THE Apostate Prince: OR, A SATYR Against the King of Poland.
By Richard Burridge.
LONDON Printed, and are to be Sold by most Booksellers. 1700.
THE Apostate Prince: OR, A Satyr Against the KING of POLAND.
NOW, like a
Porcupine, I dart my Pen
Against the least of Kings, and worst of Men,
What Sat'rist can forbear the lashing you,
Who neither will to Man nor Heav'n be true?
Who ran from
Saxony to cruel
Rome
Only the Throne of
Poland to assume,
That ticklish Seat of Empire; which allows
None there to Rule, but what will pay their Vows
To such like Saints, which commonly depart
The World upon a Ladder, or a Cart.
Fie, fie, a Christian Prince his God betray!
Change his Religion, the Apostate play,
For such a Diadem which must not be
Entail'd upon your Line successively?
The
Jews, the
Turks, who falsly do believe,
Do Laugh to see your Faith pinn'd on your Sle
[...]ve;
And I do fear, you will, as Pride does Swell,
Turn
Atheist next, to be a King in Hell.
Scandal to Princes, scorn of Kings, and shame
To
Christendom, infernal is thy Fame!
A Prince affront his God with Deeds so foul
That they stain Heaven, and deform the Soul!
O horror, and amaze! what hast thou done?
My Blood congeals, and scarce has pow'r to run,
To think thou art to Pride, that base born Slave
Of Hell, so much a Friend, that you can leave
A Church so well Reform'd so True, Sincere,
Pure, Orthodox, and Holy, to adhere
To that Communion which does Canonize
Men for nefurious Impieties;
To make their Peace with God, invoke the Dead
Stanislaus of Polish Saints the head:
But good St.
†
Flacrius, I do suppose,
You call on most, that he may guard your Nose
From those Disasters which attend the sport
Of
Venus, in a lustful Prince's Court.
Into what Errors are the
Papists led!
To think their Jugglers do release the Dead
From
Purgatory; it's a feigned Flame,
Which doth such simple Fools as you are Tame.
As under ev'ry
Poplar, Elm, and
Oak,
The
Ethnicks did their senseless Stocks Invoke;
So they to Images, and
† Pictures bow,
As if they Sense had got their Zeal to know.
Your
Priests drink Wine, give
Laymen only Meat;
O
Romish Faith! it's but a holy Cheat.
Pray, what avails
‖ Wax-hands; Indulgences,
Censers, Odd-numbers (damned Fopperies!)
To'ards Heaven? Or, what Grace doth Flagelling,
Crossing with Holy-water, to you bring?
None: Nor does
Agnus Dei's Sir, preserve
You from Enchantments; from the Truth you swerve.
Your Beads will serve you, as a Scale, to tell
How many Miles it's from
Warsaw, to
Hell.
Apostles Christen'd Men, as Scripture tells,
But
Rome, as well as Men, do Christen Bells.
If Pilgrimaging merits Heaven, take
A Trip to
England, for the Blessing sake.
[Page 6]Here may you see fair
Winifria's strange Well;
And old St.
German's, where he once did dwell;
At
Canterbury base St.
Becket's Shrine,
For the deserved end of which Divine,
A King was Flaug'd; here may you likewise see
Tyburn, that triple, consecrated Tree;
From whence, St.
Coleman, Whitebread, Pickering,
And
Langhorn, went to Heaven in a String.
Since for a better we our King did change,
A Chappel has been (you will think it strange.
'Cause not
Loretto's) brought from
Heunsloe-heath,
Eleven Miles, it's true, upon my Faith.
But if strange Reliques you've a mind to see,
You must tramp
France, proud
Spain, and
Italy,
And other foreign Parts; though once we'd here
A Nail, which fix'd Christ to the Cross; a Spear,
With which
Longinus pierc'd our Saviour's Side,
When he between Two Malefactors Dy'd.
The Lustful Flames of Whoring
Carmelites,
Proud
Cardinals, Rich
Abbots, Lazarites,
May make you dread those endless pains of Fire,
They represent by leacherous Desire;
To prompt their Fury of debauched Heat,
They need not
†
Compostella Scallops eat;
Their Heat without 'em Swells their burning Veins,
And, where their
Host is consecrated, Reigns.
[Page 7]The
Nunneries, where Parents Daughters thrust,
And Maiden-heads are sacrific'd to Lust,
They're to your
Clergy, dedicated
Stews,
There handsome Paramours they pick, and choose;
What need Maids to be Whores range
Christendom,
When they may be as well Debauch'd at home
For nothing; without acting that damn'd Crime
Was Blood upon each murd'ring
Nun to fly,
As Judgments to detect Barbarity,
They could not then about their Gardens tread,
But Vengeance would spurt from the private Dead
In reaking Wrath of stifled Infants, Blood,
To drown their Parents in a crimson Flood.
Perhaps the
Pope's Infallibility
Makes you to be in love with Papistry;
But, knew you all that Hist'ries of 'em tell,
You would not run so fast with them to Hell:
The Lives of
John the Thirteenth,
Hildebrand,
And others, put the Devils to a stand,
For fear their Pride, and grand Impiety,
Should claim o'er Spirits, a Supremacy:
Such as will take from Emperors their Right,
For that Prerogative in Hell will Fight.
But, hark you me: Another Trick they do,
They Make their God, and then they Eat him too.
[Page 8]If Rats, or Mice, should chew this holy Meat,
The Creature then does the Creator Eat;
This Metamorphosis is very odd,
Lo, Bread's made Flesh; a Priest can make his God;
That Wine they can so soon to Blood convert,
Surely it must be done by Magick Art!
What Prodigies of Sin! — These Poys'ners shun,
And, to the healing Balm of
Luther run;
Leave
Poland, and then let the Dyet choose
One purposely bred up his Soul to lose.
Although by Bell, by Book, and Candle, they
Will curse you, if you'll not their Church obey;
Laugh at their slight
Anathema's, and hate
The
Pope, whom God does Excommunicate.
Like our first Martyrs (with immortal Praise
May it be spoken) in
Marian days,
None of our Pastors of the Church of
Rome,
Walking with Crooks, and Mitres, durst presume
To hazard the Salvation of their Souls
On spurious Faith; the fear of Death controuls
Their foolish Doctrine; tells 'em, if they die,
They die great Villains to assert a Lie.
Base Profligate, your Honour Heraldry
May justly paint with black Iniquity;
Yet other Colours may, as Emblems, shew
That many Qualities belong to you.
Gules in the first place may adorn your Arms,
To shew, a bloody Faith your Conscience charms.
[Page 9]Next
Or, to shew you're Impudent and Bold;
Your Heav'n to hazard for a Crown of Gold;
Then
Vert, to signifie, at any time,
Your mind is Fresh, and Brisk, to act a Crime
For Interest; the
Blazon, let it be,
Set out with all the marks of Infamy;
Two
Jesuits, the Supporters; on each Hand,
The Motto,
God and Justice I withstand.
Arouze, ye drouzy Imps, and do not Sleep;
For, if a Register of time you keep
In Hell, now change the
Epocha, and Year,
A New-Style make, as well as
Papists here;
And when
Old-Nick does find such silly Fools,
Who will for Wealth, or Honour sell their Souls,
Much after this same form, And manner, let
The
Bond be Sign'd; and hereunto I set
My Hand and Seal, the first of
June, N. S.—
In the third Year, since
Fredrick's Wickedness
Revolted from a true Belief, which made
Infernal Markets have but little Trade.
Though Hell's Applause you have, yet, when you Die;
Satan will have a very careful Eyë
Over your most perfidious Soul, for fear
Your growing Pride should snatch at Empire there;
He knows, with Oathes, you'd make the Damn'd believe
Strange Matters, and the Wits of Hell deceive,
With sugar'd Words, till your usurping Pride
Had got the Brimstone Forces on your Side;
Then ev'ry Day you'd lessen more and more
His Strength, as you had
Conti's heretofore.
I am afraid in your dull frigid Clime,
There is approaching a distracted Time,
Wherein the Wrath of Heav'n will soon Rejoyce,
To plague you for the Crown, the People's Choice.
But what care you, brave
Champion for the
Pope,
Who dreads no Vengeance, nor for Bliss doth hope?
For one short Moment of Regalian Sway,
High Heav'n you would, though damn'd for't, Disobey.
Were you by th'
Turks Besieg'd, too hardly prest,
For Liberty, or for a Crown at least,
You'd Swear, till Oathes from Hell, did Devils draw,
The
Alcoran were truer than the
Law:
To
Moses you'd prefer his
Mahomet;
(Who, in his pendant Tomb, at
Moecha, yet
Deceives the blinded
Turks) Swear him alone,
Greater than the World's
Saviour on his Throne:
Swear that the
Musselman's true Sanctity,
The unbelieving Christian does Outvy:
A Thousand other Falshoods Swear too, which
Shall raise your Fame in Hell t'a higher Pitch
Than tott'ring
Poland's Throne; whose Steps ascend
To Ruine faithless Princes in the End.
Perhaps, now Crown'd, you think, your Greatness can
Protect you from the common Lot of Man;
Tho' Kings are stiled Gods, yet must they Die,
Their Scepters, Riches, Crowns, nor Dignity,
Cann't save them from the Power of that Fate,
Which will not grant to Life a longer Date:
Nay, had you all Endowments, which adorn
The Mind, or Body, Death such Gifts will Scorn:
[Page 11]The Beauty of Young
Absalom; or Age
Of
Lamech's Son; the Policy of Sage
Achitophel, nor Height of
Saul; the Son
Of
Kish, the Wisdom of King
Solomon;
Or matchless Strength of
Sampson, could not be
Defence enough against Mortality.
I'm apt to think thou'rt wicked
Julian's Ghost,
Who, in the middle of a num'rous Host,
Smitten by God, flung up, towards the Sky,
Handfuls of Blood, to shew he did Defie
The force of Heaven to the last: But now,
Some hurly burly-being rais'd below,
Among the Damned, you have stol'n away
From those dark Shades, into the Beams of Day:
If Man, you must descend of that Fell Wretch,
A Monster whilst on Earth, who was no Sketch,
But perfect Picture of as horrid Crimes,
You count the Glory of the Present Times;
Who would, when dreadful Thunder-claps broke through
The Mounts of Heaven, and swift Lightning flew
About the limpid Air, in proud Disdain,
Throw counterfeited Thunder back again,
To make Resemblance that his Majesty,
Was equal to the Powers of the Sky.
That you might see your Errors all, and fear
The Scourge of God, I wish, there might appear
Comets, extending frightful, blazing Tails,
A Navy which through Clouds of Fire Sails;
Warr'ours in a confused Enmity,
With stranger Apparitions in the Sky,
[Page 12]Which might portend some heavy Punishment
Was due to you, unless you do Repent:
But, ah! I dread, thou'rt too much harden'd in
The Love of Monarchy, thy darling Sin;
Good Counsel you will spurn against, and count
Them all as Foes, who'd have you to dismount
Your Iv'ry Throne; a Bliss, you think, so good,
That God in Competition with you stood
About it, if he should Displeasure shew,
By dire Signs, which from his Anger flew.
Who would, besides your self, have all this Shame,
Only to be a gawdy Thing in Name?
Power you've none; for the Republick Rules
As it thinks fit; Crowns are but lent by
Poles:
Your Queen durst not be there, unless, like you,
She'll head-long damn her Soul, and Body too:
Because a Gentleman, they let you wear
A Sword, but of your drawing it take care;
For, if you offer there to be Uncivil,
They'll drive you, and your
Saxons to the Devil.
Such is your high Ambition, (which would feign,
By grand Rebellion, over Angels Reign)
That Laws of Nations, Bonds, and solemn Leagues,
No Infl'ence have on you, your dark Intrigues
With Hell, in whose behalf you draw your Sword,
Make you, with Kings and Princes, break your Word
Your Pride, with which you meet your Glory, can
Deceitful be to God, as well as Man.
Does
Hell, and
Rome, already stir you up
To fill the ever-thirsting
Harlot's Cup?
[Page 13]With Blood of Innocence, without a Cause,
Damn'd, and be double damn'd your bloody Laws.
Must
Lifeland now be Plunder'd, Ravaged,
Made a Sepulchre for the Massacred?
The Streams of sweet
Duina be Intwin'd
With
Romish Rage, and under Blood Confin'd?
It's hard, but
Riga will, (I do not doubt)
For
Sweden's Honour, hold your Fury out.
If you Dominion over them should have,
Rogues sent to
Gallies, or an
Algier Slave,
Would have less Bondage; so they'll Freedom choose;
Rather than, like the
French, wear Wooden Shoes.
As a
Bassaw, when some Deaf Mute doth blow
The Fatal Trumpet at his Door, and shew
The
Sultan's Ribbon'd Orders, for his Head,
Trembles, wax Pale, and, with the Fright, half Dead,
Resigns his Life, Resistance being vain,
Against the force of a
Despotick Reign;
So to great Taxes, must the
Swedes then bow,
And not presume to ask, why it is so;
Sic volo, & sic jubeo compels,
When Vassals, to obey against their Wills:
Nay, more than this, your Rage will Violate
Those Holy Altars, which they Consecrate
Unto a Sacred Deity, that's true,
And not to Saints, their Fathers never knew.
Have we, like They, a ten Years War maintain'd
With
France, till we that Throne had almost drain'd
Of all it's Wealth, for weeping
Europe's Good,
Made
Flanders Drunk, and Reel with Humane Blood:
[Page 14]At
Ryswick made an Honourable Peace;
And, shall not Wars yet in her Bowels cease?
To please the Humour of your hellish Reign,
Janus must open all his Gates again.
Is this the Thanks which
Caesar has, to bring
To all the Universe Peace-Offering?
Has he, for this, so often cross'd the Main,
(Where
Neptune Homage paid, and all his Train)
To Face the
French, and make the
Eagle fly,
With
Olive, from the Crescent Enemy;
Ventur'd his Life for all, without Excuse;
Fierce
Ireland in Person did Reduce;
Where that Attempt, performed at the
Boyn,
To everlasting Story Fame will joyn:
There in the great Exploit, a Random Shot,
(Which had it's dying Orders near forgot,)
Did Wound the King, but God the Fate withstood,
It being not design'd for Royal Blood:
Vertue and Fortune seemed to contend,
Which of the two should be his greatest Friend;
Angels, amaz'd to see him Baffle Fate,
With Crowns of Lawrel did upon him wait,
To all his Foes, his Presence (like the Soyl,
Which Poys'nous Insects Kills) was Killing; while
The
Hero rush'd through Blood, and Smoke, to Fight,
The Unsuccessful
James did take a Flight,
To tell the News to Him, which doth supply
His wants, more for the Queen's Dexterity
In Bed, than out of Pity to the Fate,
Which has reduc'd him to so mean a State.
Now think but what our KING has undergone,
That
Europe might not be by
France undone;
How He has broke her Chains of Misery,
To set her free, for all Eternity;
Then Thoughts would quickly to your Conscience tell,
To break her Peace deserves the Pains of Hell.
Without a Cause to Gore thy Neighbour's Prince!
All Kings should joyn to punish the Offence.
Deserter of the Faith, what hast thou done?
False
Judas, cruel
Herod, Cain, or none,
Who are tormented in the Flames of Hell,
Did, when they liv'd on Earth, so much Rebel
Against their God as you;
Cain strove to Please
Him, but in vain; a horrid Dread did sieze
The Soul of
Judas, he was sore Dismay'd,
That he (like you) his Master had Betray'd;
And, as for cursed
Herod's Cruelty,
Fear prompt him to secure his Regency:
Thus Murd'rers of a Brother, and the Lord
Of Life, young Infants, wicked Crimes abhorr'd
(Yea, one especially) by all the World,
I can excuse, but on you must be hurl'd
My Wrath. O wicked Runagate, reflect
Upon a future State, do not neglect
That great Concern, return to
Saxony,
And, laying Crowns aside, to Heaven cry,
To make you but the least amongst the Blest▪
Which lean their Heads on faithful
Abra'm's Breast;
But, hold! bid I a
Pilate to Repent,
It is as strange as Flesh to
Rome in
Lent;
[Page 16]For; now you have an earthly Crown, you slight
Your way to God, in hopes a hallow'd Light
Will guide your Steps to Heaven, when you Die,
So, this I Note on your Impiety,
Non-Recantation to the World doth tell,
Your Coronation will be next in Hell.
The Plagues which God and Man can heap on you,
Are but, base Ruler, thy deserved due:
Were there but such an one as
Ravillac
(That would but Laugh at Tortures on the Rack,
So he could wash his Hands in Royal Gore)
To Stab you,
Europe would the Fact adore:
That ev'ry Deed of Murder would prefer
His Noble Soul, to be a Shining Star
Of Heaven; Heaven would the Murd'rer Greet,
Nay, come Half-way, the
Regicide to meet.
FINIS.
These Three following Books, Written by the Author hereof, are Sold by B. Harris, at the Golden-boar's-head in Grace-church-street.
ST. Ignatius's Ghost, appearing to the Jesuits; upon the KING's Signing the Act against the Growth of Popery. A Satyr. Price 6d.
THE Shoe-maker beyond his Last: Or, a Satyr upon Scurrilous Poets, especially Ned W—d, Author of a Poem intituled, a Journey to Hell; or a Visit paid to the Devil. Price 6d.
HELL in an Uproar, occasioned by a scuffle that happened between the Lawyers and the Physicians, for Superiority. A Satyr. Price 6d.