The ASSE beaten for BAWLING; OR, A REPLIE from the CITY TO THE CRIE of the COUNTRY.
To
Smectymnuus the Club of Divines, or Divines of the Club.
TO you, because you are one manifold,
A twisted Halter, and because w'are told
You understand the nonsence of the Cryers,
As they doe your's, send we that are Replyers.
Take up your Colts, you know them by their mark,
Bid them give audience, that is stand and hark.
Fleabitten Gray with your out-lying eares,
The
KING's Disturbers, and
Gods Pillagers,
Baule not, but heare the Crys of millions dead,
Our bloud has been your drink, our flesh your bread.
And are your maws too tender for the stones
Of the now Priest? that could eate Churche
[...] once?
Complain ye now of Canting ye Jack Daws
That set Religion to a tune
The Cause
Ye Wolves Synodicall, self-Hallowing Cast,
If ye could pray ye should, so ye would fast.
Our Church is like to fall into the Myre
If she must follow such a fatuus fire,
Dark Lanthorn lights, such whose well-shadow'd sin
Begun the Dance that Cashind
Cromwell in.
Mistake us not, we doe not meane those zealous
And tender soules, that fearing still, were jealous:
Who set the Kingdome all o'fire, and made
No conscience what
CHARLES suffred, how betray'd.
Let such have double honour, Capitol Geese,
'Cause they'l be gagling, Pulpits two a peice,
But this we like not that ye stand and bark
To keep the wearied Dove out of the Ark:
And that your tender conscience brooks not giving
The Priest his Church, now you have had his living,
For he poor Man shall not injoy't he fears
So many Months, as ye have had it years.
I but the Ravens come too, and they'l croke
So that a second judgment they'l provoke.
'Twas the first turn'd them out, what follows then?
The next must be your comming in agen.
Where are your wits? yet you again to Schoole
Ther's a scourge for you, and a pretty toole
With a Chris-cross in't, There when you have been
Well whip'd and scourg'd for this your modern sin
Of simple rayling at the Men of God,
I'll take a care for burning of the Rod
Till then be not so mad I pray thee
Smec.
To let such Coxcombs break the Church's neck;
God and the King's a book that doth concern,
The Preacher, that would others teach, to learn;
'Tis not their splaymouth nor their hoboy nose
Their hims and haus, and such like forms as those
We quarrel at, nor black Caps set in print
On the notch'd Poll, there may be nothing in't
These fooleries we own, but yet a Saint
Is not cut out of every one doth cant;
Were Arrogance and Faction wanting, how
Should Ignorance take Blockheads from the Plow,
And arme them back and breast against their King?
These graces are thy Saints
Smec. That's the thing
Which blooming, Peartree makes his Livery
Mouth indefatigable, were all such as He!
Now pardon us good
Smec, we do not this
To make the
Presbyter seem as he is
A zealous R—nor do we disown
Or hates his ways that levell at a Throne
But as we would,
Rome should not tyrannize,
And be our selves a
Rome put in disguise:
And ev'ry Man a Pope in his precinct,
Nor shall the
Scotch Kirk think to be distinct
But truckle under us; duly we and truly
For
Bishops pray, that they would be unruly.
And to our holy work put their own hand,
Promoting the distractions of the Land.
For to speak truth, we cannot weare a bridle,
And suffer others preach, and we stand idle:
Nor is it possible we should agree
Unless we can have
Bishops, such as we
That would Priests rayling make, and factious too,
With whom good
Caesar knows not what to do.
Men free from charity, and love of peace
Smec. if thou leav'st us any, leave us these
That robbing
Peter, and not paying
Paul
We may get, what? why ee'n the Divel and all
But now, this very hour the world must end,
Take no more care for Sunday Pudding friend.
Nor as was, done in dayes of the Protector
Ninteen probationers preach for one Lecture
The deep Soraction snow must now turn black
Dark be yee dazling Lamps,
Phaebus go back
And fetch thy Mourning Cloak, the Moon bow die
Fire cannot burn, nor Round-heads cannot lye.
Earth shift thy Poles and thaw the
Muscovites,
In the
Armenian planes. And now the Lights
Are out, let all things to confusion tumble,
And rudely like the family conjumble.
They may beget an Asse,
Styx will so arme,
And freeze, that he shall feel
Lawd but lukewarme.
Of whom the Brethren that conformed not
All in his time, cry'd out he was too Hot.
God save K.
CHARLES and keep him from the clutches
Of him that at the KING'S Religion grutches.
POSTSCRIPT.
NOW, to this railing Asse more shall be spoke,
When he has got a Living or a Cloak,
Only this Country's mouth feeds in our Cubboards,
And brings his Cry no further then the Suburbs.
Advertisements and Supplements w'ave read,
He looks to's Eares, we must look to our Head.
Now no more Mumming sirrah, d'off your Vizzard,
Know we have eyes can pierce into your Gizzard.
By stroaking of our Beards you are not like,
To make us be secure and let you strike
He that calumniates the meaner sort,
Looks ill on all, and ought to suffer for't.
LONDON: Printed by J. Brudenell, dwelling in Maiden-head-Ally near New-Gate, 1661.