A Congratulation OF THE Protestant-Joyner TO Anthony King of Poland, Upon his Arrival in the Lower World.
Joyner.
WElcom, my Lord, unto these
Stygian Plains;
Welcom unto a Land where Discord reigns:
This is a Land Your Lordship will approve,
From whence these States hope you will ne'r remove;
Welcom to These, as to the States above.
From Them I'm come, and this bless'd News I bring,
Discord is dead, and they have chose
You KING.
Pride, Envy, Malice, Hell would soon decay,
Should
Peace appear, and
Discord fade away.
Anth.
Thanks Friend, whoe'r thou art, for this bless'd News;
The Name of King
I hate, yet can't refuse;
I wish some other Name they would confer.
Joyn.
What think You then, my Lord, of Emperour?
Anth.
Spoke like a Roman
Soul; who, though they hate
The Name of Kings,
yet Emperours
create.
Joyn.
Or, if these please not, what if You should be
Dubb'd of Mankind
Plenipotentiary?
Anth.
Spoke like a Non-con
's Soul, that very Name
Does all my Vitals heat, and sets my Soul on flame.
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Let me embrace, and hug thee in my Arms;
That Hogen-mogen
word is full of Charms:
There's Beauty in't, that leads my Soul away,
And I must follow, though I go astray,
Joyn.
What means my Lord by that recanting Speech?
To
go astray implies You've made some breach.
Anth.
The observation of it does imply
You have been bold i'th' world as well as I.
Joyn.
'Tis true, my Lord, I aim'd at mighty Things,
To Subvert Kingdoms, and to Murder Kings;
To teach the Nation to be
Picts once more,
And die their Skins with their own crimson Gore:
That is the truest stain, that ne'r will out;
Witness His Father, murder'd by the Rout.
Anth.
That's the dead-bone, which (touching) bleeds a-new;
And that's the cause I did the Son pursue:
Like Cataline,
our Mischiefs are not sure;
But by effecting greater to secure.
Joyn.
But since i'th' world Your Taper does not shine,
Like
Damocles tho
Presbyterians dine;
The Sword of Justice trembles o'r their head,
And hangs secur'd but by one single Thread;
There needs no
Atrapos to cut the String,
One blast of Treason more against their
KING,
Does all the Vengeance on their own heads bring.
Anth.
You seem a Convert now; Prithee declare,
What is your Name? From whence, and what you were?
Joyn.
My Lord, survey this Face, and You will find
(With a small recollecting of Your mind)
What my Profession was, and what's my Name,
By whom employ'd, from whence, and what I am.
Anth.
I seriously observe you, but can't tell,
You are so alter'd since you came to Hell;
But guess you are a Man of no great Fame;
Nor ever had, until of late, a Name:
A Name, I mean, that does deserve Renown
For Murder, or for striking at the Crown.
Joyn.
Small Shrubs, my Lord, may tall as Cedars grow;
What was
John Leyden and
Massanello?
What was
Wat Tyler and
Jack Straw of late?
And our prodigious
Oliver's great Fate,
That made all
Europe shake? To such a height
I might have rose; but Fortune ow'd a spight,
And struck it home just in the nick of Time;
And for a
Throne, I did a
Gallows clime.
My Lord, you sure may know me now; —
Anth.
I do;
Your Name is Colledge,
and I pity you.
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But prithee tell me, for I fain would know,
In all my journey hither, to and fro,
I could not spy one glimmering light of Heav'n;
For all was dark, but what from hence was giv'n,
Only some Link-boys Skeletons did ply
I'th' way, with Lights most dreadful to the eye.
What is the reason? For I've heard men tell
Strange Stories, and that viewing Heav'n is Hell,
And not enjoy't; Prithee what shall I do?
I'd give a world that happy place to view.
Joyn.
The reason is, You did in
Holland die;
A place that to the Centre lies so nigh,
That you're no sooner dead, but you are here;
It is a shorter cut by half a year:
It lies so low, and sunk so deep i'th' Sea,
It wants the use o'th'
Primum Mobile.
Had you in
England staid, and dy'd as I,
You might have clipt the Air, and reach'd the Skie.
Anth.
But since I'm forc'd into this dark abode,
Describe the pleasures of that blessed Road:
I fancy that some pleasure will ensue,
To hear that told which I shall never view.
Joyn.
No sooner was my Soul discharg'd of Clay,
But up it sprang, and pinion'd quick its way;
I pass'd the Orbs with wonder and delight,
And wa'n't took notice of in all my slight,
At last, on Heav'ns Battlements I stay'd,
And all that bright Empire I round survey'd;
Observ'd how th'
Primum Mobile did fly
Ten thousand times more swifter than the Eye:
The vast Expance did all with Glory shine,
And ev'ry thing I saw was all Divine;
A Gate of Pearl did on my right hand stand,
And
Peter, (as I guess, by th' Keys in's hand)
Who ope'd the door, and all pure Souls receiv'd,
I thought to enter too, but was deceiv'd.
Anth.
What happiness to those blest Souls was giv'n!
Who'd plague their King and Countrey to lose Heav'n!
Joyn.
He took me by the hand, and turn'd me round;
Bid me
avaunt, for that was holy Ground:
Yonder's your Road; down there the Angels fell,
And so must you. At which I struck at Hell;
For in a moment (so quick was my Fate!)
My Head was dash'd against Hells Iron-gate,
(Which then was shut) A wonder to the Crowd!
Open the door! I boldly yaul'd aloud:
A Thund'ring Voice I heard;
From whence? From who
D'ye come? I strait reply'd I came from Yon;
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I am a Joyner
by my Trade, and come
To sit and Wainscot up his Lordship's Room.
At which the Gates slew ope, I entred in,
Swept clean the Room of all things there but Sin;
She must remain, and your Companion be,
For ever, and to vast Eternity.
Anth.
I'm mad! I rave! The Vulture gnaws my Breast!
I wou'd repose, but 'tis in vain to rest.
No rest is here! My scorching Entrails burn!
And all my Guts to horrid Snakes do turn!
Oh, cursed Fate! that I should die so soon,
When all my Treasons scarce did reach their Noon!
Oh! had I but a little longer stood,
I would have made the Nation flow with Bloud:
But I am dead; yet still I must Rebel,
And add more Flames unto the Flames of Hell;
I'll make grim Pluto
tremble in his Throne,
And all the Subterranean Empire groan;
I'll make 'em drink again the bitter Cup,
And undermine their Hell, and blow 'em up.
With that he foam'd at mouth, hung out his Tongue,
(At which a horrid ugly Scorpion hung;)
His Eyes so hot did glow, made Fiends admire;
And burnt so fierce, as Hell it self cry'd Fire:
But a shagg'd Fiend appear'd, and in a trice
Hurl'd his hot Soul into a Hell of Ice;
Where may each Traytor, that their KINGS controul,
Find this Estate entail'd upon their Soul.
FINIS.
LONDON: Printed for N. Thompson, Anno Dom. 1683.