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perfect Renown be put upon that Helmet of Salvation, wherewith the Lord, Mighty in Battle, seemeth to cover the head of your Majesty. For, we believe shortly, that, all tumults being appeased in France, the glistering Ensign of Lewis the Conqueror shall shine to the captive Daughter of Sion, rehearsing the French trophies, and beholding the brightness of your lightning lance. God, who performeth the desire of them that fear him, prosper our desires, and the prayers of the Catholic Church! Our Nuntio, who was an eye-witness of your princely glory in your tents, will be a faithful interpreter of our Pontifical gratulation to your Majesty, on whom we most lovingly bestow our Apostolical benediction.
Given at Rome, at St. Mary the Greater, under the Seal of the Fisher, the eight and twentieth day of November, in the year of our Lord 1628, and the sixth year of our Pontificate.
AMICO MIHI PLURIMUM COLENDO,
DOMO. GILBERTO PRIMEROSIO,
S. THEOL. PROFESSORI, ECCLESIÆ GALLICÆ LONDINENSIS PASTORI, REGIÆ MAJESTATI A SACRIS.
MONSTRABAT mihi, modò, Tourvalus noster, gente Gallus, Epistolam, Latino idiomate typis editam, Urbani Papæ ; pro more, tumidam et sanguinolentam; Ludovico, Galliarum Regi, pridem datam: in quâ, ubi bonus Pontifex Io Pæan canorè cecinisset Rupellensi victoriæ, regi simul ac genti abundè gratulatus, descendit illico, satis inclementer, ad sævum illud Пaîe, ẞáλλe; et Hæreticorum in Galliâ stabulantium profligationem acriter urget et impellit. Continere manum non potui, quin me subitò in chartas darem. Arripio calamum: responsionem non meditor, sed effundo. Quicquid est, habe, Vir Venerande, et lege; et, vel igni trade, vel luci. Vale,
TO MY MUCH RESPECTED FRIEND,
MR. DOCTOR PRIMROSE,
PASTOR OF THE FRENCH CHURCH IN LONDON, AND CHAPLAIN TO HIS MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.
OUR Friend Mr. Tourvall, a Frenchman, showed me, erewhile, a Latin printed Epistle of Pope Urban; written, as their manner is, in a swelling and bloody style; and lately sent to Lewis, the French King: wherein, after the good Pope had loudly chaunted forth a Song of Triumph for his Majesty's victory over Rochelle, abundantly congratulating both the king and nation, he thence proceeds, in most barbarous manner, to that bloody word, IIaîe, Báλλe, "Smite, cast down;" earnestly βάλλε, urging and enforcing the utter extirpation of all the Heretics, as he calls them, stabling in France. When I had read it, I could not contain myself, but must suddenly vent mine indignation in these few lines. I take up pen in hand, therefore: and do not meditate, but pour forth this answer. Such as it is, receive it, Reverend Sir, and peruse it; and, at your discretion, give it either light or fire. Farewell,
From your Friend
URBANO VIII. PONTIFICI ROMANO,
SANAM MENTEM ET CHARITATEM.
QUIDNI verò Pontificem Maximum compellare ausit Minimus Episcoporum? Non peto veniam; nec opus est: priscâ utor licentiâ. Non ita nimium distabat, olim, ab Eugubio Roma; aut Isca meus à Tiberi.
Audi, modò, Pontifex Urbane, quod brevi pro tremendo Christi Tribunali pallidus exaudies. Pastorem Christiani Gregis parùm decent hæ sanguineæ lituræ. Tune, ut ad arma, tristis præco, conclames? Tune, ut Christianos Principes, nimio quàm plenos cruoris, ad profligationem suorum cladémque horrendam acriter instiges? Ideone tibi creditæ Claves, ut ferratas belli portas eburneásque Ditis inferni aperires? Euge, Petri Umbra, numquid hi tibi Malchi videntur, quibus, dum aures præcidere voluisti, levi errore in guttura incidisti? Aut nunquid de quadrupedibus hisce in Galliâ stabulantibus dictum tibi pridem coelitùs, "Occide et manduca?" Tune, pacifice Rector Ecclesiæ, ut coruscantes galeas, hastas, gladios loquaris? Qualem verò sonum edere potuisset Lupa tui Romuli, si ista Petri caulam non dedeceat truculenta vox?
Conspue quantum lubet, et comminge cineres infelicis Rupellæ, et diffla superbo spiritu conculcatissimum miserrimæ urbis pulverem: recognosce, interim, paululùm, quàm non multa transierunt secula, ex quo, hæreditarium Ludovici, jam tui, sceptrum Romæ portas confregerit, comminuerit mænia, cives dissipârit, præcessorémque tuum, sannis dirísque onustum, cæco carcere mulctârit.
Sed neque tot deinceps excurrent anni, nisi me præsaga fu
TO POPE URBAN THE EIGHTH,
JOSEPH, BISHOP OF EXETER,
WISHETH RIGHT WITS AND CHARITY.
WHY may not the meanest Bishop be bold to expostulate with a Pope? I crave no leave; neither need I: I take our ancient liberty. I wis, there was no such distance, of old, betwixt Rome and Eugubium; or between my Ex and the channel of Tiber.
Hear now, therefore, Pope Urban, that which ere long thou shalt hear with horror and confusion of face before that dreadful Tribunal of Christ. These bloody blots of thine little beseem the Shepherd of a Christian Flock. What, is it for thee, like a grim herald, to give the summons to war? Is it for thee, to excite Christian Princes, already too much gorged with blood, to the profligation and fearful slaughter of their own subjects? Were the Keys for this cause committed to thy charge, that thou shouldest open the iron gates of war and the pale gates of death? Tell me, thou Shadow of St. Peter, didst thou take these French Protestants for Malchus, whose ears while thou wouldst have cut off, thy sword, by a light mistake, glanced upon their throats? Or was it lately voiced to thee from heaven, concerning these wretched animals stabling in France, "Arise, Pope Urban, kill and eat?" Art thou the Pilot of the Church's peace, and talkest of nothing but glittering helmets, swords and spears, instruments of war and bloodshed? What noise could the howling of the She-Wolf of thy Romulus have made, if this direful note of thine become the Bell-wether of St. Peter's fold?
Well, since thou wilt bespaul, bedribble the ashes of unhappy Rochel, and scatter with thy disdainful breath the despised dust of that forlorn city: yet, withal, call to mind a little, how not many ages are past, since the time was, that the hereditary sceptre of this, thy now, Lewis broke open the gates of Rome, demolished the walls, dispersed and slew the inhabitants, and shut up thy great predecessor, laden with bitter scoffs and execrations, in his blind dungeon.
Neither shall many years run on again, unless my presaging