepared receive,
And to lewd scoffers cause of scandal give.

Here are performed the conjurings and spells,
For christening saints, and hawks, and carriers' bells;
For hallowing shreds, and grains, and salts, and balms,
Shrines, crosses, medals, shells, and waxen lambs:
Of wondrous virtue all (you must believe)
And from all sorts of ill preservative;
From plague, infection, thunder, storm, and hail,
Love, grief, want, debt, sin, and the devil and all.
Here beads are blest, and pater nosters framed,
(By some the tallies of devotion named)
Which of their prayers, and orisons keep tale,
Lest they and Heaven should in the reckoning fail.
Here sacred lights, the altar's graceful pride,
Are by priests' breath perfumed and sanctified;
Made some of wax, of heretics' tallow some,
A gift, which Irish Emma sent to Rome;
For which great merit worthily (we're told)
She's now amongst her country-saints enrolled.
Here holy banners are reserved in store,
And flags, such as the famed Armada bore;
And hallowed swords, and daggers kept for use,
When restive kings the papal yoke refuse;
And consecrated ratsbane, to be laid
For heretic vermin, which the church invade.

But that which brings in most of wealth and gain.
Does best the priests' swollen tripes and purses strain,
Here they each week their constant auctions hold
Of reliques, which by candle's inch are sold:
Saints by the dozen here are set to sale,
Like mortals wrought in gingerbread on stall.
Hither are loads from emptied channels brought,
And voiders of the worms from sextons bought,
Which serve for retail through the world to vent,
Such as of late were to the Savoy sent;
Hair from the skulls of dying strumpets shorn,
And felons' bones, from rifled gibbets torn,
Like those, which some old hag at midnight steals,
For witchcrafts, amulets, and charms, and spells,
Are passed for sacred to the cheapening rout,
And worn on fingers, breasts, and ears about.
This boasts a scrap of me, and that a bit
Of good St. George, St. Patrick, or St. Kit;
These locks St. Bridget's were, and those St. Clare's;
Some for St. Catharine's go, and some for her's
That wiped her Saviour's feet, washed with her tears.
Here you may see my wounded leg, and here
Those which to China bore the great Xavier.
Here may you the grand traitor's halter see,
Some call 't the arms of the society;
Here is his lantern too, but Faux's not,
That was embezzled by the Huguenot.
Here Garnet's straws, and Becket's bones and hair,
For murdering whom, some tails are said to wear,
As learned Capgrave does record their fate,
And faithful British histories relate.
Those are St. Lawrence' coals exposed to view,
Strangely preserved, and kept alive till now;
That's the famed Wildefortis' wondrous beard,
For which her maidenshame the tyrant spared;
Yon is the Baptist's coat, and one of 's heads,
The rest are shown in many a place besides;
And of his teeth as many sets there are,
As on their belts six operators wear.
Here blessed Mary's milk, not yet turned sour,
Renowned (like asses') for its healing power,
Ten Holland kine scarce in a year give more.
Here is her manteau, and a smock of hers,
Fellow to that, which once relieved Poictiers;
Besides her husband's utensils of trade,
Wherewith some prove that images were made.

Here is the soldier's spear, and passion-nails
Whose quantity would serve for building Paul's;
Chips, some from Holy Cross, from Tyburn some,
Honoured by many a Jesuit's martyrdom;
All held of special and miraculous power,
Not Tabor more approved for ague's cure.
Here shoes, which once perhaps at Newgate hung,
Angling their charity that passed along,
Now for St. Peter's go, and the office bear
For priests, they did for lesser villains there.

These are the Fathers' implements and tools,
Their gaudy trangums for inveigling fools;
These serve for baits the simple to ensnare,
Like children spirited with toys at fair.
Nor are they half the artifices yet,
By which the vulgar they delude and cheat;
Which should I undertake, much easier I,
Much sooner, might compute what sins there be
Wiped off, and pardoned at a jubilee;
What bribes enrich the datary each year,
Or vices treated on by Escobar;
How many punks in Rome profess the trade,
Or greater numbers by confession made.

One undertakes by scale of miles to tell
The bounds, dimensions, and extent of hell;
How far and wide the infernal monarch reigns,
How many German leagues his realm contains;
Who are his ministers, pretends to know,
And all their several offices below;
How many chaldrons he each year expends
In coals for roasting Huguenots and fiends;
And -with as much exactness states the case,
As if he had been surveyor of the place.

Another frights the rout with rueful stories,
Of wild chimeras, limbos, purgatories,
And bloated souls in smoky durance hung,
Like a Westphalia gammon, or neat's tongue,
To be redeemed with masses and a song.
A good round sum must the deliverance buy,
For none may there swear out on poverty.
Your rich, and bounteous shades are only eased;
No Fleet, or King's-bench ghosts are thence released.

A third, the wicked and debauched to please,
Cries up the virtue of indulgences,
And all the rates of vices does assess;
What price they in the holy chamber bear,
And customs for each sin imported there;
How you at best advantages may buy
Patents for sacrilege and simony;
What tax is in the lechery-office laid
On panders, bawds, and punks, that ply the trade;
What costs a rape, or incest, and how cheap
You may an harlot, or an ingle keep;
How easy murder may afforded be
For one, two, three, or a whole family —
But not of heretics; there no pardon lacks,
'Tis one of the church's meritorious acts.

For venial trifles, less and slighter faults,
They ne'er deserve the trouble of your thoughts,
Ten Ave Maries mumbled to the cross,
Clear scores of twice ten thousand such as those.
Some are at sound of christened bell forgiven,
And some by squirt of holy water driven;
Others by anthems played are charmed away,
As men cure bites of the tarantula.

But nothing with the crowd does more enhance
The value of these holy charlatans,
Than when the wonders of the mass they view,
Where spiritual jugglers their chief mastery shew.
'Hey jingo, sirs! What's this? Tis bread you see;
'Presto begone!' 'Tis now a deity.
Two grains of dough, with cross, and stamp of priest,
And five small words pronounced, make up their Christ.
To this they all fall down, this all adore,
And straight devour, what they adored before. —
'Tis this that does the astonished rout amuse,
And reverence to shaven crown infuse,
To see a silly, sinful, mortal wight
His Maker make, create the infinite.
None boggles at the impossibility;
Alas, 'tis wondrous heavenly mystery! —

And here I might (if I but durst) reveal
What pranks are played in the confessional:
How haunted virgins have been dispossessed,
And devils were cast out, to let in priest:
What fathers act with novices alone,
And what to punks in shrieving seats is done,
Who thither flock to ghostly confessor,
To clear old debts, and tick with Heaven for more.
Oft have I seen these hallowed altars stained
With rapes, those pews which infamies profaned;
Not great Cellier, nor any greater bawd,
Of note, and long experience in the trade,
Has more, and fouler scenes of lust surveyed
But I these dangerous truths forbear to tell,
For fear I should the Inquisition feel.
Should I tell all their countless knaveries,
Their cheats, and shams, and forgeries, and lies,
Their cringings, crossings, censings, sprinklings, chrisms,
Their conjurings, and spells, and exorcisms,
Their motley habits, maniples, and stoles,
Albs, ammits, rochets, chimers, hoods, and cowls;
Should I tell all their several services,
Their trentals masses, dirges, rosaries;
Their solemn pomps, their pageants and parades,
Their holy masks, and spiritual cavalcades,
With thousand antic tricks, and gambols more;
'Twould swell the sum to such a mighty score,
That I at length should more voluminous grow,
Than Crabb, or Surius, lying Fox or Stow.
Believe whate'er I have related here,
As true, as if 'twere spoke from porphyry chair.
If I have feigned in aught, or broached a lie,
Let worst of fates attend me, let me be
Made the next bonfire for the powder-plot,
The sport of every sneering Huguenot;
There like a martyred pope in flames expire,
And no kind catholic dare quench the fire.