Garnets ghost, addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after the murther of Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey written by the author of The satyr against virtue (not yet printed).

Garnets ghost, addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after the murther of Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey written by the author of The satyr against virtue (not yet printed).

Table of contents

GARNETS GHOST, Addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after THE MURTHER OF Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey.

GARNETS GHOST, Addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after THE MURTHER OF Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey.

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Written by the Author of the Satyr against Virtue, (not yet Printed.)

BY hell 'twas bravely done, what less then this;

What Sacrifice of meaner worth, and price;

Could we have offer'd up for our success?

So fare all they who dare provoke our hate;

Who by like ways presume to tempt their fate▪

Fare each, like this bold medling fool, and be

As well cur'd, as well dispatch'd as he.

Would he were here, yet warm, that we might drain

His reeking gore, and drink up every vein:

That were a glorious Sanction; much like thine,

Great Roman, made upon a like design.

Like thine? we scorn so mean a Sacrament,

To seal and consecrate our high intent,

We scorn base blood should our great league cement.

Thou didst it with a Slave, but we think good

To bind our Treason with a bleeding God.

Would it were His; why should I fear to name,

Or you to hear't? at which we nobly aim.

Lives yet that hated enemy of our cause?

Lives he our mighty projects to oppose?

Can his weak innocence, and heavens care,

Be thought security from what we dare,

Are ye then Iesuits, are you so for nought?

In all the Catholique depths of Treason taught:

In Orthodox, and solid poysoning read;

And each profounder Art of killing bred:

And can you fail or bungle in your trade?

Shall one poor life your cowardise upbraid?

Tame dastard slaves, who your profession shame,

And fix disgrace on your great Founders name.

Think what late S [...]tries (and ignoble crew,

Not worthy to be rank'd in sin with you)

Inspir'd with lofty wickedness durst do.

How from his Throne, they hurl'd a Monarch down

And bravely eas'd him of his life and Crown:

They scorn'd, in Covert, their bold Art to hide,

In open face of Heaven the work they did;

And dar'd its vengeance, and its powers defy'd.

This is his Son, and mortal too like Him:

Durst you usurp the glory of the crime.

And dare ye not? I know you [...] to be,

By such as they, outdone in villany [...]

(Your proper province) true, you urg [...] th [...]n on,

Were Engins in the [...]act; but they alone

Share all the Open credit and Renown.

But hold, I wrong our Church & cause, which need

No foreign Instance; nor what Others did.

Think on that[?] matchless Assassin, whose name,

We with just[?] pride can make our happy claim;

He who at killing of an Emperour,

To give [...] poyson stronger force and power,

Mixt a G [...] with't and made it work more sure.

Blest me [...]ory, which shall through age to come

Stand s [...]red in the lists of Hell and Rome.

Let ou [...] great Clement, and Ravillia'cs name,

Your [...]irits to like height of sin inflame.

Those mighty souls, who each durst bravely dye,

To h [...]ve a Royal Ghost their company.

Her [...]ck Art! and worth their tortures well,

W [...] worth the suffering of a double-hell:

Th [...]t they felt here, and that below they fell:

A [...]d if these cannot move you as you shou'd,

[...] me and my example fire your blood,

[...]ink what I durst attempt; a glorious deed,

Which durst the fates have suffer'd to succeed,

[...]ad Rivall'd hells most proud exploit and boast;

[...]v'n that which would the King of fates depos'd.

[Page]Curst be that day, and nere in time enrold;

And curst the star, whose spightfull influence rul'd,

The luckless minute which my project spoild.

What mean't that power, which of it self afraid,

My glory, with my brave design betray'd?

Was't that he fear'd lest I who strook so high,

In guilt, should next blow up his Realm and sky?

Or if that fail'd, at least I would have durst,

And missing had got off with Fame at worst.

Had you but half my daringness in sin,

Your work had never thus unfinish'd been:

Had I been Man, and the great Act to do,

I'ad dy'd by this, and been what I am Now;

Or what his Father is; I would leap hell

[...]o reach his life, though in the midst I fell;

And deeper then before.—

Let rabble souls, of narrow aim and reach;

Stoop their vile necks, and dull Obedience preach.

[...]et them with slavish awe, disdain'd by me:

Adore the purple Rag of Majesty,

And think't a sacred Relick of the sky.

Well may such fools be subject to controul;

[...]o every scepter'd wretch that dares but rule:

Unlike the soul with which, proud I was born;

Who could that sneaking thing, a Monarch scorn;

[...]purn off a Crown, and set my foot in sport,

Upon the head that wore it, trod in dirt.

But say, what i'st that binds your hands? does fear,

[...]rom such a glorious action, you deter?

Or i'st Religion? but you sure disclaim

That frivolous pretence, that empty Name:

Meer bugbear word, devis'd by us to scare

The senceless rout to slavishness and fear,

Nere known to awe the brave and those that dare.

[...]uch weak, and feeble things may serve for checks,

To reign and curb base mettl'd Hereticks:

Dull creatures, whose nice bogling consciences,

Startle, or strain at such like crimes as these.

Such whom fond inbred honesty befools▪

Or their old musty peice the Bible Gulls.

That hated book, the Bullwark of our foes,

Whereby they still uphold their tott'ring cause,

Let no such toys mislead you from the Road

Of glory, nor infect your souls with good,

Let never bold incroaching virtue dare,

With her grim holy face to enter there.

No, not in very dream, have only will

Like fiends and me, to Act and covet Ill.

Let true substantial wickedness take place,

Usurp, and reign, let it the very trace,

If any yet be left of good, deface.

If ever qualms of inward cowardice,

(The thing which some dull sots call Conscience) rise,

Make them in streams of blood and slaughter drown,

Or with new weights of guilt still press them down▪

Faith, shame, Religion, Honour, Loyalty,

Nature it self, what ever checks there be,

To loose and uncontroul'd Impiety,

Be all extinct in you; own no remorse,

But that you've balk'd a sin; have been no worse,

Or too much pity shew'd.—

Be diligent in mischiefs trade; be each

Performing as a devil, nor stick to reach,

At crimes most dangerous, where bold despair,

And heedless blind Revenge, would never dare

To look; March you, without a blush or fear.

Enflam'd by all the hazards that oppose,

And firm as burning Martyrs to our cause,

Then you're true Jesuites; then you're fit to be

Disciples of great Loyola and me:

Worthy to undertake, worthy a plot

Like this, and fit to scourge an Hugenot.

Plagues on that name, may swift confusion seize

And utterly blot out that cursed Race:

Thrice damn'd be your Apostate Monk from whom

Sprung first these Enemies of Vs and Rome.

Whose poysonous filth dropt from ingendring brain,

By monstrous birth did the vile Insects spawn;

Which now infect each Countrey, and defile

With their o'respreading swarms this goodly Isle,

Once it was ours, and subject to our yoke,

Till a late reigning witch the Enchantment broke.

It shall again, 'tis Hell and I decree,

If you but dare make good the prophecy,

Not fate it self shall hinder.—

Too sparing was the time, too milde the day,

When our great Mary, bore the English sway;

Un-queen-like pitty marr'd her Royall Power,

Nor was her purple dy'd enough in gore.

Four or five hundred, some such petty sum,

Might fall perhaps a sacrifice to Rome:

Scarce worth the naming; Had I had the power

Or been thought fit to be her Councellor:

She should have raised it to a noble score.

Big Bonefires have blazed; shone each day,

To tell our triumph, and make bright our way.

And when 'twas dark in every lane and street,

Thick flaming Hereticks should serve to light;

And save the needless charge of Links by night.

Smithfield should still have kept a constant fire,

Which never should be quench'd, never expire;

But with the Lives of all the miscreant rout,

Till the last gasping breath had blown it out.

So Nero did; such was his prudent course

Us'd too by all his mighty successours,

To tame like Hereticks of old, by force.

They scorn'd dull reason, and pedantick Rules;

To conquer, and reduce the hardned fools:

Racks, Gibbets, Halters, were their Arguments,

Which did most undeniably convince.

Gray-bearded Lyons, manag'd the dispute,

And Reverend Bears their doctrines did confute:

And all who durst hold out in stiff defence,

They gently claw'd, and worry'd into sence.

Better then all our Sorbon dotards now,

Who would by dint of words our foes subdue.

This was the rigid Discipline of Old,

Which modern sots for Persecution hold.

[Page]Of which dull Annalises in story tell

Strange Legends, and huge bulky volums swell

With Martyr'd fools, that lost their way to hell.

From these our Churches glorious Ancestors,

We've learnt our Arts, and made their methods ours.

Nor have we come behind the first degree,

In Arts of rough and manly Cruelty.

Converting faggots, and the powerfull stake,

And sword resistless our Apostles make.

This heretofore Bohemia felt, and thus

Were all the numerous proselites of Huss

Crusht with their head; so Waldo's cursed rout,

With those of Wickliff here were routed out:

Their names scarce left▪ sure were the means we chose,

And wrought prevailingly; fire purg'd the dross

Of those foul heresies, and sovereign steel

Lopt off the infected Limbs, the Church to heal.

Renown'd was that French brave, renown'd his deed;

A deed, for which the day deserves its Red;

Far more, then for a paltry S'aint that dy'd.

How goodly was the sight, how fine the show,

When Paris saw through all its Channels flow

The blood of Huganots; when the full Sein

Swell'd with the flood, its Banks with joy o'reran.

He scorn'd like Common Murtherers to deal

By parcels, and peice-meal; he scorn'd retail,

Th' trade of death[?]; whole myriads dy'd by th' great,

Soon as one single life, so quick their fate,

Their very prayers and wishes came too late.

This a King did, and great and Mighty 'twas;

Worthy his high degree, and power and place,

And worthy our Religion and our Cause,

Unmatch'd 't had been, had not Macquire arose.

The bold Macquire; (who read in modern fame

Can be a stranger to his worth and name?)

Born to out-sin a Monarch; born to Reign

In guilt, and all competitors disdain.

Dread memory! whose each mention still can make

Pale Hereticks with trembling horror quake.

T'undo[?] a Kingdome, to atcheive a Crime

Like his, who would not fall, and dye like him?

Never had Rome a nobler service done;

Never had Hell, each day came thronging down

Vast shoals of Ghosts, and mine was pleas'd and glad,

And smil'd, when it the brave Revenge survey'd.

Nor do I mention these great Instances,

For bounds and limits to your wickedness.

Dare you, beyond, something out of the road

Of all example; where none yet have trod,

Nor shall hereafter: what mad Catiline

Durst never think nor's madder poet feign.

Make the poor buffled pagan-fool to own,

How far in gallant mischief overcome,

The old must yield to new and modern Rome.

Mix I'lls past, present, future in one Act,

One high, one brave, one great, one glorious fact:

Which hell and even I may envy.—

Such as that Iove himself may wish to be,

A complice in the mighty villany,

And barters Heaven, and vouchsafe to dye.

Nor let delay (the bain of enterprize)

Mar yours, or make the great importance miss.

This fact hath wak'd your Enemies, and their fear,

Let it be your vigour too, be swift to dare;

Hasten, and let your deeds forestall intent;

Forstall e'vn wishes, ere they can take vent;

Nor give the fates the leisure to prevent.

Let the full clouds which a long time did wrap

Your gathering Thunder, now with sudd [...]in Clap,

Break out upon your foes; dash, and confound,

And scatter wide destruction all a round:

Let the fir'd Citty to your plot give light,

You ras'd it half before, now rase it quite:

Do't more effectually; I'd have it glow

In flames unquenchable as those below.

I'd see the miscreants with their houses burn,

And both together into Ashes turn.

Bend next your fury to the curst Divan;

That damn'd Committee, whom the fates ordain,

To all our well laid Plots to be the bane.

Unkennel those State foxes where they lye,

Working your speedy fate and destiny.

Lug by the ears the doting Prelates thence;

Dash Heresy together with their Brains

Out of their shattered heads; lop off[?] the Lords

And Commons at one stroke, and let your swords

Adjourn 'em all to th'other world.—

Would I were blest with flesh and blood again,

But to be Actor in that happy scene:

Yet still I may be by▪ and glut my view,

Revenge shall take its fill, in state I'le go

With Captive Ghosts t'attend me down below.

Let these the handsells of your vengeance be,

Yet stop not here, nor flag in cruelty,

Kill like a Plague or Inquisition; spare

No age, degree, or sex: only to dare

To own a life; only a soul to wear.

Be crime enough to lose no time nor place,

Be sanctuary from your outrages.

Spare not in Churches, kneeling Priests at prayer;

The interceding for you, slay e'en there:

Spare not young Infants smiling at the breast,

Who from relenting fools may mercy wrest.

Rip teeming wombs, tear out the hatred brood

From thence, and drown them in their mothers blood.

Pitty not Virgins, nor their tender cryes,

The postrate at your feet with melting eyes:

All drown'd in tears, strike home as 'twere in lust,

And force their hands to guide the fatal thrust.

Ravish at the Altar, kill when you have done;

Make them your Rapes and Victims too in one.

Nor let gray hoary hairs protection give

To Age, just crawling on the verge of life:

Snatch from his leaning hands their weak support,

And with it knock't into the Grave in sport.

Brain the poor Cripple with his crutch, then cry,

Yo've kindely rid him of his misery.

[Page]Seal up your ears to mercy; lest their words

Should tempt a pity, ram 'em with your swords,

(Their tongues too) down their throats; let them not dare

To mutter for their souls a gasping prayer,

But choak't in th' utterance, and stab it there.

'Twere witty handsome malice could you do't)

To make 'em dye, and make 'em damn'd, to boot.

Make children, by one fate with Parents dye,

Kill in revenge, the next posterity:

You'l so be pester'd with no Orphans cry,

No Childless Mothers curse your Memory.

Make death and desolation swim in blood,

Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the flood

But slaughter'd Carcasses, till the whole Isle

Become one Tomb, become on Funeral Pile.

Till such vast numbers swell the countless sum,

That the wide grave, and wider hell want room,

Great was that tyrants wish, which should be mine,

Did I not scorn the leavings of a sin.

Freely I would bestow't on England now,

That the whole Nation with one neck might grow,

To be slic'd off, and you to give the blow.

What never Saxon rage could ere inflict,

Nor Danes more savage, nor the barbrous Pict;

What Spain, nor Eighty eight could ere devise,

With all its fleet, and fraught of cruelties:

What Medina nere wisht, much less could dare,

And bloodier Alva would with trembling hear;

What may outdo all prodigies of old,

And make their milder cruelties untold:

What Heavens Judgments, nor the angry stars,

Forreign Invasions, nor Dome [...]ck wars;

Plague, Fire nor Famine could effect or do;

All this, and more, be dar'd and done by you.

But why do I with id'ler talk delay,

Your hands, and while they should be acting stay?

Farewell.—

If I may waft a prayer for your success.

Hell be your aid, and your high projects bless.

May that vile wretch, if any here they be,

That meanly shrinks from brave Iniquity;

If any dare feel pity or remorse,

May he feel all I've bid you act, and worse:

May he by rage of foes unpittied fall,

And they tread out his hated Soul to hell,

May's name and carcasse rot, expos'd alike to be,

An everlasting mark of grinning Infamy.

FINIS.

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Information about this book

Title statement

Garnets ghost, addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after the murther of Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey written by the author of The satyr against virtue (not yet printed).

Oldham, John, 1653-1683.

Edition statement

1679

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-05 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A53287

ID [STC]

Wing O235

ID [STC]

ESTC R32248

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12572572

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12572572

ID [VID]

63522

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A53287)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 63522)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1022:19)

Source

— Garnets ghost, addressing to the Jesuits, met in private Caball, just after the murther of Sir Edmund-Bury Godfrey written by the author of The satyr against virtue (not yet printed)., Oldham, John, 1653-1683..

Extent

4 p.

s.n.,. [London :: 1679]. (In verse.) (Caption title.) (Imprint suggested by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.) (First edition.) (The author'a first satyr upon the Jesuits. - NUC pre-1956 imprints.) (Reproduction of original in the Cambridge University Library.)

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