Bradshaw's ghost, a poem, or, A dialogue between John Bradshaw, ferry-man Charon, Oliver Cromwel, Francis Ravilliack, and Ignatius Loyola, 1660 1660 Approx. 25 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 3 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2011-04 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A29146 Wing B4163 ESTC R10343 12713911 ocm 12713911 66151

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A29146) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 66151) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 680:23) Bradshaw's ghost, a poem, or, A dialogue between John Bradshaw, ferry-man Charon, Oliver Cromwel, Francis Ravilliack, and Ignatius Loyola, 1660 4 p. s.n., [London : 1660] Caption title. Reproduction of original in Cambridge University Library.

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 eng Ignatius, -- of Loyola, Saint, 1491-1556. Bradshaw, John, 1602-1659. Cromwell, Oliver, 1599-1658. Ravaillac, François, 1578-1610. 2020-09-21 Content of 'availability' element changed when EEBO Phase 2 texts came into the public domain 2009-04 Assigned for keying and markup 2009-05 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2009-06 Sampled and proofread 2009-06 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
BRADSHAW'S GHOST; A POEM: OR, A Dialogue between John Bradſhaw, Ferry-man Charon, Oliver Cromwel, Francis Ravilliack, and Ignatius Loyola. 1660. Bradſh. COME, Charon, come — Cha. VVhat unexpected ſhade Is this that thus imploreth Charon's aid? Brad. 'Tis I. Char. Raven, I know that tone, That durſt to boad deſtruction to a Throne: Thy guilt's too heavy, and in vain implores A Scullers help; your Lordſhip ſhould have Oars. Lay down your Burthen, then I'le carry you; I cannot waft Bradſhaw and a Murtherer too. Have you drunk Lethe yet that you'ave forgot Noll lately paſs'd; alas, he broke my Boat: Beſides the Foord is ſhallow. Brad. Never think Of that, your danger then is leſs to ſink. 'Tis ſtrange, ſhall I water want? It cannot be: I have ſpilt Blood enough to make a Sea. By all that's bad, we'le ſwim it o're: then come, My Keel ſhall plow my Mare Mortuum. Let but the winds be good, and we'le prevail, Curſes and Sighs ſhall ſwell the labouring Sail. Char. Firſt, let met know what haſte hath brought thee here: Didſt thou ride Poſt upon theTyburn, three-leg'd Mare? Or did thy Murthering Soul unto this Foord Fly from the point of ſome Revenging Sword? Brad. I Murthered not my ſelf; and none but I Dur •… attempt that venturous Act, to vie VVith Hell for th' Ruff, and double o're again The ſeventy ſeven-fold Puniſhment of Cain. My P •• ow was my block, and Swans did bring My Scarlet Soul upon their milky wing. Char. 'Tis ſtrange; yea, and unnatural, to ſee That ſuch a Rogue ſhould dye, and naturally: Sure millions would have Raviſhed thy Breath, But that none durſt attempt that deed but Death. For Juſtice could not be Reveng'd on you, Unleſs • e could kill Soul and Body too. But why do you come here? get you to Hell For to Read Lectures unto Machiavel: Your Borgia could do that, and I have Reaſon To keep you back; Pluto would think it Treaſon. You and your Partner ſure will pluck him down, Hell is not dark enough to hide his Crown. Brad. Charon, don't fear, I'le warrant we'le agree, For Hell and I were ne're at enmity. Char. Give me your Naulum, then take here this cup Of Lethe, think 'tis Blood, and ſwill it up.— Brad. That won't waſh Guilt, 'tis as good let it alone: And as for Money, I will give you none. — I've a Commiſſion, mind from whom I am ſent; You're Ferry-man unto the Parliament. — Char. Lambert hath ſhut that Door, and as for me, You ſhall not enter here without a Fee. Should I waft Round-heads o're for nought, I find, C •… elion-like, my Sails muſt live by wind. Had you the Biſhops Lands, and could not bring One Tithe to me? at leaſt an Offering. You ſhall not o're on tick, for pay you muſt; VVhen Infidels do meet, ne're talk of truſt. Bradſh. There's Six-pence. Cha. What's the Motto? O, 'tis thus; The Common-wealth of England; God with us. You VVorſhip Coin, your Golden Calves, I ſee, Have got a pretty ſtamp, a Deity. But prithee, Bradſhaw, now thou art come, lets know How thou and Pride did chance to fall ſo low. You went for Saints on Earth, were 〈◊〉 not far More fit for you i'th' Heavens to ſhine a Star? Brad. My Brother Pride his thoughts on Hell did fix, For to brew merry Beer and Ale with Styx. His Traſh would not vent there; the Angels they, He thought drank nothing but Ambroſia: And ſomewhat elſe beſides increas'd his Fears, There was a grudge betwixt him and the Bears. And Charon, as to me your Queſtions are Moſt Fooliſh; know you not that Charles is there? To drive black Pluto's Coach I'de rather dain, Than to be VVaggoner to Charles's wain. Char. VVere you out, you ſhou'd ſcarce come in again: This Ferry-boat was never made for Man. But you may go 'cauſe you're Noli's ſtalking-horſe, Rather for Beaſt, or ſomething that is worſe. Brad. More Aſs I; but I am rid on't I ſuppoſe, And ſhall be even with him in ſpight of's Noſe. I muſt confeſs my Purple Robes alone Did ſerve to make a Foot-ſtall for his Throne. Nought could be done, I ſay't to my Diſgrace, By's Iron-ſides, but for my brazen face: I ſcorn'd to pluck off Hat to Majeſty▪ Although I made him pluck off's Head to me: Though he amazed, it ſtir'd not me; his Breath Cou'd not move me, although it frightned Death. My Perjur'd Soul cou'd eaſily diſpence To cut a way for Noll through Innocence. Yet enter'd not I on the Mine before I thought my ſelf ſecure of half the Ore: I thought my gains were good, the ſtakes being down; I quickly made a Foot-ball of the Crown: But Noll trip'd up my heels, that ſurly Soul; And I was glad at laſt I eſcap'd the Goal. He got the gain, and loſt his Soul and all, ThatNolls Wife. Jone might ſell her Kitchen-ſtuff at White-hall. Here's Land: what Clouds are theſe? what, does Hell turn Out all her Lights? 'cauſe ſhe for me might mourn. Has Pluto Tinder-boxes? Char. No. Brad. What then? Hath Noll a Noſe will light thoſe Flames agen? Char. Beware, leſt hood-wink'd thus, you ſtray go on Cloſe by Coetus, then by Acheron. Cerberus longs to ſee you, he'l afford Three Salutations to you in one word. Fling him a Heart, for there belongs a fee To the Door-keeper as well as unto me. Bradſh. Thanks for this needleſs Counſel: But ne'r tell Me that I ere was out of the way to Hell. Cromwel the Great being Link-boy, ſure he knows The way, if not, we'l follow both his Noſe. Farewel. But now I ſtray, the darkneſs is So great, I ſhall not find the way to miſs: I ne'r walk'd wrong, though I am ne'r right, for where So e're I am, Hell properly is there. But ſtay, what's that? why ſhould I be afraid Of what is but the Shadow of a Shade? Methinks I hear a voice, which crys, ſtand back: Why, who art thou? Rav. I am Ravilliack. Brad. What empty thing art thou? As for my part, I am as th' Soul of th' Rump ſhou'd be a fart Lately let, you ſhortly ſhall have more; Lambert hath kick'd their Arſe-ſhips out of door. Rav. Welcom, moſt Reverend ſhade; then you art ſent With an Embaſſage from the Parliament. Brad. No: for Infernal Aid we always were Sure to have that as well in Peace as War. Your Counſel needleſs was, for we were ſo evil, None there but cou'd be Tutor to a Devil. I'me come to commence Villain, ſomething more; I did perform my Acts on Earth before: The World and Hell my Merits know, and to Be ſhort, Ravilliack, I'le take place of you. Rav. Pardon, bold Shade, if I deſire to know If ever you've deſerv'd that place or no. Firſt, we'l diſpute, what do you think of that? And we'l chooſe Pluto for to moderate. Brad. Go, Pupil, undergraduate Friend; tuſh he That well can Judge, muſt more than Devil be. If that we muſt, let's be try'd by ſuch things As well do know what 'tis to Murther Kings. Such ſhould be Judges for us: Ay, ſuch ſhou'd, Whoſe guilty Souls ſpeak nothing under Blood. Fiends of a double die, ſuch as do ſcorn To ſwear, unleſs they're ſure to be forſworn: Nor for Secluded Members they are ſent, For Judges we'l have an Old Parliament; There's Members here enough, why do I ſtick? Enough to make a Body Politick. Rav. Pretty State-Monſter, a fine hoddy doddy, One, as they ſay, that is more Arſe than Body. Brad. Diſdain 'um not, you cannot parallel Such true falſe-hearted Devils not in Hell. There was no Reaſon for't; though Lambert bore A ſpight to th' Houſe to turn it out o'th' door: To me it always ſeem'd exceeding fit, What Members, pray you, 'ſides the Rump ſhall ſit? Yet 'cauſe you ſtand upon't, I'le ne'r abuſe Your Priviledge: Ravilliack, you may chuſe. I and my Partners ſhall not value you, With Machiavel, and all Loyola's crew. Farewel, prepare againſt the Judges Call, For I muſt ſpeak a word or two with Noll. Lye, Swear, Forſwear, all this I'le grant to you: Nay, and your Mental Reſervations too. You ſhall Condemn your ſelves, you'l ſee in fine, And Bellarmine ſhall confute Bellarmine. Oliver. VVelcom to mourning; welcom, Shade in brief, You're very welcom to the Joys of Grief. I pray do you no Letters with you carry? Nor from ſoft2 of Olivers Sons. Richard, nor from ſimple Harry. Me-thinks 'tis very ſtrange, thatOlivers Secr. Thurlow's grown So proud, he will not write a word forOlivers Wife. Jone. Poor wretch, her Breeding ne'r taught her a word, She knew no Character but that o'th' Sword; Though Lambert's VVife and I to th' cotquean Did read the Horn-book o're and o're agen. But waving Puſſes Majeſty, pray how Doth Mice and Rats in the Houſe of Commons do? Their leaving of the Houſe, makes me to think That the Foundation e're belong will ſink. Brad. My heart is almoſt broke, you can't believe How I am vex'd: I made no more to grieve, Now all things do concur to miſery, All becauſe you and I did diſagree. Fools that we were, to mind we did not call, Satan divided againſt himſelf, muſt fall. Oliver. Tuſh, that is onely Scripture; why, I ſay That all the Bible is Apocrypha. Brad. VVhat if we went for Saints? 'tis all one thing For to abuſe the Scripture and the King. Nay, our Thanksgivings too were always leaſt, VVhen ſuch long Graces we had at a Feaſt, Before you wou'd kill, you'd have Peters Call, And make your Enemy a Mock-Funeral. He laughs your Army's Sanctified VVord; His VVit did lend an edge unto your Sword. Nay, and the Devil doth on Scripture call, Then when he would be Devil moſt of all. Oliver. 'Tis very true. But prethee let me know A brief Relation, how all things do go. Brad. VVhy Noll, 'twould make a heart of ſtone Relent, A Booth does dare the Houſe of Parliament. They talk of Kings: Nay, which is worſe, I do Fear all the Nation will turn Honeſt too. One true Religion hies unto its Mother; The Church and Taxes do avert another. One thing or other makes 'um all to cry VVe'l be Apoſtates to Apoſtacy. Things are ſo bad, they'd all be good, wer't not For theſe three Fiends, Vain, Haſlerig, and Scot. Dippers and Quakers they their Lepers be; All in the Nations Diſcord do agree. Vain was Anointed Rogue, though ſo to do, VVere for to loſe the Oyl and Labour too. Noll, why were you not King? when you did ſee A Pilate was, you well might Herod be. Oliver. VVhy, I was more; the truth to lay you down, No Hat but mine ith' Kingdom wore a Crown. I onely Lords created, truly ſeeing Me out of nothing leap into a Being. I made 'um better than my ſelf, Earls then, It was below 'um to be Gentlemen. VVhat odds have Awls and Swords when they go to't? I vampt the old worn-out Hewſon Lord to boot. Brad. You Hewſon'd it, 'tis twenty now to ten, But that his Lordſhip's at his Laſt agen. Oliver. But heark, now Quakeriſm begins to down: Think you that Puritans will put on Lawn? Brad. No; white is Innocent: nay, I'le tell you what, The VVhore of Babylon's Smock is made of that. Peters to try this Turkiſh point, thought meet A while for to do penance in a ſheet. Oliver. That was a merry Rogue, and truth to tell, I lik'd his way of Laughing Men to Hell: Dull heavy looks I like not, I proteſt, Except in Quakers, ſuch as are poſſeſt. Brad. Alas, the Times are Honeſt like to be; Men muſt not wear Cloaks for Piety. Satan will go no more to Church I fear, If that the Faſhion brings up ſuch lewd ware: To let him have no Pew, it were uncivil; VVhere Surplices are Jerkins, farewel Devil. Oliver. In my Time 'twas not ſo; the Clergy-men Had not ſuch plenty ſure of Linnen then. The Biſhops were ſo poor, that they, alack, VVere glad they had a Surplice next their back: I ſtrip'd their Mother Church, and without jeſt, I think that Scotch-cloth fits Religion beſt; For pray now, why ſhould not the wear of Cloaks As well fit John of Styles, as John of Nokes? As for the honeſt Scotch, we ne'r ſhall want Their Aid, for they have took the Covenant: 'Gainſt all that's good, they are quite Bankrupt now, They Sold their King and their Religion too. They againſt Nature ſin, ſhould they be good; They're born perfidious, and ſhou'd They Love Religion, then we needs muſt all Confeſs that Act to be unnatural. None yet was ever good, till he forgot, And was aſhamed of the Name of Scot. Brad. The Court is ſet, I muſt away, and try To bear away the Prize of Villany. I a Sollicitor want, and may go look For one, unleſs I chance to meet with Cook. Oliver. Go on and proſper; as for th' other, he Is an honeſt man, if but compar'd to thee: If Murther can add merit to thy Praiſe, The Elizian Fields can ne'r ſupply thee Bays. But why talk I of Bays? I there did Flatter, Thy Symon's Neck better becomes a Halter. Brad. Ravilliack, ſpeak, for I will give thee firſt, Or any odds, becauſe thy Cauſe is worſt.
Ravilliack's Oration. Rav. Know then, moſt Reverend Loyola, I do My ſelf and cauſe both recommend to you: VVere I indifferent bad, I'de ne'r engage Your Devil-ſhip into my Patronage. This Hand brought Harry's Letter, whoſe ſad date Ended his days, I was the Poſt of Fate. He ſcarcely Read a Sentence, I did doom His Life unto a period ſhould come. I made the Flower-de-luce to bleed, and yield For to be quarter'd in a bloody Field: I Murther'd Harry, whoſe Auſpicious Birth Preſag'd a League even 'twixt Heaven and Earth: And what doth aggravate my buſineſs, I Did kill Religion out of Piety. I offer'd up that Sacrifice alone, None elſe durſt make an Altar of the Throne: And ſhall I now be brought in Competition With Bradſhaw? Youngeſt Son unto Perdition. I bath'd my ſelf all over in the Flood; He onely waſh'd his hand in Royal Blood. He thinks one Action will Surname him Great, When all my Life was a Religious Cheat: But talk detracts from deeds. Not Tully's wrack Of words could reach unto Ravilliack. I'le ſay no more, but keep the place, were it For nothing but 'cauſe I am a Jeſuit.
Bradſhaw's Oration. Brad. You've ſaid too much, but not enough; go to: There is not one of th' Rump but's worſe than you. You kill'd the King of France, and then all's ſaid; I King of France and England Murthered. My fault exceeds yours, and more weight doth carry Than it, by how much Charles excedeth Harry: Yours was Lay-murther. Sacriledge mine. You can't Like me boaſt: You a King kill'd, I a Saint. They me ith' Book of Martyrs will Remember, And as to Faux, give a day in November. Your Murther was Religious; true, and I Committed too a Pious Villany. In Charles I kill'd the Church, that's more than you; I Sacrific'd the Prieſt and Temple too: I made the Cuſhions Blocks: The Butchers wore The Sleeves that Canterbury had before. I Capel ſlew, if they the Saints did track I ſlew, they'd muſter up an Almanack: Their Bloods wou'd add new Rubricks, whilſt that they Bluſh all the Year into one Holy-day. Nor ſin'd I ſingly, I made hundreds be Co-partners with me in that Villany. I made them ſin, in that I made 'um joyn, So that I challenge all their Sins as mine. I did Hell far more Service than you can, 'Twas I that favoured the Puritan: Nay, I did Love the Scots and Quakers too, Ravilliack, Cook muſt have the place of you. You'l not be in my claſs: Nay, all my pack Of Hell-hounds are above Ravilliack. Not one of Charles's Silver hairs I ſhed, In value but might purchaſe Harry's Head. And does your Dagger think for to out-brave My Ax? I kill'd, but yet debar'd a Grave: So that in hindring Charles a Tomb-ſtone, I A Monument built to my own Infamy. I pluck'd his Statue down; what ſhould I have For my Deſerts? I Murthered his Grave: Nor was I this alone content to do, I made Cloaks Preach him Traytor, Tyrant too: And made 'um ſwear't, I did ſo watch their waters, All Treaſon did commit, except the Traytors. What think you then, that he deſerved hath, That kill'd both the Defender, and the Faith? Judge all! and if the place you me deny, Why then you'r worſer Devils all than I.
Loyola's Oration. Loyola. 'Tis bravely ſaid of both: Nor can I tell, If this Man, or if that Man do excell: Degrees are wanting due to both to give, For they muſt be beyond ſuperlative. They both are Rogues in grain, both dipt in blood Of Kings — But yet me-thinks I ſhou'd Give one the place: It grieves me ſore to ſee The Rump thus baffle my Society. Bradſhaw did kill a God: My Rogue comes after, And can amount no higher than Man-ſlaughter. The thoughts of Bradſhaw's worth doth make me mad, For's one that hath out-done whatever's bad. O that I liv'd but again, that I Might be the Founder of a Rump, and dy! For their Aſſociation ſcorns to be Companions with my Society. Learning is needleſs, they a way have hit, That makes 'um to be wiſe beyond all wit. Like Foxes Tayls (I muſt unto you tell) One Rump doth far a thouſand Heads excell. They cut Mens throats by Law: Nay, and they do Make Juſtice guilty of the Murther too. So when you ſay, the King's kill'd, 'tis not meant By Bradſhaw, but by my Lord Preſident. Their Labouring Souls firſt bring forth Miſchief, then They Chriſtn'd after it was caſt; ſo when Rape, Murther, Sacriledge, call'd that Pious Hector Their God-Son, Butcher Cromwel, Lord Protector. Cowards oth' Rump were Worthies: Fleetwood thus From's Valour ſcorn'd to be call'd Valourous. See what an Act of Parliament can do! If they but Vote him Valourous, he is ſo: For though the ſniveling Sinner deſerv'd banging, For he had ne'r the wit to merit hanging. Strange Operation of the Rump, the Fool The Devil, he's but Clerk to their Cloſe-ſtool. For the Rumpiſh Members Honour, I think fit We Act that Member firſt of all ſhould ſit. I like this topſy-turvy, we'l be led By England, and the Arſe ſhall be the Head: And next Thanksgiving-dinner, our Old Nick Shall feed on Rump, 'twill make him Politick. We'l Knight it, if your Judgments be like mine, It ſhall be Sir Rump, we'l have no more Sir Loyn. They ſhould be welcom all, but that I fear They would preſcribe new Models to us here: They merit not this place alone, but well Do for themſelves deſerve another Hell. But 'cauſe here are not all, till th' other pleaſe To come, let's Entertain and Honour theſe. In the mean time, that Bradſhaw may Inherit Preſent Poſſeſſion of his former Merit, To him as Rump oth' Rump let us preſent The Chair, for he was ſtill their Fundament. If you think fit, all I'de have you do, 'S to ſpeak your mind then in a word or two. Applaudunt Omnes. Becauſe thou'ſt done ſo ill, thou haſt done well; Bradſhaw, thou art Lord Preſident of Hell.
FINIS.