Classic Poem

Satyr I

By hell 'twas bravely done! what less than this?
What sacrifice of meaner worth and price
Could we have offer'd up for our success?
So fare all they, whoe're provoke our hate,
Who by like ways presume to tempt their fate;
Fare each like this bold medling Fool, and be
As well secur'd, as well dispatch'd as he:
Would he were here, yet warm, that we might drain
His reeking gore, and drink up ev'ry vein!
That were a glorious sanction, much like thine,
Great Roman! made upon a like design:
Like thine? we scorn so mean a Sacrament ,
To seal and consecrate our high intent,
We scorn base blood should our great league cement:
Thou didst it with a slave, but we think good
To bind our Treason with a bleeding God.
Would it were His (why should I fear to name,
Or you to hear't?) at which we nobly aim!
Lives yet that hated en'my of our cause?
Lives He our mighty projects to oppose?
Can His weak innocence and Heaven's care
Be thought security from what we dare?
Are you then Jesuits? are you so for nought?
In all the Catholick depths of Treason taught?
In orthodox and solid pois'ning read?
In each profounder art of killing bred?
And can you fail, or bungle in your trade?
Shall one poor life your cowardice upbraid?
Tame dastard slaves! who your profession shame,
And fix disgrace on our great Founder 's name.
Think what late Sect'ries (an ignoble crew,
Not worthy to be rank'd in sin with you)
Inspir'd with lofty wickedness, durst do:
How from his throne they hurl'd a Monarch down,
And doubly eas'd him of both Life and Crown:
They scorn'd in covert their bold act to hide,
In open face of heav'n the work they did,
And brav'd its vengeance, and its pow'rs defied.
This is his Son, and mortal too like him,
Durst you usurp the glory of the crime;
And dare ye not? I know, you scorn to be
By such as they outdone in villany,
Your proper province; true, you urg'd them on,
Were engins in the fact, but they alone
Share all the open credit and renoun.
But hold! I wrong our Church and Cause, which need
No foreign instance, nor what others did:
Think on that matchless Assassin, whose name
We with just pride can make our happy claim;
He, who at killing of an Emperour,
To give his poison stronger force and pow'r
Mix't a God with't, and made it work more sure:
Blest memory! which shall thro' Age to come
Stand sacred in the lists of Hell and Rome .
Let our great Clement , and Ravillac 's name,
Your Spirits to like heights of sin inflame;
Those mighty Souls, who bravely chose to die
T'have each a Royal Ghost, their company:
Heroick Act! and worth their tortures well,
Well worth the suff'ring of a double Hell,
That they felt here, and that below they feel.
And if these cannot move you, as they shou'd,
Let me and my example fire your blood:
Think on my vast attempt, a glorious deed,
Which durst the Fates have suffer'd to succeed,
Had rival'd Hell's most proud exploit and boast,
Ev'n that, which wou'd the King of fates depos'd,
Curst be the day, and ne're in time inrol'd,
And curst the Star, whose spiteful influence rul'd
The luckless Minute, which my project spoil'd:
Curse on that Pow'r , who, of himself afraid,
My glory with my brave design betray'd:
Justly he fear'd, lest I, who strook so high
In guilt, should next blow up his Realm and Sky:
And so I had; at least I would have durst,
And failing, had got off with Fame at worst.
Had you but half my bravery in Sin,
Your work had never thus unfinish'd bin:
Had I bin Man, and the great act to do;
H'ad dy'd by this, and bin what I am now,
Or what His Father is: I would leap Hell
To reach His Life, tho in the midst I fell,
And deeper than before. —
Let rabble Souls of narrow aim and reach
Stoop their vile Necks, and dull Obedience preach:
Let them with Slavish aw (disdain'd by me)
Adore the purple Rag of Majesty,
And think't a sacred Relick of the Sky:
Well may such Fools a base Subjection own,
Vassals to every Ass, that loads a Throne:
Unlike the soul, with which proud I was born,
Who could that sneaking thing a Monarch scorn,
Spurn off a Crown, and set my foot in sport
Upon the head, that wore it, trod in dirt.
But say, what is't, that binds your hands? do's fear
From such a glorious action you deter?
Or is't Religion? but you sure disclaim
That frivolous pretence, that empty name:
Meer bugbare-word, devised by Us to scare
The sensless rout to slavishness and fear,
Ne're known to aw the brave, and those that dare.
Such weak and feeble things may serve for checks
To rein and curb base-mettled Hereticks ;
Dull creatures, whose nice bogling consciences
Startle, or strain at such slight crimes as these;
Such, whom fond inbred honesty befools,
Or that old musty piece the Bible gulls:
That hated Book, the bulwark of our foes,
Whereby they still uphold their tott'ring cause.
Let no such toys mislead you from the road
Of glory, nor infect your Souls with good:
Let never bold incroaching Virtue dare
With her grim holy face to enter there,
No, not in very Dream: have only will
Like Fiends and Me to covet and act ill:
Let true substantial wickedness take place,
Usurp and Reign; let it the very trace
(If any yet be left) of good deface.
If ever qualms of inward cowardice
(The things, which some dull sots call conscience) rise
Make them in steams of Blood and slaughter drown,
Or with new weights of guilt still press 'em down.
Shame, faith, religion, honour, loyalty,
Nature it self, whatever checks there be
To loose and uncontroul'd impiety,
Be all extinct in you; own no remorse
But that you've balk'd a sin, have bin no worse,
Or too much pitty shewn. —
Be diligent in mischief's Trade, be each
Performing as a Dev'l: nor stick to reach
At Crimes most dangerous; where bold despair,
Mad lust and heedless blind revenge would ne're
Ev'n look, march you without a blush, or fear,
Inflam'd by all the hazards, that oppose,
And firm, as burning Martyrs, to your Cause.
Then you're true Jesuits , then you're fit to be
Disciples of great Loyola and Me:
Worthy to undertake, worthy a Plot
Like this, and fit to scourge an Huguenot .
Plagues on that Name! may swift confusion seize,
And utterly blot out the cursed Race:
Thrice damn'd be that Apostate Monk , from whom
Sprung first these Enemies of Us and Rome :
Whose pois'nous Filth dropt from ingendring Brain,
By monstrous Birth did the vile Insects spawn,
Which now infest each Country, and defile
With their o'respreading swarms this goodly Ile.
Once it was ours, and subject to our Yoke,
'Till a late reigning Witch th' Enchantment broke:
It shall again: Hell and I say't: have ye
But courage to make good the Prophesie:
Not Fate it self shall hinder. —
Too sparing was the time, too mild the day,
When our great Mary bore the English sway:
Unqueen-like pity marr'd her Royal Pow'r,
Nor was her Purple dy'd enough in Gore.
Four or five hundred, such-like petty sum
Might fall perhaps a Sacrifice to Rome ,
Scarce worth the naming: had I had the Pow'r,
Or bin thought fit t'have bin her Councellor,
She should have rais'd it to a nobler score.
Big Bonfires should have blaz'd and shone each day,
To tell our Triumphs, and make bright our way:
And when 'twas dark, in every Lane and Street
Thick flaming Hereticks should serve to light
And save the needless Charge of Links by night:
Smithfield should still have kept a constant fire,
Which never should be quench'd, never expire,
But with the lives of all the miscreant rout,
Till the last gasping breath had blown it out.
So Nero did, such was the prudent course
Taken by all his mighty successours,
To tame like Hereticks of old by force:
They scorn'd dull reason and pedantick rules
To conquer and reduce the harden'd Fools:
Racks, gibbets, halters were their arguments,
Which did most undeniably convince:
Grave bearded Lions manag'd the dispute,
And reverend Bears their doctrins did confute:
And all, who would stand out in stiff defence,
They gently claw'd and worried into sence:
Better than all our Sorbon dotards now,
Who would by dint of words our Foes subdue.
This was the riged discipline of old,
Which modern sots for Persecution hold:
Of which dull Annalists in story tell
Strange legends, and huge bulky volumns swell
With Martyr'd Fools, that lost their way to hell.
From these, our Church's glorious Ancestours,
We've learnt our arts and made their methods ours:
Nor have we come behind, the least degree,
In acts of rough and manly cruelty:
Converting faggots and the pow'rful stake
And Sword resistless our Apostles make.
This heretofore Bohemia felt, and thus
Were all the num'rous proselites of Huss
Crush'd with their head: So Waldo 's cursed rout,
And those of Wickliff here were rooted out,
Their names scarce left. Sure were the means, we chose,
And wrought prevailingly: Fire purg'd the dross
Of those foul heresies, and soveraign Steel
Lopt off th'infected limbs the Church to heal.
Renown'd was that French Brave , renown'd his deed,
A deed, for which the day deserves its red
Far more than for a paltry Saint, that died:
How goodly was the Sight! how fine the Show!
When Paris saw through all its Channels flow
The blood of Huguenots ; when the full Sein ,
Swell'd with the flood, its Banks with joy o'reran!
He scorn'd like common Murderers to deal
By parcels and piecemeal; he scorn'd Retail
I'th' Trade of Death: whole Myriads died by th'great,
Soon as one single life; so quick their Fate,
Their very Pray'rs and Wishes came too late.
This a King did: and great and mighty 'twas,
Worthy his high Degree, and Pow'r, and Place,
And worthy our Religion and our Cause:
Unmatch'd 't had bin, had not Macguire arose,
The bold Macguire (who, read in modern Fame,
Can be a Stranger to his Worth and Name?)
Born to outsin a Monarch, born to Reign
In Guilt, and all Competitors disdain:
Dread Memory! whose each mention still can make
Pale Hereticks with trembling Horrour quake.
T'undo a Kingdom, to atchieve a crime
Like his, who would not fall and die like him?
Never had Rome a nobler service done,
Never had Hell; each day came thronging down
Vast shoals of Ghosts, and mine was pleas'd and glad,
And smil'd, when it the brave revenge survey'd.
Nor do I mention these great Instances
For bounds and limits to your wickedness:
Dare you beyond, something out of the road
Of all example, where none yet have trod,
Nor shall hereafter: what mad Catiline
Durst never think, nor's madder Poet feign.
Make the poor baffled Pagan Fool confess,
How much a Christian Crime can conquer his:
How far in gallant mischief overcome,
The old must yield to new and modern Rome .
Mix Ills past, present, future, in one act;
One high, one brave, one great, one glorious Fact,
Which Hell and very I may envy —
Such as a God himself might wish to be
A Complice in the mighty villany
And barter's heaven, and vouchsafe to die.
Nor let Delay (the bane of Enterprize)
Marr yours, or make the great importance miss.
This fact has wak'd your Enemies and their fear;
Let it your vigour too, your haste, and care.
Be swift, and let your deeds forestall intent,
Forestall even wishes ere they can take vent,
Nor give the Fates the leisure to prevent.
Let the full Clouds, which a long time did wrap
Your gath'ring thunder, now with sudden clap
Break out upon your Foes; dash and confound,
And spread avoidless ruine all around.
Let the fir'd City to your Plot give light;
You raz'd it half before, now raze it quite.
Do't more effectually; I'd see it glow
In flames unquenchable as those below.
I'd see the Miscreants with their houses burn,
And all together into ashes turn.
Bend next your fury to the curst Divan,
That damn'd Committee , whom the Fates ordain
Of all our well-laid Plots to be the bane.
Unkennel those State-Foxes, where they ly
Working your speedy fate and destiny.
Lug by the ears the doting Prelates thence,
Dash Heresie together with their Brains
Out of their shatter'd heads. Lop off the Lords
And Commons at one stroke, and let your Swords
Adjourn 'em all to th' other world —
Would I were blest with flesh and bloud again,
But to be Actor in that happy Scene!
Yet thus I will be by, and glut my view;
Revenge shall take its fill, in state I'le go
With captive Ghosts t'attend me down below.
Let these the Handsells of your vengeance be,
Yet stop not here, nor flag in cruelty.
Kill like a Plague or Inquisition ; spare
No Age, Degree, or Sex; onely to wear
A Soul, onely to own a Life, be here
Thought crime enough to lose't: no time nor place
Be Sanctuary from your outrages.
Spare not in Churches kneeling Priests at pray'r,
Though interceding for you, slay ev'n there.
Spare not young Infants smiling at the brest,
Who from relenting Fools their mercy wrest:
Rip teeming Wombs, tear out the hated Brood
From thence, and drown 'em in their Mothers bloud,
Pity not Virgins, nor their tender cries,
Though prostrate at your feet with melting eyes
All drown'd in tears; strike home as 'twere in lust,
And force their begging hands to guide the thrust.
Ravish at th' Altar, kill when you have done,
Make them your Rapes, and Victims too in one.
Nor let gray hoary hairs protection give
To Age, just crawling on the verge of Life:
Snatch from its leaning hands the weak support,
And with it knock't into the grave with sport;
Brain the poor Cripple with his Crutch, then cry,
You've kindly rid him of his misery.
Seal up your ears to mercy, lest their words
Should tempt a pity, ram 'em with your Swords
(Their tongues too) down their throats; let 'em not dare
To mutter for their Souls a gasping pray'r,
But in the utt'rance choak't, and stab it there.
'Twere witty handsom malice (could you do't)
To make 'em die, and make 'em damn'd to boot.
Make Children by one fate with Parents die,
Kill ev'n revenge in next Posterity:
So you'll be pester'd with no Orphans cries,
No childless Mothers curse your memories.
Make Death and Desolation swim in bloud
Throughout the Land, with nought to stop the floud
But slaughter'd Carcasses; till the whole Isle
Become one tomb, become one funeral pile;
Till such vast numbers swell the countless summ,
That the wide Grave and wider Hell want room.
Great was that Tyrants wish, which should be mine,
Did I not scorn the leavings of a sin;
Freely I would bestow't on England now,
That the whole Nation with one neck might grow,
To be slic'd off, and you to give the blow.
What neither Saxon rage could here inflict,
Nor Danes more savage, nor the barbarous Pict ;
What Spain nor Eighty eight could ere devise,
With all its fleet and fraight of cruelties;
What ne're Medina wish'd, much less could dare,
And bloudier Alva would with trembling hear;
What may strike out dire Prodigies of old,
And make their mild and gentler acts untold.
What Heav'ns Judgments, nor the angry Stars,
Forein Invasions, nor Domestick Wars,
Plague, Fire, nor Famine could effect or do;
All this and more be dar'd and done by you.
But why do I with idle talk delay
Your hands, and while they should be acting, stay?
Farewell —
If I may waste a pray'r for your success,
Hell be your aid, and your high projects bless!
May that vile Wretch, if any here there be,
That meanly shrinks from brave Iniquity;
If any here feel pity or remorse,
May he feel all I've bid you act, and worse!
May he by rage of Foes unpitied fall,
And they tread out his hated Soul to Hell.
May's Name and Carcase rot, expos'd alike to be
The everlasting mark of grinning infamy.