A parallel betwixt popery and phanaticism, in a letter to T.S. 1681 Approx. 11 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). B04827 11875883 Wing P338 Interim Tract Supplement Guide Lutt.III[126] Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.2[304] ESTC R1355 99882789 ocm99882789 181626

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B04827) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 181626) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; C6:1[128]; A1:1[307]) A parallel betwixt popery and phanaticism, in a letter to T.S. 1 sheet ([1] p.). Printed for E. Poole, [London] : [1681?] In verse. First line reads "I'm inform'd, your royal jurat ..." A satire on the Popish Plot. Place and date of publication suggested by Wing. Reproduction of original in the British Library.

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 eng Oates, Titus, 1649-1705 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Popish Plot, 1678 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Political satire, English -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2008-04 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-09 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-11 Sampled and proofread 2008-11 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
A PARALLEL BETWIXT POPERY and PHANATICISM, IN A LETTER to T. S. SIR, I'M inform'd, your Royal Jurat In 'lection was to be your Curate: I'm likewiſe told y'are diſappointed, By Mandate from the Lord's Anointed. Your Congregation ſure is Righteous That's worth the care of Charles and Titus. Titus and Charles had had more fitneſs, For Charles is ſecond with a Witneſs. But ſince he fail'd, let fancy help it, And we'll ſuppoſe him in your Pulpit, Which would have look'd, when he was got in't, Like an Dat-Meal Tub, with a PLOT in't: (To ſay who made the Plot, would rub, But ſure ſome Cooper made the Tub) There might you hear him talk at once Sir, Geneva, London, Rome, and Munſter; For all Religions in the Town Are cloak'd in his Camelion Gown. For as the Ancients us'd to ſcan Nine Taylors to one ſingle Man; And others learnedly have writ, That thrice three Spinſters make one Wit: So he, though h' leſt them all in lurches, Is Product of as many Churches. Tho ſome affirm, when there's but Nine, That neither's due to this Divine: However, he's eſteem'd by ſome The mighty Bulwark againſt Rome; Yet others ſay with cauſe enough, His Girdle only's Cannon-Proof: Yet that's Defence enough for us, For he's all over Blunderbus. But Sir, ſince Arbitrary Power Hath uſeleſs made your Glaſs of hour, And laid Embargo upon O— By luck we have retriev'd his Notes; Which ſince he was deny'd to preach, Took pet, and dwindled to a Speech. "Behold the double Saviour of your Nation, "Who daily preach and ſwear for your Salvation! "Behold the wicked Prieſt, and Jeſuit-taker! "Behold the King's moſt excellent Oath-maker, "Who now comes down out of his endleſs Bounty, "To raiſe new Vicegerents for your County! "I have try'd all Religions once, ſome twice, "Div'd like an Indian for the Pearl of Price; "Walk'd like a Glow-worm by my Light within, "Have learnt to eat my God, and ſtab my King: "Only I never lov'd the Quakers bauling, "For fear indeed they ſhould have ſpoil'd my Calling. "I with my ſtay at Omers had been ſhorter, "For they e'ne us'd me like a very Porter, "To drink, and carry Letters; yet their ſteering "Mended my hand a little in my ſwearing. "At length in England's Church I caſt my Anchor, "And there diſcover'd all the Jeſuit Rancor, "Ript up the Plot, prevented the King's fall, "Sav'd the ingrateful Lawn-ſleeves (Raſcals all); "Sprung up ſome dozen of Ignatius Race, "Sent Stafford to his own uncertain place: "And when as one man they departed hence "With all the Oaths and Vows of Innocence, "I ſhew'd the World their Mental Reſervations, "The Juggles of their Oaths and Proteſtations: "In ſhort, I pent men's Faith to that degree, "They hardly would believe or them or me. "That Church hath bin ſo train'd with ſenſe and reaſon, "They hate implicite Faith as bad as Treaſon: "Not that they doubt the Plot (for all their jeering,) "But 'tis for better Reaſons than my ſwearing. "This mads my Soul; and I ſhall find a time "To make them fall, unleſs they help me climb: "With Oxford too I'm at no leſs defiance, "Who dirtily refus'd me her Alliance, "'Till I could prove that Swearing was a Science; "Whereas the very poſture of the Actor "Shews 'tis no Science, but a Manufacture. "There's ne're a Gown-man but my ſelf, I tell ye, "Without a Legion of Popes in's Belly: "Nay, in your godly Country're ſome Betrayers, "For there l'd like t' have been trapan'd to Prayers, "As if I'd nought to do but ſing or ſay; "'Twas but upon laſt Commination day, "The ſilly Rat had baited Hooks with Hooks, "Thinking to decoy me into Pray'rs with Books. "Beſides, amongſt all People but the Blades, "Swearing and Curſing are two ſeveral Trades. "But ſuch an Infect in Divinity "Cannot deſerve an angry Thought from me, "Who dare to grapple the whole Hierarchy. "Mind they their Trade, and canvas Paul and Luke, "I am above their Cenſure and Rebuke, "Nor do I fear their friend your Loyal Duke. "One ſingle godly Speech of mine defi'd "Your Princes Favourite, and your Country's Pride. "When I came ratling with a Coach and ſix, "King Coel's ſupream Burgeſſes to fix, "I ſtum'd the Mobile, and chang'd their Choices, "And ſtalking with their Ears obtain'd their Voices: "By which he ſees (if Heav'n do not forbid) "That I can undo all his Father did. But after all my moſt induſtrious ſearches, Sir Francis Draking, as it were the Churches, I find my ſubtle Maſters told me true, They have no toppers of a Plot like you. At that, enrag'd, up ſtarts a Loyal Youth, Quoth he, Sans ſwearing, thou haſt once ſpoke truth: Th' Religion (if thou haſt it) is profound, And thou art turn'd from Rome exactly round; Rome and Geneva are a ſort of Twins, Sworn Siſters, and ſworn Enemies to Kings: And for all you look ſo Proteſtantly big, You're ſtill a Papiſt Maſquerade in Whig. Phanaticiſm is Popery improv'd. Their bold Ignatius ſtrikes to your Buchanan, Their Iriſh to your Engliſh Forty and One; Their Plots are bubbles to your late Intrigue, Your Cov'nant hath out-kill'd their holy League. A ſtrange harmonious Diſcord there appears, Betwixt your darling Shibboleth, and theirs; Touch but their Strings, and all your Octaves ſhake, And tho ſome ceremonious Jars you make, The Tybur diſembogues into your Lake. So two falſe Gameſters quarrel when they meet A true, to blind and reinforce the Cheat. Ye both agree your Monarch to betray, Depoſe and Murder, tho a different way: Both level your Church-Cenſures at the Crown, Ye both purſue the King; but this I'le own, They pitch your Game, you fairly hunt it down. So have I ſeen a Royal Stag e'rewhile Fall by your Hounds that hath eſcap'd their toyl; Nor muſt your Subjects fairer Quarter hope, Or from your ſingle or the cluſter'd Pope; They muſt be Slaves to which ſoe're prevails, And either roaſt, or ſtink to death in Gaols. No Age nor Sex but muſt his Cenſures ſhare; They dart Anathema's, yet more ſevere, From their accumulative Porphry Chair: He, modeſt Man, but cenſures for your Faults; They damn for Cloths and Geſtures, yea even Thoughts; And all the Choice ye have, unleſs ye turn, Muſt be a Halter to avoid an Urn, As if 'twere better to hang than burn. Not only th' Ague, but all other Ills Are cur'd by th' Jeſuit's Powder, and your Pills, By which ye purg'd the Church, and ſcour'd the Nation, In order to a thorough Reformation. Ye both aſſert with Apoſtolic Buff, Convince with Back-ſword, and with Piſtol-proof, And ominous Sulphur make your Reaſons tough: Their Faith in Abſolution makes them ſin, Yours in Election hath as fruitſul been. For where's the difference, bating the Prieſts Fee, That God forgives, or that he will not ſee; Not that your Friends will Damn for ſix Pence leſs, Ye ſpend in Capons what ye ſave in Caſh: Your Baſons, Tankards, Caudle-Cups, and Spoons, Turn to as good account as Duckatoons. The ſervice of their Church, and of your Cauſe, Blanches the breach of all the ſacred Laws: Ye deal with Oaths as Potters with their Clay, Ye take them by the lump, and then eſſay To mould them for your turn; if that wo'nt do, Ye break'm ſtrait, and fall to work with new. The only two that ever ſeem'd to ſham ye, Were theirs of Secrecy, and your Solemn Dam-me; Ye abhor Repentance both, even when ye dye, And your laſt Breath is ſpent in Perjury: For who with more Aſtoniſhment can look On their St. Coleman, than on your St. Cook? The Saints are much alike for all their din, For theirs forſwear the Fact, and yours the Sin. Ye're like a bad half Crown with one fair ſide, Whoſe loyal Stamp doth the baſe Metal hide, Th' other will own the Braſs, and juſtiſie't, But by your edges ye may both be try'd. Hence Tories ſay, whether you rule the Iſle, Or th' Jeſuits, is only Croſs and Pile; But CHARLES they ſay hath bin too wiſely bred, To venture them with's Croſs, or you with's Head.

Printed for E. Poole.