THE TRUE PRESBYTERIAN WITHOUT DISGUISE: OR, A CHARACTER OF A PRESBYTERIANS ways and ACTIONS, in Verse.  
Difficile est Satyram non scribere, namquis iniquae  
Tam patience urbis tam ferreus, ut teneat se?  Juv. 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1661.   

The True Presbyterian without Disguise: Or, a Character of a Presbyterians ways and Actions.  

A Presbyter is such a Monstrous thing  
That loves Democrasy, and hates a King.  
For Royal Issue never making prayers,  
Since kingdoms( as he thinks) should have no Heirs  
But stand Elective; that the holy Crew  
May( when their zeal transports them) choose a new.  
And is so strongly grounded in belief,  
That Antichrist his coming will be brief,  
As he dares swear( if he dares swear at all)  
The Quakers are ordained to make him fall;  
From whence he grows impatient, and he says,  
The Wisest Counsels are but fond delays  
To hold him lingering in deluding hope,  
Else long ere this he had subdued the Pope.   

A Presbyter is he, whose heart doth hate  
The man( how good so e're) advanced in State;  
And finding his disease a leprosy,  
Doth judge that all in Court Gehesies be,  
Whilst he himself in bribery is lost,  
And lies for gain unto the Holy-Ghost.  
When though in show he seems a grave Tobias,  
He is within a very Annanias.  
The Lay-Profane-Name( Lord) he hates and says  
It is th' approaching sign of the last days  
For Church-Men to be styled so; nay more,  
'Tis Usher to the babylonian Whore.  
The Bishops Habits, with the Tip and Rochets  
Beget in him such fancies and such crotchets,  
That he believes it is a thing as Evil  
To look on them, as to behold the Devil.  
And for the Government Episcopal,  
That he condemns to be the worst of all;  
Because the primest times did suffer no man  
T' exalt himself, for all was held in common;  
Yet 'tis most strange, when he is most Zeal-sick  
Nothing can cure him but a bishopric,  
Where once invested, proves without all scope  
Insulting boundless, more than any Pope.   

A Presbyter is he, that's never known  
To think on others good besides his own;  
And all his Doctrine is of Hope, and Faith,  
For Charity, 'tis Popery he saith;  
And is not only silent in good works,  
But in his practise too, resembles Turks.  
The Churches Ornaments, the Ring of Bells,  
( Can he get Power) 'tis ten to one he sells,  
For his well tuned ears cannot abide  
A Jangling noise, but when his Neighbours chide.   

A Presbyter is he, that never prays,  
But all the world must hear him what he says,  
And in that fash'on too, that all may see,  
He is an open Modern Pharisee;  
The name of Sabbath still he keeps( 'tis true)  
But so he is less Christian, more a Jew,  
Nor settled form of prayer his zeal will keep,  
But preacheth all his purer flock a sleep,  
To study what to say, were for to doubt  
Of a presumed grace to hold him out,  
And to be learned, is too too human thought,  
Th' Apostles all( he says) were men untaught,  
And thus he proves it for the best to be  
A simple-Teacher of Divinity.  
The Reverence which Ceremony brings,  
Into the Sacred Church, his Conscience stings,  
Which is so voided of grace, and so ill bent  
That kneel he will not at the Sacrament,  
But sits more like a Judge, than like a Sinner,  
And takes it just, as he receives his dinner:  
Thus do his saucy postures speak his Sin,  
For as without, such is his Heart within.   

A Presbyter is he, who doth defame  
Those Reverend Ancestors from whence he came,  
And like a graceless Child, above all other  
Denies respect, unto the Church his Mother,  
His cousin Protestants he scorns, as men  
Not saved, because they are not Brethren:  
And lest his Doctrine should be counted new,  
He wears an ancient beard to make it true.   

A Presbyter is he, that thinks his place  
At every table is to say the Grace;  
When the good-man, or when his child hath paid,  
And thanks to God for King, and Realm, hath said,  
He then starts up, and thinks his self a debtor  
Till he doth cry( I pray thank God better)  
When long he prays for every living thing,  
But for the catholic Church, and for the King.   

A Presbyter is he, would wondrous fain  
Be called Disciple by the hole train.  
Which to be worthy of he'l stray and err  
Ten miles to hear a silenced Minister;  
He loves a Vesper Sermon, hates a mattin  
As he detests the Fathers named in latin,  
And as he Friday, Sunday makes in diet,  
Because the King, and Cannons do deny it,  
The self-same nature makes him to repair  
To Week-day Lectures, more than Sundays prayer.  
And as the man, must need's in all things err,  
He starves his person, crams his Lecturer.   

A Presbyter is he, whose heart is bent  
To cross the Kings designs in Parliament,  
Where whilst the place of burgess he doth bear,  
He thinks he owes but small Allegiance there;  
But stands at distance, as some higher thing,  
Like a Licurgus, or a kind of King.  
Then as an errand times, bold Knights were wont  
To seek out Monsters, and adventures hunt;  
So with his wit, and valor, he doth try  
How the Prerogative he may defy;  
Thus he attempts, and first he fain would know  
If that the sovereign Power, be new, or no:  
Or if it were not fitter, Kings should be  
confined unto a limited degree;  
And for his part likes a Plebean State,  
Where the poor mechanics may still debate  
All matters at their pleasures, not confined  
To this, or that, but as they cause do find;  
When though that every voice against him go,  
He'l slay the Giant, with his single( no.)  
He in his heart, though at a poor expense,  
Abhors a gift that's called Benevolence;  
For as his mind, so is his bounty bent,  
And still unto the King malevolent.  
He is the States-man, just enough precise,  
The nearest Government to scandalise.  
Not like a Drunkard, when he doth expose  
In secret underneath the silent Rose.  
To use his freedom, when the Pot might bear  
The faults which closely he committeth there,  
But Shimei-like, to all the men he meets,  
He spews his frantic venom in the Streets:  
And though he says the Spirit moves him to it,  
The Devil is that Spirit made him do it.   

A Presbyter is he,( else there is none)  
Thinks the King will change Religion,  
His doubtful thought, like to his Moon-blind eyes,  
Makes the beast start at every shape he spies.  
And what his fond mistaken fancy breed,  
He doth believe as firmly as the Creed:  
From whence he doth proclaim a Fast to all  
That he allows to be canonical;  
And then he consecrates a secret Room,  
Where none but the Elected Sisters come:  
When being met, doth Treason boldly Teach,  
And will not Fast and Pray, but Fast and Preach;  
Then strains a Text, whereon he may relate  
The churches danger, discontent of State,  
And hold them there so long in fear and doubt,  
That some do think 'tis danger to go out;  
Believing if they hear the ceiling crack,  
The Bishops are behind them, at their back;  
And so they sit bewailing one another,  
Each groaning Sister howling to her Brother,   

A Presbyter is he has Womans fears,  
And yet will set the whole world by the ears:  
he'l rail in public if the King deny,  
To let the Quarrel of the Spaniard die;  
He storms to hear in France the Wars should cease,  
And that by Treaty there should be a Peace:  
For sure( saith he) the Church doth Honour want,  
When 'tis not truly called Militant,  
And in plain truth, as far as I can find,  
He bears the self-same Treasonable mind  
As doth the Jesuit, for though they be  
Tongue-Enemies in show, their hearts agree.  
And both professed foes, alike consent  
Both to betray the Anointed Innocent,  
For though their manners differ, yet they aim  
That either may the King or Kingdom maim:  
The difference is this way understood,  
One in Sedition, t'other deals in blood.  
Their Characters abridged if you will have,  
Each seems a Saint, yet either proves a Knave.   
FINIS.