The Character of a Libertine
Zealot.
To describe him right, is a task like that of the Taylor who took measure of the Devil; for there is nothing more like him upon Earth then he: He is lined with Covetousness, and covered with Hypocrisie, the Root and Cloak of all evil. Although at this time he carries a Bible, yet upon occasion he wears a Sword; so that it is hard to say, whether he be of the Tribe of Simeon or Levi. He swallows contrary Oaths faster then the Eagles in the Tower do gobbets of flesh; for the way to Hell, and the Conscience of a Libertine, are two broad things. He condemns the lawful Rites and Ceremonies of the Church; and is more ravished with the squeaking of a Tythe-pig, then with the Musick of Organs.
He appears at his Preachment (like Æsops Crow) in a dress of borrowed feathers; for he preaches the works of other men, which are so much the worse for the coming out of his mouth, as Wares for being of the second hand. But it would grieve your heart to see how he racks the ancient Fathers, when he makes his own confession, and mangles the Modern Divines more barbarously then the Hang-man did the body of Hugh Peters; I am sure poor Priscian gets many a broken head.
His Eloquence consists altogether in rayling, as though he had got his education at Billinsgate. In his discourse he runs on like a Mad-dog, foaming and open-mouth’d, yelping at the Reverend Bishops; and even accounts many of his own Brethren, the Sectaries, as mad as himself. Yet sometimes he perceives that his stuff is too short for the hour-Glass; and then the wheels of his Rhetorick move very heavily: he then spends much time in humming and spitting; and with the wiping of his Nose, makes many a filthy Parenthesis.
As for his Text, he handles that as Moses did his Rod when it was turned into a Serpent, he lays it down, and runs away from it: yet his Sermon lies all written before him; for the poor Copy-holder in Divinity can do nothing without his Notes. This his weakness, he would have you think, is his worth; for he chargeth men of abler parts with presumption: Yet when he prays, he shuts his Eyes, preferring Nonsense and Tautologies before the Divine Lyturgy. Vain Wretch, that dares not speak to men without Papers, and yet presumes to talk to God extempore! As for his Congregation, he Saints or reprobates them, according to what they give him; and like a Gypsie, tells good Fortune to none but those that cross his hand with a piece of silver; and by him, as well as by the Pope, you may be Canonized for mony: Thus he is a meer Balaam, that blesseth and curseth for reward: he that opposeth him, acts the part of an Angel; but he that submits to him is worse then an Ass. If you consider his constancy, he is a kind of Religious Proteus, that is now ready to fawn upon that Power against which he hath so long bark’d. If therefore there be a Church in England which consists of men, surely, The Orthodox, faithful, constant Ministers, are the Doors, Windows, Pillars, Bells and Candlesticks; and the rest serve only for Weathercocks.
It is confessed, that at the beginning of this happy Reformation, he was a little stubborn: perhaps, expecting a second War; but now (poor heart) he hath learned to pray for his Majesty: but (if you could hear the language of his Soul) it is so, as impatient heirs pray for their rich fathers. There are two sorts of men, who having escaped a deserved pair of Gallows, pray for the King very strangely, that is, a Felon, whilst the Executioner burns his hand; and a Traytor, whilst the Devil sears his Conscience.
If you would know his name, you may finde it subscrib’d to an ugly Petition; for where Bradshaw was a Pilate that condemned, he was one of those Jews that cry’d Crucifie. He professes sorrow for the Martyrdom of our late Soveraign; but believe him not, for his hand helped to hale him to the Block. In a word, he is (at best) but a State-Crocodile, and one that is Maudlin-drunk with the Kings blood.
No more, but if you chance to meet with a Hue and Cry, you may tell them, that he was lately in a Sequestred Parsonage.