An answer to the most envious, scandalous and libellous pamphlet entitled, Mercuries message, or, The copy of a letter sent to William Laud, Arch-bishop of Canterbury now prisoner in the Tower Herbert, Thomas, 1597-1642? 1641 Approx. 12 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 5 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-11 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A43396 Wing H1527A ESTC R30779 11470467 ocm 11470467 47811

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A43396) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 47811) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1463:29) An answer to the most envious, scandalous and libellous pamphlet entitled, Mercuries message, or, The copy of a letter sent to William Laud, Arch-bishop of Canterbury now prisoner in the Tower Herbert, Thomas, 1597-1642? 6 p. : ill., port. Printed for T.B. ..., London : 1641. In verse. Signed at end: Tho. Herbert. Illustrated t.p. Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.

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 eng Laud, William, 1573-1645 -- Poetry. 2003-08 Assigned for keying and markup 2003-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2003-09 Sampled and proofread 2003-09 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2003-10 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

AN ANSWER TO The most envious, Scandalous, and Libellous Pamphlet, Entituled, MERCVRIES MESSAGE. OR, The Copy of a Letter sent to William Laud, Arch-bishop of Canterbury now prisoner in the Tower.

London Printed for T. B. in the Old Bayly. 1641.

portrait of Archbishop Laud

An answer to the most envious, scandalous, and libellous Pamphlet, Entituled, MERCVRIES MESSAGE. HOw now! what ist which I doe vainly read, Ought which belongs to Popish Romish Creed? I am deceiv'd, it is a Letter call'd, (At which I blusht) A hypocriticke scal'd Which did affront true Protestatine heads. No whit belonging unto Papall Beads. For such vaine trifles, O the Authors scorne, Although of Riches, yet not of truth forlorne. The Letter thus begins with Dash above, My Lord, as if the consequence were love. But read forward, and you shall truely finde, No love at all, but a most envious minde. My Lord, I call you not what long agoe you were, For now those golden dayes are past I feare, I feare, O sycophantick and base straine, Which for to name, a good man may disdaine; He feares but what, Bishops will nere go downe, Whose mature learning once did England crowne: Suppose that some be bad, must therefore all? Let bad men suffer, but the just nere fall. Each rayling line, I doe not now intend To answer, lest they cry me the Popes friend: Onely to chiefest points I doe reply, And that Ile doe although for it I die. Are not we all by nature bad? why then Descended Christ so low for to save men? But there's a Sect i'th world which dare to say, Their merits save them, what have they to pay, But such are Romanists, but w'have a Sect, Which have Saint-like beleefe of which they cracke. And such are those which we call Schismaticks, Which thinke to gaine heaven by soothing tricks. And such a one was he which lately writ A Libell, to divulge his zealous wit. Zealous said I? excuse me (Reader) pray, Expressing zealous I m not to stay. No zeale it is, maliciously to raile, Against a prisoner, suppose he were fraile, Let Law condemne him, not each envious pen, Which sometimes will dispraise the best of men. I doe not say that he was such a one, That God forbid, there Ile let him alone. Let Law pursue him, and God forbid againe, That my rash pen should more augment his paine. Hence superstition, hence base Romish weeds, And hence I say all hypocriticke deeds. Suppose that he bowd vainly to the Altar, For that must he be hang'd with Inkie halter? But he did Sermons hate, and those abuse, Which to preach often piously did use. Did hee doe so? in it he was too blame; Let justice still obscure his once bright fame. But he at name of (Jesus) still did bow, Why not? dot not the Scripture it alow? That at his name each knee should lowly bend; Hath Scripture err'd and now at length amend? But 'tis the heart must bow, out outward knee. Did not God make them both? pray answer me? Why at his Name then should they not both bend, Which dy'd for man, his deserv'd grife to end? Sure Antignist to me thou'lt subscribe, If thou in hope wer't of a ten pound bribe, O such a guift would make thee for to faulter, Thou'st buy new shooes, and eke scrape to the Altar. What is thy answer Libeller to this? I know there's nothing comes to thee amisse. Wert thou a Bishop, thou would'st then beleeve, Nay swear no harme could be in a Lawne sleeve. Thou wantedst money when thou writst thy Letter, And by thy scandall made thy state grow better; Thou art some Poet to the short hair'd crew, Who long since bid to honesty adue: Thou wilt not swear, but lie, I know thou wilt, Thy actions are not pure, yet purely gilt, Did any one your Letter much applaud, Which you did dedicate to little Laud; Surely no wise man, and yet you rail'd well, Your tongue's not fit for Billingsgate, but hell. It did sell well, would'st know the reason why? Each man desir'd to reade thy knavery; I wonder much thy name thou durst not show, That all the world thy witty parts might know; It was your modesty I doe suppose, Or else for feare, Brandon should get your hose, Had you but heard what thankes you had for it, Of all wise men, you'd curse your railing wit: O what an Age i'st which we doe live in? One doth offend, the other laughes at sin; Christ ore Jerusalem did much lament, He sorry was for sin it should be shent; But man triumphs his brother being in thrall, Naught more doth joy him than his brothers fall▪ Arch-Bishop Laud is lately falne, and we, Seeme to rejoyce at his sad misery; Me thinkes for him that we should rather weepe, Because by Satan he was lull'd asleepe: Than triumph at his fall, we ought to pray, Though Law his corps, God may not his soule slay; O brawling Libeller which lately writ, Meere blasphemy for to divulge thy wit: Some of thy lines I will peruse, and then A Libeller prove to be the worst of men. Blest were the man could light on such good hap. To beat out's eyes with's Babylonian Cap, With some quaint jeere to breake your Graces pate, Our wits imployed are early and late. We scorne sayes one, his vices to applaud, We know the Devill must have little Laud. O sayes a second, hee's a gallant prize, And by his fall young Gregory will rise. Me thinkes your Honour, yea your Honours head, Hangs in the ayre by a small twisted thred. Which to Heavens prayse, hels joy, and Londons wonder, No further read: eye-strings will burst asunder. For rage I'm filled, shivering amaze Commands me further not on's lines to gaze. (Blest were the man) if blessednesse it were, Authority of time to stand in feare. See how he soothes the world, nay seemes to pray, That it the life of Laud would snatch away; What is the Parliament of late growne dull, Bequeathing Justice unto this base gull! O farre be such a sentence from my thought, I know with wisedome their heads still be fraught, But yet this Varlet (marke what I shall say,) From them doth seeme Justice to take away. O what a fiction doth he slily raise, For which he deserves more than Poets Bayse, A rope to boot, (He scornes vice to applaud) He knowes the Devill must have Bishop Laud, For so his meaning is, I dare to tell, He is no man but disguis'd Fiend of Hell: For mortall against mortall never had, Such d • mn'd expression, to answer which I'm sad: O sinfull man, for if man so thou art, Where was thy charity, O where thy fleshy heart? What, all compos'd of malice? tho he was Perhaps thy enemy, what then? Alas, Thy Saviour thousands of foes had more, Aud yet to them did he shew mercy store. He lov'd his foes, and for his foes did die: They 'gainst him, not he them, cry'd, crucifie. He lost his life, perhaps thou liberty, His reason was, to cure mans misery. I grieve to read thy foolery, weepe to see, How each line patcht up is with mockery: Thou mayst report me to be Romanist, Because I strive for to dissolve thy mist Of ignorance; Hadst thou here thy owne blame, Thou wouldst not shew thy selfe for very shame; An Hypocrite of all men is the worst, Of all good men abhorr'd and held accurst. Iudas will answer, Master is it I, When as his heart was full of treachery; Absalom his father flatter often did, And yet within his breast lay Treason hid: Saul made a shew that he did Davd love, And yet his life he sought for to remove. Thou writ'st satyricke: yet I doe beleeve, Should he acquitted be and longer live; Thou wouldst most willingly his Chaplaine be, Hence, hence deceit, hence damb'd hypocrisie. Ye are the Devils golden glittering baites, Your outsides faire, your inward base deceits. Wise men doe shun such old ore gilded walles, Which doe triumph ore Fortunes Tennis bals. No Canterburian I, though Kentish borne, I shun his actions, and his censure scorne. Yet give me leave for to lament his case, Let me be sorry for his want of grace, Wich once so gracious was, don't him deride, But draw example from his lofty pride. Let Justice take his corps, but let all pray, His soule may goe the narrow and straight way: Now Libeller fare well, and the next time, Assault no prisoner with thy envious rime.
An Acrosticall Caveat to beware of Hypocrisie. Beware hereafter of this Hypocrite, Else will my Satyre strive him sure to bite. Was it desert that caus'd him brawle? it was. And yet me think: his grace desir'd a pause, Regard at length the greatnesse of his praise, Ela the highest note did crowne his bayes. Osee the humors of these biting times, For Hypocrites are best to paint forth crimes. He that can best dissemble can best write, Ye that doe so can act the Hypocrite. PVll downe from love of Iustice but a dram▪ Othere Extempory you all shall scanne. Criticke inventions which your wit out-ranne. Renowned actions, but shall every scumme, Inveagle thus the Commons like Iacke Drumme, Shall Sycophanticke phancy draw your eares, Into a Babell of confused feares? Elect some wit to scan the worke, where he Is slaine prov'd guilty of Hypocrisie. Tis a meane phansie of a Bedlam braine, I care not (saes he) who shall read my straine. Sir let me tell the Satyr bawles too lawd, Twere farre more fit that he in Ixions clowd, Had hidden been, for he's a centaure sure, Else is my Muse growne blind▪ so doth endure. What ist you have old Barker, ist a fee, Amounting to the summe of thirty three. You must expect it, Ile assure you then, Tell it all ore, and youle come short often, Othat I could but see thy ill-made face. Hale them to Pluto▪s flood as a disgrace. Extend it sure, for here we shall all finde, Lent from a foule slave a Satyricke minde. THO. HERBERT.
FINIS.