Classic Poem

PROLOGUE.

For who can longer hold? when every Press,
The Bar and Pulpit too has broke the peace?
When every scribling Fool at the alarms
Has drawn his Pen, and rises up in Arms?
And not a dull Pretender of the Town,
But vents his gall in pamphlet up and down?
When all with license rail, and who will not,
Must be almost suspected of the PLOT ,
And bring his Zeal, or else, his parts in doubt?
In vain our Preaching Tribe attack the Foes,
In vain their weak Artillery oppose:
Mistaken honest Men who gravely blame,
And hope that gentle Doctrine should reclaim.
Are Texts and such exploded trifles fit
T'impose and sham upon a Jesuit?
Would they the dull Old Fisher-men compare
With might suarez and great Escobar?
Such threadbare proofs and stale Authorities
May Us poer simple Hereticks suffice:
But to a sear'd Ignatian's conscience,
Harde'd, as his own Face, with Impudence,
Whose faith is contradiction-bore, whom lies,
Nor nonsence, nor impossibilities,
Nor shame, nor death, nor damning can assail;
Not these mild fruitless methods will avail.
'Tis pointed Satyr and the sharps of wit
For such a prize are th' only weapons fit:
Nor needs there art or genious here to use,
Where indignation can create a muse:
Should Parts and Nature fail, yet very spite
Would make the arrant'st Wild , or Withers write.
It is resolv'd: henceforth an endless War,
I and my Muse with them and theirs declare;
Whom neither open malice of the Foes,
Nor private daggers, nor Saint Omer's dose,
Nor all that Godfrey felt, or Monarchs fear,
Shall from my vow'd and sworn revenge deter.
Sooner shall false Court favourites prove just
And faithful to their King's and Country's trust:
Sooner shall they detect the tricks of State,
And knav'ry suits and bribes and flatt'ry hate:
Bawds shall turn Nuns, Salt D — — s grow chast,
And paint and pride and lechery detest:
Popes shall for Kings supremacy decide,
And Cardinals for Huguenots be tried:
Sooner (which is the great'st impossible)
Shall the vile brood of Loyola and Hell
Give o're to Plot, be villains, and rebel;
Than I with utmost spite and vengeance cease
To prosecute and plague their cursed race.
The rage of Poets damn'd, of Women's Pride
Contemn'd and scorn'd, or proffer'd lust denied:
The malice of religious angry Zeal,
And all cashier'd resenting statesmen feel:
What prompts dire Hags in their own blood to write,
And sell their very souls to Hell for spite:
All this urge on my rank envenom'd spleen,
And with keen Satyr edge my stabbing Pen:
That its each home-set thrust their blood may draw,
Each drop of Ink like Aquafortie gnaw.
Red hot with vengeance thus, I'll brand disgrace
So deep, no time shall e're the marks deface:
Till my severe and exemplary doom
Spread wider than their guilt, till it become
More dreaded than the Bar, and frighten worse
Than damning Popes Anathema's and curse.