AD POPƲLƲM: OR, A LECTURE TO THE PEOPLE.
⟨By John Taylor.⟩
⟨ [...] Oxon may 20th.⟩
Printed in the Yeare 1644.
Ad Populum: OR, A LECTVRE TO THE PEOPLE.
YE dull Idolaters, have ye yet bent
Your Knees enough to your Dagon-Parliament?
When will ye give us liberty to say
Yee'r reconcil'd to the Apocrypha
And beleive Bell an Idoll? Do ye yet
Discerne the Footsteps of the Small and Great
In the ashy Pavement, who, while ye stand
Halfe sterved by, devour the Fat o'th Land?
Grosse Asse of Issachar, poore hackney Clowne,
Betwixt two Burthens wilt thou still couch downe?
Hath not the Sonne of Beor, that false Seer
Yet rid thee low enough, but thou must beare
Repeated Loades? how truly art thou brought
Into a streight, now, where no humane thought
Of turning either way can cherish't be?
When wilt thou see the Angell and speake free?
Thy Rider need's not wish, his Hand doth hold
A two-edg'd Blade, with which haveing switch't thee old,
Leane, Blinde, & Lame, that thou doest groane beneath
Thy Cares, thy Bowells he will make his Sheath.
And much Good do it ye with your Misery:
Ne're did a fond young Amorist long to lye
By's Mistresse side so much, as you to be
Possest of your belov'd Calamity.
And faith She hath pay'd you, Sculler, pluckt you bare,
Not left you Eyes, nor Teeth, nor Nayles, nor Hayre:
The Kingdomes Bridge-Politique is broken too,
And not your Lecturers onely snuffle now;
The Cancro almost is Epidemicall.
Be this my prayer, may they so prosper all,
Who with unworthy private base Intents
So run a Whoreing after Parliaments:
For 'tis concluded by the graver Bench
That Babylon's Strumpet's now the sounder Wench.
Good heavy Mule, you were too well, when ease
And happy plenty from the Land and Seas
Drop't on your head, which kind heaven rained down
By th'blessed Influence of a Monarch's Crowne:
But long'd to try which were the better Thing,
Five hundred Tyrants, or one gentle King.
Tell me, experienc't Fooles, did not your dayes
Glide smoothlyer on, when in your harmlesse Playes
Ye Halterd Finch?
Christmas games i th Country.
sold Salt fish to the Court?And Bob'd your Brother gently, but in sport?
When ye had Shorter Sermons, Longer Prayers?
And sought the good Saint Dennis, not your Mares?
When the plumpe Dumpling (like a floating Isle)
Swam in your owne deare Allaegre, the while
Your Daughter Al'ce, in love with John, forsooth,
Stareing in's Face, though wide, yet miss'd her Mouth?
When no grimme Saucy Trooper did ye harme,
Nor fiercer Dragon, when no Strangers Arme
Did retch your yellow Bacon, nor envy
The Richnesse of your Chimnyes Tapestry?
When good Dame Ellen (your beloved Spouse)
Bare to the elbow in the Dairy-house,
With fragrant Leekes did eat the Cheese she wrought,
Not sent it to the Garrison for nought.
O those were Golden dayes! all things were quiet
While Pym did whisper Treason for his Dyet
At Knightlyes House, and honest Dick and he
In private exercis'd their Lechery;
Who each Good Friday, ('gainst the Church a Charm)
Were sure to have a holy Sister warme:
With which Sweet Flesh, e're they had ought to do,
They sanctified it with a Grace or two.
But see what love of Liberty affords,
And the strange Lusting after new-coynd Words!
How much the better are ye now, I pray,
That yee with much expence have learn'd to say
Quarter for Lodging, and can wisely well
What Carbine signifies, and Granado, tell!
Which would have pass'd with you the other day
Fro Six-legg'd Monsters out of Africa:
And with a painted Cloth, have made a pretty
Holborne-bridge Jig, or Foole-Trap in the City.
Was not your Ale as browne, as fat your Beefe,
Er'e Plunderer was English for a Theife?
Poore Soules! unto your Ruine yee are bent?
Yee've gaynd a Word, lost a Commandement.
A glorious Exchange! and we doe feare
KIMBOLTON too was purchased too deare;
For though we yeild it hath a rumbling sound,
Yet 'tis scarce worth five hundred thousand pound:
The getting of which word by heart, some guesse,
Hath stood the Kingdome but in little lesse:
A word of that rough Shape, men looke to know,
E're they come near't if't be whole-hoof'd or no;
Had Daniell known't sure 'twould have made him spare
The expence of's boyled Pitch, his Fat, and Hayre,
For, arm'd with that alone, he might with ease
Have choak'd the Dragon, without helpe of these.
But these your Apples were, yee would be wise
Though with the Hazard of your Paradise?
It is the greatest Misery of Mankind
Fortune at once makes Happy and makes Blind.
How richly were yee blest in House and Field
With all the store that a fat Land could yeild,
While heartily yee did in every place,
At the Kings Name, cry out, God save His Grace,
Not blesse the godly Parliament? Ye then
Were not enslav'd, but free-borne Englishmen;
Your Stacks of Corne were then your own; nay more,
Ye durst lay Clayme then to the Clothes yee wore:
Your Wives blew Ruffe, and Stammell Petticoate
(In Statute-Lace, which cost her many a Groat
While any Statute was in use) then lay
In quiet Lavander till the next high Day:
Your Sunday-Cloake as then did not miscary,
But sure it was to be i'th Inventory,
When weary of this life, you had the hap
With a Warme Pepper-posset and a Cap
To leave the world, for writing which the Vicar
Receiv'd his Twelve pence and a Cup of Liquour.
Those Dayes are gone, your Crests are fallen down,
And now your journyes to the Market Towne
Are not to sell your Pease, your Oates, your Wheat,
But of Nine Horses stolne from you t'intreat
But one to be restor'd: and this yee doe
To a buff'd Captaine, or perhaps unto
His surly Corporall, with the same degree
Of Cringeing and sordid Idolatry
Ye used in the former dayes to fall
Prostrate unto your Land-Lord in his Hall,
When with low Leggs, and in an humble guise
Ye offer'd up a Capon-Sacrifice
Unto his Worship at a New-year Tide:
For which i'th Buttery having stuff'd your hide
With store of Drinke, as heartlesse as 'twas cold,
(Which nothing but an Asses Hoofe could hold)
Ye tooke your leave, making your three long Stretches,
One to Himselfe, Two to his Velvet Breeches.
No more, no more shall yee take pleasant journyes,
(The Tempters at your Elbowes, Your Atturnyes)
Twice by the yeare to the Shire Towne, and there
O'rethrow a Parson, Drinke drunke, and Forsweare
Your selves, which being done, goe home and cry
The Common-wealth's bound to your Industry.
No more, no more shall yee in Triumph say
A Pickering, a Cromwell, and a Wray
At your Knights Choyce, not (which appear'd most fine)
The bounteous Conduits ran pure Claret Wine:
Which were good Breathings from Affliction,
Like comely Stops in an Oration,
Which intervall'd your Greife: but now yee lye
Under a scourging Perpetuity,
Destroying you by whole Sale, in such sort
For your undoing neither wine nor sport
Shall be allow'd yee. When yee joy'd to see
Gods Altars pulled downe by a Decree
Of Omri, and his holy Temples made
Worse then your Stables, sordidly betray'd
To Filth (our Kingdomes everlasting Stayne)
The Carved workes torne downe by the Profane;
When yee beheld the Houses of your King,
His Ships, Townes, Castles, nay his every Thing
Detayn'd from him, could yee so foolish be
To thinke that your poore Cottages could be free?
When ye did dayly heare such foule Disgrace
Such Blasphemies throwne in th'Almighties Face
From out your Pulpits, and did thither run,
Chirping upon your Lecturers while 'twas done;
When 'twas your Joy to see Gods Service fall,
Or worship't slovenly, or not at all;
When ye so chearefully did entertaine
Such Lyes and Slanders gainst your Soveraigne,
Who could bewitch ye into so much Trust
To thinke your Honour should not lye i'th Dust?
Or that your Fourty Markes, to which ye were borne,
In Soccage, could redeeme ye from just Scorne?
When with a Solemne Gladnesse ye did breake
The holy Scept, and did no difference make
'Twixt the unhallow'd and the hallow'd Land,
Could you beleive that your owne walls should stand?
Or that a Bore (the Fence being broken through)
Should not lay wast and spoyle your Vineyards too?
That Man plants Hedges 'bout himselfe in vaine,
Who layes in common Sacred and Profane.
When your learn'd Preists, made guilty of all Ills,
Like Partridges were hunted on the Hills,
By Painted Chamber and Committee-Men,
Where were your Teares? where was your Sackcloth then?
It was your Game to see't, each Bush was bear,
And not a common Mouth but cryed Rett.
And see the Fruit of it, Your Quarry now,
Like Israells Quailes, peeps through your Nostrills too;
Your Clergies Scorne is prov'd your Plague, & will.
Go, Go, make Bone fires now, let every Hill
Shine with your Idoll-Flames, and every Grove
Be fill'd with Sisters, Zeale, Joy, Pigs, and Love;
Let Wisdomes Turke and Pope, the rest among,
For Aye amidst the Bretheren now be sung,
Arch Deacon Cromwells visitation
Hath cleansed all (in whose pure voines doth run
Th'reforming Bloud and vertues of his Grand
Parent, that Man of Iron, whose tough Hand,
Arm'd with his Fathers Hammer, at one Blow
Made many a stately Abbey lie full low)
Who in one godly March upon his way
(Help'd by his Surrogate the good Lord Grey)
Five Crosses kill'd, Five bookes of Common Prayers,
Five Surplices, Five Fiddles, and Five Beares.
Bless'd Reformation! And the Time will come
When Apes as well as Beares shall have their Doome,
And Badgers Furre grow▪ Cheap▪ Deluded Elves,
Where are those dayes you promis'd to your selves,
When ye should drink Sack from your own plump well,
And all your Ditches should run Muskadell?
The Bishops Votes are gone, great Strafford lies
To appease the Base a Noble Sacrifice;
And yet in sadnesse (Sirs) I cannot finde
That it raines Fretters yet, or that the Wind
On his soft Wing brings Spices from the East,
Without our Ships, or Ingots from the West:
Nature is still the old slow Thing she was,
And gravely brings her businesses to passe
By Sober temperate steps; she does not yet
Ride Post, make Souce and Puddings at a Heate:
Nor does our Mother Earthes kind Bowells yeild
Us Choynes of Beefe, yet or the Brawny Sheild,
As the Fens do Turffe, for Digging; the same Course
She still observes, onely 'tis something worse.
You thought 'twas brave to rule, and therefore layed
That burden on your owne, which God had made
For greater Shoulders; Ye injoyed no rest
Till your High Constable was above your Preist,
Angry ye were, and did accuse the Fates
For making of ye Subjects, and not States;
Which yee determined to alter, and
Resolv'd your owne, not Heavens Decree should stand;
Inrag'd, yee had it in your heart to stone them,
Moyses and Aaron tooke too much upon them;
Ye could not sleepe, nor yet in quiet sit
Till an Ordinance tooke place of sacred Writ.
Ye'ave almost your whole wish: and, faith, confesse,
What have yee got? Come, be ingenious.
Would yee not give the best horse in your Teame
The three yeares past were but a fearefull Dreame,
And hug your Resurrection, that yee might
Retast that Manna, once yee set so light?
Wee'l not deny't, many great Greivances,
And Scarlet Sinnes were nourished, such as these?
Land-Lords exacted Rents, the Priests were growne
So proud, they call'd th'tenth of our Crop their owne:
The Spirituall Courts in every Corner rife,
A Carnall exercise with a Neighbours Wife
Could not be had, but straight they made us stand
Pinn'd in a Linnen Bag with a white wand,
Betraying so our Christian Liberty,
Which gives us Title unto all we see.
Grosse Innovations in Religion too
Were frequent growne; O what a Tedious doe
Have some Sir Johns made, that they might recall
That Superstitious hypocriticall,
That Popish Tricke of praying on the Knee,
As if GOD joy'd in's Servants Misery?
Troubling the ease and quiet of the Saints,
(A haynous Crime, and causing sad complaints)
Whose Postures should be such as might the best
Marke out and typifie eternall Rest:
Those Idoll-Altar Bookes, stuft full of Crosses,
Bound up in Silver Anti-Christian Bosses,
Made of the Whore of Babilons Thimbles, stood
Preaching-aloft to grace their God of Wood;
And men began to prize them more, then either
The powerfull Dod, or his blest Pew-Mate Cleaver.
Sad times the while! nay (worse in this then Turkes)
Th' Arminian Preachers had so cryed up workes,
That foolish Men (so evill were the dayes)
Began to make a Conscience of their wayes.
Now blesse us all! we were i'th very Road
To Rome, and shortly should have worshipp'd God.
By our Idolatrous Forefathers reard,
Churches (in sooth) began to be repair'd,
Nay more to be adorn'd; Weepe, weepe mine eyes!
This is a roreing sinne, a sinne that cryes!
And had not this beene stopt, there had beene found
Who would have sworn they'd stood on holier ground,
Then a Justice Parler on whose Cushionly
A Dalton and Practice of Piety.
To sanctifie the Roome, and purge from sinne
The Bribes his Country Visitours bring in:
The Corporation-Custard, which before
(As the fierce Seas curb'd by the Sandy Shore)
Did check the fluent Lect'rers heaving veyne,
And call'd the Spirit into his Bounds againe,
Aw'd by the Plumbroath every houre
Lost more and more still of it's wonted Power,
And though the Sisters dayly did supply
VVith Sighes and Egges to make the Gusto high,
Yet 'twould not do: Pride, pride, the Clergies Pride,
(VVhich I assure ye, Sirs, was at spring Tide)
Had got that growth, they did not blush to say
They would not preach to please the People, they.
Ranck Heresie, if good Mas: Henderson
Can tell what Hresie is—
How saucy were they growne, who dar'd to preach
Th'Elect could Sinne? (O most abhorred Breach
Of th'Faithfulls Prividedge!) and that Gods Sheepe
VVere not whom Marshall brands, but they who keepe
Th'Impossible Commandements. Beside,
They taught the way to Heaven was not so wide
That a First-Table-Saint who with a Brother
Faithfull and call'd, made bold to breake the other,
Could croud her Belly in: therefore in scorne,
To take it up, they advis'd each night and morne,
She should in humble manner, soft and faire,
VValke by the Brooke of Penance, and then aire
Her selfe 'bout VVeeping-Crosse, early and late,
To fit her Body for the narrow Gate
Malitiously they taught that no man given
To Fleshly Lusts, so dying should see Heaven.
Uncomfortable Doctrines sure they were,
Enough to make the Godly to despaire.
VVho using th'Creature freely, as their owne,
(As 'tis indeed) are often very prone;
Yet notwithstanding that looke to be Heires
Of Heavens joy too, for verily all is Theirs.
Nor will the Preist e're better Manners have
So long as Tithes are left to feed the Knave,
Those Villanous Tithes, th'Aegyptians Flesh-pots, whence
They loath the Manna of Benevolence.
Alas poore Fooles! we know not what we loose
When we do part with our Tenth Lamb and Goose,
Surely ther's Witchcraft in't; the very Fat
And Marrow of our Substance lies in that,
Being the Top of Numbers; and 'tis thought
Sinews and strength from'th Brawny Hercules,
From whom that Heathenish custome first did rise,
For marke and ye shall find the plump Divine
Grow fat by th'Tenth, we leane by th'other Nine,
Which Nature teacheth too, looke on the Sea
And she her Tith in the Tenth Wave doth pay
Lustier then all the rest, as if she meant
To Seale that Number with a Sacrament.
What'ere the Matter be, it is a Gemme
Unknowne to us, but farre too rich for Them.
Therefore 'tis fit Committees should be sent
Unto the godly Dowager of Kent,
That the beloved Matron might prick on
Her learn'd and Antiquated Champion,
(Like a French Chimney-Sweeper) t'creepe once more
Into Cottons Library through the Back dore,
And fetch from thence a Dose of Syriack Rust,
Soot Arahick Ana, and of Easterne Dust
Enough to cast into the Peoples Eyne,
They may not see Tithes to be things Divine.
For while they'r bold to vent such dareing words,
That not our Trencher feedes them, but the Lords,
Be confident of this (such is their Pride,)
His Businesse shall be done, ours laid aside.
All this is true, But pray ye Neighbours say,
While those light Burthens on your Shoulders lay
Had ye not merrier Dayes? The King and Law
Call'd for some bricke indeed, but gave ye straw;
The Ship-Mony was a weight: well, yeild it so;
Since that was damn'd, does the World better grow?
Have ye no Burthens now? O happy Men!
The twentieth Part ye'ave paid, the Fifth, and when
Your new Task-Masters shalbe pleased to call
And say ye are Delinquents, Farewell All:
New victories coyn'd to cheat ye every houre,
Your Purse must bleed so long as they have Power
To lye, your Taxes to the Garrisons,
The Pressing and the Slaughter of your Sonnes,
Secret Benevolences, and to these
To top up all, but Fifty Subsidies.
Are these no Burthens? Let me pitty you,
Sad Soules for onley that is left ye now
Happy ye were and might have so abode,
Had ye not kneel'd like Camells for your Load:
They ne're had risen had you kept your State,
Till ye were wretched, they could not be Great.
Therefore as crafty Glasiers, who retaine
Night-walking Drunkards in a Pension,
That when the Danknesse and the Drink command
Windowes may fall, that their fraile Trade may stand;
Or seemeing Conjurers, who have Theives in Pay:
So dealt the cunning Men with you. For they,
That their great skill in Surgery might be crown'd,
And their rare Balsame sought for, made the VVound.
Who (like the meaner Stars which hidden lye
While the World's look't on by the Heavens sole eye)
That they might be ador'd, and appeare Bright,
Resolv'd to turne the Globe, and make it Night:
And good Night Land-lord, when will it be Day?
(Tis hard to give, easier to take away.)
So faint our Hopes be that the sprightly Morne
Should ever more make her defir'd Returne,
That they have hardly left a Cocke to say
To our sad Hearts, Cheare up, it will be Day:
Or call us to Repentance for the sinne
We have so long securely slumber'd in,
The Deny all of our Lord. At first indeed
They Playd with you, as with a new-back'd steed,
Nor did they thinke it fit to fill your Eie
With the whole Scene of your large Miserie;
But drew the Curtaine by Degrees 'Twas light,
Your burthen then, to beare a Beardlesse Knight
Upon your backs, what was it, errant Gulls,
To thinke that Calves in time would not prove Bulls?
Or that like Milo, you should grow in height
Of strength and Sinew, as your Load in weight!
Of your New States how could ye thinke so ill,
When all things else increase they should stand still?
No, no, each Man of them is grown so spread
(Upon the common stock of Fat things fed)
That the tall Atlas, who the Heavens doth beare,
Has't under Seale, not one of them comes There.
Nine dozen of bread din'd the young Elephant:
Whom, when he had more yeares and volume, Scant
A Tun would satisfie; Change but the Name,
The Fable's Theyrs: And they confesse the same,
Who are about to geld the Members now:
(What will the Legislative Ladies do?)
For since that neither the new-rais'd Excise,
The Sequestrations (though they high do rise)
Their Staple of Plunder nor Jewes fetch't of late
To buy the Wickeds circumcis'd Estate
Can fill them all, they are resolv'd to bate
Something in Number, as they thrive in weight.
(So have I seene good Husbands when they found
Unnecessary Stowage clogg their ground,
Pull downe out-houses, that they might not be
Charg'd with Repaires, where they no profit see)
As if they meant to let ye understand
That five and twenty now can spoyle the Land.
All this and more, ye cannot chufe but see,
And will ye still Court your owne Misery?
Returne, returne unto your God and King,
Obedient hearts, and faire Peace-Offerings bring,
So shall your weary shoulders soone be eas'd
For with such Sacrifices Both are pleas'd.
O be Profane no more, no more defile
Gods Temples, nor tread on the sacred oyle
Which doth anoint both King and Priest, no more
Cast amorous Glances on that painted whore
Who sits at West-Minster, and 'moungst the rest,
Hath also this knowne Character of the Beast,
She in a Temple maketh her abode,
Lifting herselfe 'bove all that's called God:
But set your Love on them, who for your good.
Are met to hazard both Estates and Bloud,
The Oxford-Parliament; for, if there be
At this time any, surely that is she.
Be no more frighted from all Piety
Under a false Notion of Popery,
That Mask is stale: call it no more The Cause,
Or Christian Liberty, to have no Lawes:
In points of Faith, take heed how ye appeale
To the New Gospell made by SAY and SEALE.
Let Davids Psalmes be above Sternholds Meter,
And Wrayes Occasionalls yeild to Saint Peter.
Set up Church Discipline anew, be wise:
(For since that fell your Daughters Bellies rise:)
Grow Charitable againe, let not your Hate
And private spleene bring forth a publique Fate:
So shall ye happy be, and soone returne
The Nations Envy, who are now their scorne:
Take up at last, then learne to understand
The Plow and Scepter are not for one Hand.
FINIS.