But must have Armies rais'd, to back
The Gospel-work you undertake:
As if Artillery, and Edge-tools
Were th' onely Engines to save Souls.
While He, poor Devil, has no pow'r
By force to run down and devour;
Has ne'r a Classis, cannot sentence
To Stools or Poundage of Repentance;
Is ti'd up onely to Design,
T' Intice, and Tempt, and Undermine:
In which you all his Arts out-doe,
And prove your selves his Betters too.
Hence 'tis Possessions doe less evil
Then mere Temptations of the Devil,
Which all the horrid'st Actions done,
Are charg'd in Courts of Law upon;
Because unless you help the Elf,
He can doe little of himself:
And therefore where he's best Possest,
Acts most against his Interest;
Surprises none but those wh' have Priests
To turn him out, and Exorcists,
Supply'd with Spiritual Provision,
And Magazines of Ammunition,
With Crosses, Relicks, Crucifixes,
Beads, Pictures, Rosaries, and Pixes,
The Tools of working out Salvation
By meer Mechanick Operation,
With Holy Water, like a Sluce,
To overflow all Avenues.
But those wh' are utterly unarm'd
T'oppose his Entrance if he storm'd,
He never offers to surprize,
Although his falsest Enemies;
But is content to be their Drudge,
And on their Errands glad to trudge.
For where are all your Forfeitures
Intrusted in safe hands, but ours?
Who are but failours of the Holes
And Dungeons where you clap up Souls;
Like Under-keepers, turn the Keys
T' your Mittimus Anathemaes;
And never boggle to restore
The Members you deliver o're
Upon Demand, with fairer Justice
Then all your Covenanting Trustees:
Unless to punish them the worse,
You put them in the Secular Pow'rs,
And pass their Souls as some demise
The same Estate in Mortgage twice,
When to a Legal Utlegation
You turn your Excommunication,
And for a Groat unpaid that's due,
Distrain on Soul and Body too.
Thought he, 'Tis no mean part of civil
State-Prudence, to cajoul the Devil,
And not to handle him too rough,
When h' has us in his cloven Hoof.
'Tis true, quoth he, that intercourse
Has past between your Friends and ours;
That as you trust us in our way,
To raise your Members, and to lay,
We send you others of our own,
Denounc'd to Hang themselves or Drown,
Or, frighted with our Oratory,
To leap down headlong many a story;
Have us'd all means to propagate
Your mighty interests of State,
Laid out our Spiritual Gifts to further
Your great designs of Rage and Murther.
For if the Saints are nam'd from Blood,
We onel' have made that Title good:
And if it were but in our power,
We should not scruple to doe more,
And not be half a Soul behind
Of all Dissenters of Mankind.
Right, quoth the Voice, and as I scorn
To be ungratefull in return
Of all those kind good Offices,
I'll free you out of this Distress,
And set you down in safety, where,
It is no time to tell you here.
The Cock crows and the Morn draws on,
When 'tis decreed I must be gone:
And if I leave you here till Day,
You'l find it hard to get away.
With that the Spirit grop'd about
To find th' Inchanted Hero out,
And try'd with haste to lift him up;
But found his Forlorn Hope, his Croop,
Unserviceable with Kicks and Blows
Receiv'd from hardned-hearted Foes.
He thought to drag him by the Heels,
Like Gresham Carts, with Legs for Wheels.
But Fear, that soonest cures those Sores,
In danger of Relapse to worse,
Came in t'assist him with its Aid,
And up his sinking Vessel weigh'd.
No sooner was he fit to trudge,
But both made ready to dislodge.
The Spirit hors'd him like a Sack,
Upon the Vehicle, his Back,
And bore him headlong into th' Hall,
With some few Rubs against the Wall.
Where finding out the Postern lock'd,
And th' Avenues as strongly block'd,
H' attack'd the Window, storm'd the Glass,
And in a moment gain'd the Pass,
Through which he dragg'd the worsted Souldiers
Fore-quarters out by th' Head and Shoulders;
And cautiously_began to scout,
To find their Fellow-Cattel out.
Nor was it half a Minute's Quest,
E're he retriev'd the Champion's Beast,
Ty'd to a Pale in stead of Rack,
But ne'r a Saddle on his Back,
Nor Pistols at the Saddle-bow,
Convey'd away the Lord knows how.
He thought it was no time to stay,
And let the Night too steal away,
But in a trice advanc'd the Knight
Upon the Bare Ridge bolt upright.
And groping out for Ralpho's Jade,
He found the Saddle too was straid,
And in the place a Lump of Sope,
On which he speedily leap'd up;
And turning to the Gate the Rein,
He Kick'd and Cudgell'd on amain.
While Hudibras, with equal haste,
On both sides laid about as fast,
And spurr'd as Jockies use, to break,
Or Padders, to secure a Neck.
Where let us leave them for a time,
And to their Churches turn our Rhyme;
To hold forth their declining State,
Which now come near an Even Rate.
SECOND CANTO
Of the Third Part.
The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal Interests;
To share their Sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to Reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm:
Till, in th' Effigie of RUMPS, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.
HE Learned write, An Insect Breeze
Is but a Mungrel Prince of Bees,
That falls, before a Storm, on Cows,
And stings the Founders of his House;
From whose corrupted Flesh that Breed
Of Vermine did at first proceed.
So, e'r the Storm of War broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various Rout,
Of Petulant Capricious Sects,
The Maggots of Corrupted Texts,
That first run all Religion down,
And after every Swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their Mothers got their Sons,
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