The Augustan Reprint Society

JOHN PHILLIPS
A Satyr Against Hypocrites
(1655)

With an Introduction by
Leon Howard

Publication Number 38

Los Angeles
William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
University of California
1953

GENERAL EDITORS

H. Richard Archer, Clark Memorial Library

Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan

Ralph Cohen, University of California, Los Angeles

Vinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles

ASSISTANT EDITOR

W. Earl Britton, University of Michigan

ADVISORY EDITORS

Emmett L. Avery, State College of Washington

Benjamin Boyce, Duke University

Louis Bredvold, University of Michigan

John Butt, King’s College, University of Durham

James L. Clifford, Columbia University

Arthur Friedman, University of Chicago

Edward Niles Hooker, University of California, Los Angeles

Louis A. Landa, Princeton University

Samuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota

Earnest Mossner, University of Texas

James Sutherland, University College, London

H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, Clark Memorial Library

INTRODUCTION

John Phillips’ anonymous poem, A Satyr Against Hypocrites, was entered in the Stationers’ Register on March 14, 1654-55 as the work of his brother Edward and the property of his publisher Nathaniel Brook, and it was probably published on August 17 (David Masson, The Life of John Milton [London, 1877], V, 228n., cites the “Thomason copy” as indicating the date of publication). Actually, two issues appeared in 1655. One gave no indication of the publisher and is reproduced here, as perhaps the rarest, from the copy in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library. The other was “Printed for N.B. at the Angel in Corn-hill.” The 1655 text was reprinted in 1661 as The Religion of the Hypocritical Presbyterians in Meeter, and a revised and enlarged edition appeared in 1671 under the original title. It was this rather than the original version which is known through the summary given by William Godwin (Lives of Edward and John Phillips [London, 1815], pp. 49-51) and quoted by Masson as the most “exact description” possible of the 1655 “performance” (ibid., V, 228). Other editions have been recorded for 1674, 1677, 1680, 1689, and 1710, the last being attributed to the author’s uncle, John Milton. Of these, the editions which I have seen show only minor revisions of the 1671 text. A holograph manuscript, preserved in the Bodleian Library, includes a two-page dedication to the successful barrister John Churchill, but the dedication was apparently never printed.

Neither the unpublished dedication nor the poem itself contains a clear indication of the purpose or the direction of the satire. In pleading her case for John Phillips’ authorship of the anonymous life of Milton, Miss Helen Derbyshire (The Early Lives of Milton [London, 1932], pp. xxii-xxv) has taken issue with the common statement that it marked Phillips’ departure from his uncle’s teachings and has described it as a satire against the Presbyterians from an Independent position with which Milton might well have sympathized. Yet the text hardly supports these contentions. The Sunday service which Phillips burlesques shows no signs of Presbyterian discipline. In fact, sectarianism is almost at its worst in his picture of a congregation crying destruction against Covenant-breakers, making grinning appeals for free grace, and screaming for the Fifth Monarchy in a state of revelation-madness. Furthermore, the Brother Elnathan who makes his appearance at the dinner following the Wednesday service received his name in a Baptist “Ducking-pond” rather than from the customary Presbyterian sprinkling. There may be some significance, too, in the fact that the particularly satiric reference to “the man midwife,” Dr. Peter Chamberlain, was to a noted Independent.

On the other hand, the church specifically identified as the scene of the weekday service was St. Mary’s Aldermanbury, and its minister was the Reverend Edmund Calamy, whose inclinations were Presbyterian and whose personally conducted fastday services were notoriously popular. Although Calamy’s custom of preaching from the desk rather than from the pulpit makes it unlikely that he was the minister satirized in the early part of the poem, he would normally have been identified as the object of Phillips’ most severe and scandalous attack; and the device of having him refer to “the Laud” instead of the Lord may have had reference to the rumors of early conformity which still haunted Calamy despite his service to the Puritan cause as one of the Smectymnuans and a member of the Westminster Assembly of Divines. There is no evidence, however, that Presbyterianism as a particular nonconformist sect stirred Phillips to any special antagonism.

In any case, it seems impossible to represent A Satyr Against Hypocrites seriously as a document of which John Milton would have approved. If he could have tolerated the violation of the Scriptures and the punning obscenity of his nephew’s introduction of the Prophet Habakkuk into the poem, he might have felt a personal offense in the use of such material for an attack upon the church in which he was to register his espousal of the pure-minded Katharine Woodcock. At best, Milton could have considered this first rhymed flowering of his nephew’s satiric humor a pointless piece of scurrility which lacked real wit, coherence, or character. If Phillips did not publish it in open recalcitrance, he published it with less confidence in his uncle’s sympathy than in his blindness and in the decent reluctance of friends to disclose the extent of a young man’s departure from the paths of good instruction.

The republication of A Satyr Against Hypocrites as The Religion of the Hypocritical Presbyterians, in 1661, was no more than an attempt to attract new interest with a title which would appeal to the post-Restoration tendency to condemn the strongest of the Puritan sects. The incongruity between the new title and the old poem, though, seems to have been more evident to the author than to later readers; for in the 1671 edition he introduced a satire on the ceremony of infant baptism which nullified the allusion to the “Ducking-pond” by making the Sunday congregation, at least, clearly Presbyterian. The other major revisions and additions were in the direction of greater licentiousness and more frequent references to “the Laud.” The editions of 1680 and 1689 (which are the only two later versions I have seen) are based upon that of 1671 and contain only such minor changes as might have been made by a printer alert to the possibility of introducing new bawdy implications by the change of an occasional word or letter.

The Bodleian manuscript is an approximate but not a true copy of the version which was first printed. A few lines appear in the published poem which are not to be found in the manuscript, the printed marginal annotations are fewer in number and considerably changed, and there are some differences in the musical notation. Except for an indication that the old Robin mentioned at the beginning of the poem was a particular “fool well known in the city,” however, the manuscript annotations are similar in character to those printed and add little to the comprehensibility of the text. The author’s signed dedication to Churchill shows an inclination (like that revealed in the concluding lines of the published text) to justify his poem as a defense of true religion against the sectaries whose words and actions brought it into contempt; but A Satyr Against Hypocrites appears to have been, in reality, little more than the irresponsible outburst of a young man of twenty-three who was tired of discipline, disappointed in his expectations of political preferment, and angry at the sort of people who had taken over the country but who seemed incapable of appreciating his peculiar merits.

Leon Howard
University of California, Los Angeles

A
SATYR
Against
HYPOCRITES

Juvenal. Sat. 1.

Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.

Juvenal. Sat. 14.

——Velocius & citius nos——

Corrumpunt vitiorum exempla domestica, magnis

Cum subeant animos autoribus.

Printed in the Year, 1655.

A Satyr against Hypocrites.

Tedious have been our Fasts, and long our Prayers;

To keep the Sabbath such have been our cares,

That Cisly durst not milk the gentle Malls,

To the great dammage of my Lord Mayors Fooles,

Which made the greazie Catchpoles sweare and curse

The Holy-day for want o’th’ second course;

And men have lost their Body’s new adorning

Because their cloathes could not come home that morning.

The sins of Parlament have long been bawl’d at,

The vices of the City have been yawl’d at,

Yet no amendment; Certainly, thought I,

This is a Paradox beyond all cry.

Why if you ask the people, very proudly

They answer straight, That they are very godly.

Nor could we lawfully suspect the Priest,

Alas, for he cry’d out, I bring you Christ:

And trul’ he spoke with so much confidence,

That at that time it seem’d a good pretence:

Then where’s the fault? thought I: Well, I must know;

So putting on cleane cuffes, to Church I goe.

Now ’gan the Bells to jangle in the Steeple,

And in a row to Church went all the people.

First came poore Matrons stuck with Lice like Cloves,

Devoutly come to worship their white loaves,

And may be smelt above a German mile.

Well, let them goe to fume the Middle-Ile.

But here’s the sight that doth men good to see’t,

Grave Burghers, with their Posies, Sweet, sweet, sweet,

With their fat Wives. Then comes old Robin too,

Who although write or reade he neither doe,

Yet hath his Testament chain’d to his waste,

And his blind zeale feels out the proofs as fast,

And makes as greasie Dogs-ears as the best.

A new shav’d Cobler follows him, as it hapt,

With his young Cake bread in his cloak close wrapt;

Then panting comes his Wife from t’other end

O’th’ Town to hear Our Father and see a friend;

Then came the shops young Fore-man, ’tis presum’d,

With hair rose water’d, and his gloves perfum’d,

With his blew shoo-strings too, and besides that,

A riband with a sentence in his hat.

The Virgins too, the fair one, and the Gypsie,

Spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ.

And now the silk’n Dames throng in, good store,

And casting up their noses, to th’ pew dore

They come, croud in, for though the pew be full

They must and will have room, I, that they wull;

Streight that she sits not uppermost distast

One takes; ’Tis fine that I must be displac’d

By you, she cries then, Good Mistris Gill Flurt;

Gill Flurt, enrag’d cries t’other, Why ya dirt-

-ie piece of Impudence, ye ill-bred Thief.

I scorn your terms, good Mistris Thimble-mans wife.

Marry come up, cries t’other, pray forbear,

Surely your husband’s but a Scavenger,

Cries t’other then, and what are you I pray?

No Aldermans wife for all you are so gay.

Is it not you that to all Christenings frisk it?

And to save bread, most shamefully steal the bisket,

At which the other mad beyond all law,

Unsheaths her talons, and prepares to claw.

And sure some gorgets had been torn that day,

But that the Readers voice did part the fray.

Now what a wardrobe could I put to view,

The cloak-bag-breeches, and the sleek-stone shoe,

The Gallimafry cloak that looks like nonsense,

Now wide, now narrow, like his Master’s conscience:

The grogram gown of such antiquity,

That Speed could never finde its pedigree;

Fit to be doted on by Antiquary’s,

Who hence may descant in their old Glossary’s,

What kinde of fardingale fair Helen wore,

How wings in fashion came, because wings bore

The Swan-transformed Leda to Jove’s lap,

Our Matrons hoping thence the same good hap;

The pent-house bever, and calves-chaudron ruff,

But of these frantick fashions now enough,

For now there shall no more of them be said,

Lest this my ware-house spoil the French-men’s trade.

And now as if I were that wollen-spinster,

That doth so gravely show you Sarum Minster,

He lead ye round the Church from pew to pew,

And shew you what doth most deserve your view,

There stood the Font, in times of Christianity,

But now ’tis tak’n down, men call it Vanity;

Ingredients that compound a Congregation.

There the Church-Wardens sit, hard by the dore,

But know ye why they sit among the Poor?

Because they love um well for love o’th’ box,

Their money buys good beef, good wine, good smocks.

There sits the Clerk, and there the reverend Reader,

And there’s the Pulpit for the good flock-Feeder,

Who in three lamentable dolefull ditty’s

Unto their marriage-fees sing Nunc dimittis.

Here sits a learned Justice, truly so

Some people say, and some again say no,

And yet methinks in this he seemeth wise

To make Stypone yeild him an excise,

And though on Sundaies, Ale-houses must down,

Yet wisely all the week lets them alone,

For well his Worship knows that Ale-house sins

Maintain himself in gloves, his wife in pins.

There sits the Major, as fat as any bacon

With eating custard, beef, and rumps of capon;

And there his corpulent Brethren sit by,

With faces representing gravity,

Who having money, though they have no wit,

They weare gold-chains, and here in green pews sit.

There sit True-blew the honest Parish-masters,

With Sattin Caps, and Ruffs, and Demi-casters,

And faith that’s all; for they have no rich fansies,

No Poets are, nor Authors of Romances.

There sits a Lady fine, painted by Art,

And there sits curious Mistris Fiddle-cum-fart:

There sits a Chamber-maid upon a Hassock,

Whom th’ Chaplain oft instructs without his Cassock:

One more accustom’d unto Curtain-sins,

Than to her thimble, or to handle pins.

O what a glosse her forehead smooth adorns!

Excelling Phœbe with her silver horns.

It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter,

When one comes neere, fogh gudds, it stinks of butter.

Another tripping comes to her Mistris’s Pew,

Where being arriv’d, she tryes if she can view

Her young mans face, and straight heaves up her coats,

That her sweet-heart may see her true-love knots.

But having sate up late the night before

To let the young-man in at the back-doore,

She feeleth drowzinesse upon her creeping,

Turnes downe one proofe, and then she falls a sleeping.

Then fell her head one way, her book another,

And surely she did dream by what we gather;

Maids beware of sleeping at Church.

For long she had not slept, when a rude flea

Upon her groyn sharply began to prey;

Straight she (twixt sleep and waking) in great ire,

As if sh’ad sitting been by th’ Kitchin fire,

Pulls up her coats with both hands, smock and all,

And with both hands to scratch and scrub doth fall.

Truly the Priest, though some did, saw her not,

For he was praying and his eyes were shut.

Alas had he seen as much as a by-stander,

Much more from’s Text it would have made him wander.

That’s call’d the Gallery, which (as you may see)

Was trimm’d and gilt in the yeare Fifty three.

Twas a zealous work, and done by two Church-wardens,

Who for mis-reckoning hope to have their Pardons.

There Will writes Short-hand with a pen of brasse,

Hang it.

Oh how he’s wonder’d at by many an asse

That see him shake so fast his wartie fist,

As if he’d write the Sermon ’fore the Priest

Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one)

Doe but as this man does, I’de give a crowne.

Up goes another hand, up goe his eyes,

And he, Gifts, Industrie, and Talents cryes.

Thus are they plac’d at length: a tedious work.

And now a bellowing noise went round the Kirk,

From the low Font, up to the Golden Creed.

(O happy they who now no eares doe need!)

While these cough up their morning flegme, and those

Doe trumpet forth the snivel of their nose;

Straight then the Clerk began with potsheard voice

To grope a tune, singing with wofull noise,

Like a crackt Sans-bell jarring in the Steeple,

Tom Sternholds wretched Prick-song to the people:

Who soon as he hath pac’d the first line through,

Up steps Chuck-farthing then, and he reads too:

This is the womans boy that sits i’th’ Porch

Till th’ Sexton comes, and brings her stoole to Church.

Then out the people yaule an hundred parts,

Some roare, some whine, some creak like wheels of Carts,

Such Notes that Gamut never yet did know,

Nor numerous keys of Harpsicalls in a row

Their Heights and Depths could ever comprehend,

Now below double Ae some descend.

’Bove Ela squealing now ten notes some flie;

Straight then as if they knew they were too high,

With head-long haste downe staires againe they tumble;

Discords and Concords O how thick they jumble!

Like untam’d horses tearing with their throats

One wretched stave into an hundred notes.

Some lazie-throated fellowes thus did baule,

Robert Wisdome’s delight.

They a i hin a moy a meat uh ga have

a ha me uh a ha a gall a.

And some out-run their words and thus they say,

Too cruell for to think a hum a haw.

Now what a whetstone was it to devotion

To see the pace, the looks, and every motion

O’th Sunday Levite when up stairs he march’t,

And first beheld his little band stiff-starcht,

Two caps he had, and turns up that within,

You’d think he wore a black pot tipt with tin,

His cuffs asham’d peept only out at ’s wrist

For they saw whiter gloves upon his fist,

Out comes his kerchief then which he unfolds

As gravely as his Text, and fast he holds,

In’s wrath-denouncing hand; then mark when he pray’d

How he rear’d his reverend whites, and softly said

A long most Murcifull, or O Al——

Then out he whines the rest like a sad ditty,

In a most dolefull recitative style,

His buttocks keeping Crotchet-time the while;

And as he slubbers ore his tedious story

Makes it his chiefest aime his chiefest glory,

T’ excell the City Dames in speaking fine,

O for the drippings of an old Sir loyne,

Instead of Aron’s ointment for his face,

When he cries out for greace instead of grace.

Up stept another then, how sowre his face is!

How grim he lookt, for he was one oth’ Classis,

And here he cries, Blood, blood, blood, destroy, O Lord!

The Covenant-breaker with a two-edg’d sword.

Now comes another, of another strain,

And he of law and bondage doth complain:

Then shewing his broad teeth, and grinning wide,

Aloud, Free grace, free grace, free grace, he cry’d.

Up went a Chaplain then, fixing his eye

Devoutly on his Patron’s gallery,

Who as duty bindes him, cause he eats their pyes,

God blesse my good Lord and my Lady, cryes,

And’s hopefull Issue. Then with count’nance sad,

Up steps a man, stark revelation-mad,

And he, Cause us thy Saints, for thy dear sake,

That We a bustle in the World may make,

Thy enemies now rage, and by and by

He tears his throat for the fifth Monarchy.

Another mounts his chin, East, West, North, South,

Gaping to catch a blessing in his mouth,

And saying, Lord! We dare not ope our eyes

Before thee, winks for fear of telling lies.

Mean while the vulgar frie sit still, admiring

Practice of Piety.

Their pious sentences, as all inspiring;

At every period they sigh and grone,

Though he speak sometimes sense, and sometimes none:

Their zeal doth never let them minde that matter,

It is enough to hear the Magpye chatter;

They croud, they thrust, are crouded, and are thrusted,

Their pews seem pasties, wherein they incrusted,

Together bake and frie; O patience great!

Yet they endure, though almost drown’d in sweat,

Whose steaming vapours prove most singular

To stew hard doctrines in, and to prepare

Them, lest they should breed some ugly disease

Being tak’n raw in queasie consciences.

But further mark their great humility,

Their tender love and mutual charity,