Marvels ghost being the true copy of a letter sent to the A.b. of C. upon his suddain sickness, at the Prince of Orange's first arrival into London.

Marvels Ghost : Being the true Copy of a Letter sent to the A. B. of C. upon his suddain Sickness 〈…〉 Prince of Orange first Arrival into London . The Archbishops of Canterbury have put the Kings of this Land to much Sorrow , and Trouble , for which the Kings have used the more Care and Circumspection to have such Archbishops 〈…〉 that See , as ei●her should stand with them , or at least should not be against them . Fox . Acts and Monuments , Vol. 1. p. 214. The APOLOGY . WHen Men of God will do the Devil's Work , And frame New Prayers for Lewis , and the Turk . In drunken Clubs Religiously Combine , To make the lost Mack-Ninny's Right Divine : And the whole Town with Sham Distinctions ring Of a de jure and de facto King , And prate of Duty till they 're lost the thing . When those whose Business 't is to Preach up Peace , Labour to make our Discontents increase : Foment Divisions , and new Storms create : Defame the King and undermine the State , Which wou'd , were they but hang'd , be fortunate . What Indignation can be thought severe ? How can a true-born English Muse forbear To lash their Folly , and Correct their Vice , And teach the People whence their Plagues arise ? How innocent and good soe're they seem , The Source of all our Mischiefs lies in Them . From them , as from Pandora's Box they fly : 't is their corrupted Breath pollutes our Northern Sky . Therefore , my Lord , you justly can't accuse This modest Sally of a backward Muse , Which had been damn'd to Silence , and forgot , If you had not reviv'd it with your Plot . 't was writ to Consolate your Sickness then ; If you had mended , this had ne're been seen . But since you every Day grow worse and worse , And still Resolve to be the Nation's Curse . I also am Resolv'd to let you know , Here 's one as Stubborn and as bold as you . The GHOST . HOW just is then the Tribute of our Eyes ? When Vertue Languishes , and Goodness Dies , When holy Prelacy from Court withdrawn , Lies sick at Lambeth in a Shrowd of Lawn ! Who fearing now Compliance with the Prince , Shou'd better Men to equal Power advance , With-holds his Hand , and in the very nick The humorous Prelate willingly falls Sick . On what small Props a Church-man's health depends ! Draw but one Pin and the whole Fabrick bends ; Touch but their Wealth , their Power , or their Place , They 'll Snuff , and Snort , and Curse you to your Face . Has there a Mischief in the World been done , E're since the odious Name of B — known , In which a Clergy-man has not been One ! Have there been private Murders , publick Wars , Dividing Schisms or Intestine Jars , Reproaches , Scandals , Goals , Fines , Bloody Laws , Of which they have not been the chiefest Cause ! Great Constantine how basely hast thou stain'd , Those Glorious Laurels that they Conquests gain'd ! Untainted Honour with bright Lustre spread It self in shining circles round thy Head , Which might have shone till now , belov'd , rever'd , In the same Tomb had B — been interr'd With lesser Villains : but nice Goodness spar'd Those Foes that shou'd have the same ruin shar'd . Those Sanctimonious Robbers that did more Infest the Church than Heathen Priests before : They with professed Malice Blood did spill : These Pray , and Smile , and Flatter when they kill . They did their Open Enemies annoy : These kiss the Friends they Murder and Destroy . By these oprest the mournful Church implor'd The tardy Vengeance of thy backward Sword . Had this been done , had thy Imperial Frown But smote those haughty Mitred Monarchs down : Myriads of Blessings shou'd they Reign adorn , Paid by past Ages , this , and those unborn . Tell me , ye doating Bigots who Revere These Raree Shows o' th' Church and Pageants here ; Like Tinsel Mortals on a Gewgaw Stall , Fram'd for meer show and of no use at all . Tell me in sober seriousness , unvext , What Holiness is to their Cowl annext : What hidden Vertue in their Office lies , Unseen by Men of common Sense and Eyes ! Did e're a Bishoprick a Man advance , Above the the Rest in Honour , Truth , and Sence ! Or did a fat Advowson ever make A Man preach better and more labour take ? They talk'd indeed in very Loyal strain To praise the King did God himself prophane , But sure we ne're shall hear of that again . Born to themselves , themselves alone they please , Steep 't in the Sweets of Luxury and Ease : The Land they Canton and Divide the Spoil , And Drain the Moisture of our Wealthy Isle . For Pulpit-work let those who can do that They 're all too Dull , too Feeble , or too Fat . Are these the Men that hope to Govern now ? To whom our Church and State again must bow ? Have we then but the Blessed Prospect seen Of dawning Peace , with a vast Gulph between ? Like Men Condemn'd on flattering hopes born high To fall with greater Ruin from the Sky ! Good God forbid thy Church shou'd e're be sway'd By those again that have thy Truth betray'd : Who lately such a fatal Instance gave What precious care they 'd of Religion have , That durst adore a Fool and Trust a Knave . Shou'd it be thus how wou'd our Isle complain , And beg to have our Wandring King again ? Intreat the worst his incens'd Rage can do , The less important Mischief of the two : Which is the Cruel'st Beast will then be known . An English Prelate or a French Dragoon . From hence , my Lord , you may with ease foreknow What Epitaphs we shall on such bestow : When such depart , ( when will just Heaven think fit To strike and do an injur'd Nation right ! ) The most Obdurate Muse will strain a Verse , And Bathe with Tears , of joy , each Bishops Herse . FINIS .