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           1683
        
      
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         A57500
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         ESTC R16454
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             Rome rhym'd to death being a collection of choice poems, in two parts / written by the E. of R., Dr. Wild, and others of the best modern wits.
             Rochester, John Wilmot, Earl of, 1647-1680.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           [4], 130 p.
           
             Printed for John How ...,
             London :
             1683.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
           Anti-Catholicism -- England -- Poetry.
        
      
    
     
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               ROME
               RHYM'D
               TO
               DEATH
               .
               Being
               a
               Collection
               OF
               CHOICE
               POEMS
               :
               In
               two
               parts
               .
            
             
               Written
               by
               the
               E.
               of
               R.
               Dr.
               Wild
               ,
               and
               others
               of
               the
               best
               Modern
               Wits
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Iohn
                 How
              
               ,
               at
               the
               
                 Seven
                 Stars
              
               ,
               at
               the
               South-West
               corner
               of
               the
               
                 Royal
                 Exchange
              
               ,
               in
               Cornhill
               .
               1683.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 
                   ROME
                   RHYM'D
                   to
                   DEATH
                
              
            
             
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               ROME
               Rhym'd
               to
               Death
               ,
               &c.
               
            
             
               An
               Exclamation
               against
               POPERY
               :
            
             
               By
               Dr.
               WILD
               .
            
             
               PLot
               on
               proud
               Rome
               !
               and
               lay
               thy
               damn'd
               Design
            
             
               As
               low
               as
               Hell
               ,
               we
               'll
               find
               a
               Countermine
               :
            
             
               Wrack
               thy
               curst
               Parts
               !
               and
               when
               thy
               utmost
               Skill
            
             
               Has
               prov'd
               unable
               to
               effect
               thy
               Will
               ;
            
             
               Call
               thy
               black
               Emissaries
               ,
               let
               'em
               go
            
             
               To
               summon
               Traytors
               from
               the
               Shades
               below
               ,
            
             
               Where
               
                 Infant
                 Treason
              
               dates
               its
               Monstrous
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               Is
               nurst
               with
               Care
               ,
               and
               after
               sent
               on
               Earth
               :
            
             
               To
               some
               curst
               Monks
               ,
               or
               wandring
               Iesuits
               Cell
               ;
            
             
               Where
               it
               thrives
               faster
               than
               it
               did
               in
               Hell
               !
            
             
               Call
               bloody
               Brutus
               up
               ,
               Lean
               Cassius
               too
               ;
            
             
               Let
               Faux
               and
               Catesby
               both
               ,
               be
               of
               the
               Crew
               !
               —
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               rather
               than
               want
               Help
               ,
               let
               your
               BVLLS
               run
               ,
            
             
               And
               Damn
               the
               Devil
               ,
               if
               he
               do
               not
               come
               !
            
             
             
               Yet
               after
               all
               your
               Plots
               ,
               and
               Hatchings
               ,
               we
            
             
               (
               So
               long
               as
               CHARLES
               and
               's
               Senators
               agree
               )
            
             
               Will
               warm
               our
               Hands
               at
               Bone-fires
               ,
               Bells
               shall
               Ring
               ;
            
             
               And
               Traytor
               's
               Knells
               no
               longer
               Toll
               ,
               but
               Sing
               .
            
             
               We
               doubt
               not
               Rome
               ,
               but
               Maugre
               all
               thy
               Skill
               ,
            
             
               The
               Glorious
               GOD
               of
               our
               Religion
               will
               ,
            
             
               In
               spite
               of
               all
               thy
               Art
               ,
               preserve
               It
               still
               !
            
             
               And
               his
               peculiar
               Care
               of
               It
               to
               shew
               ,
            
             
               Defend
               in
               Health
               ,
               It
               s
               Great
               DEFENDER
               too
               !
            
             
               I'
               th'
               Interim
               ,
               Do
               thou
               new
               Crimes
               invent
               ,
            
             
               And
               we
               'll
               Contrive
               as
               subtil
               Punishment
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               Autumn
               now
               with
               us
               ;
               and
               every
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Instead
               of
               Fruit
               ,
               may
               bend
               with
               Popery
               .
            
             
               `
               T
               would
               be
               a
               Novel
               ,
               tho
               no
               hated
               Sight
               ,
            
             
               If
               every
               Bough
               should
               bear
               a
               Iesuite
               !
            
             
               We
               'll
               meet
               your
               Plots
               with
               Pikes
               ,
               Daggers
               ,
               with
               Swords
               ;
            
             
               And
               stead
               of
               long
               Cravats
               ,
               we
               'll
               lend
               you
               Cords
               .
            
             
               Each
               Stab
               in
               Private
               ,
               we
               'll
               with
               Use
               return
               :
            
             
               And
               whilst
               one
               Hangs
               ,
               the
               other
               he
               shall
               Burn
               ;
            
             
               Till
               
               Tybourn's
               long-impoverish'd
               Squire
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Gay
               as
               the
               Idol
               ,
               fills
               the
               Porph'ry
               Chair
               .
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               Mighty
               CHARLES
               at
               thy
               Command
               we
               'll
               run
            
             
               Through
               Seas
               of
               Rebels
               Blood
               ,
               to
               save
               thy
               Crown
               .
            
             
               Our
               Wives
               ,
               Estates
               ,
               and
               Children
               too
               ,
               shall
               be
            
             
               But
               Whetstones
               to
               our
               Swords
               ,
               when
               drawn
               for
               thee
               .
            
             
               We
               'll
               Hack
               ,
               and
               Slash
               ,
               and
               Shoot
               ,
               till
               Rome
               Condoles
               ;
            
             
               And
               Hell
               it self
               is
               cloy'd
               with
               
                 Traytors
                 Souls
              
               :
            
             
               'Till
               
               Godfrey's
               wronged
               Ghost
               (
               which
               still
               does
               call
            
             
               For
               Shoals
               of
               Rebels
               to
               attend
               his
               Fall
               ;
               )
            
             
             
               Cries
               out
               ,
               Dear
               Protestants
               ,
               
                 no
                 more
                 pursue
              
            
             
               Their
               Guilty
               Blood
               ,
               my
               Manes
               have
               their
               Due
               !
            
             
               This
               ,
               Mighty
               Monarch
               !
               at
               thy
               Beck
               or
               Nod
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               be
               effected
               ,
               as
               Thou
               wer
               't
               a
               God
               ;
            
             
               With
               so
               much
               Readiness
               ,
               thy
               Royal
               Tongue
            
             
               Shall
               hardly
               Speak
               ,
               c're
               we
               revenge
               the
               Wrong
            
             
               On
               thy
               curst
               Enemies
               ;
               who
               whilst
               they
               state
            
             
               Thy
               Death
               ,
               shall
               feel
               themselves
               th'
               intended
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               And
               by
               a
               quick
               Reverse
               ,
               be
               forc'd
               to
               try
            
             
               The
               
                 Dire
                 Effects
              
               of
               their
               own
               Treachery
               .
            
             
               Poor
               
                 Scarlet
                 Harlot
              
               ,
               couldst
               thou
               stand
               in
               want
            
             
               Of
               a
               Genteel
               ,
               and
               Generous
               Gallant
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               
                 Noble
                 Soul
              
               to
               Baseness
               could
               not
               yield
               ;
            
             
               But
               wou'd
               ha●e
               try'd
               thy
               Int'rest
               in
               the
               Field
               ,
            
             
               We
               had
               not
               thus
               thy
               Policies
               condemn'd
               ;
            
             
               But
               thought
               Thee
               worthy
               of
               a
               Foe
               ,
               or
               Friend
               :
            
             
               Both
               which
               ,
               with
               equal
               Estimate
               thou
               l't
               find
               ,
            
             
               Were
               always
               valu'd
               by
               an
               
                 English
                 Mind
              
               .
            
             
               But
               Thou
               of
               late
               ,
               so
               Treacherous
               do'st
               grow
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               should
               blush
               ,
               to
               own
               thee
               either
               now
               .
            
             
               Base
               ,
               and
               Perfidious
               too
               ,
               thou
               do'st
               appear
               ;
            
             
               Sland'rest
               a
               Pope
               ,
               and
               spoyl'st
               an
               Emperor
               .
            
             
               What!
               is
               the
               Eagle
               from
               the
               Mitre
               flown
               ?
            
             
               Is
               there
               of
               Caesar
               nothing
               left
               in
               Rome
               ?
            
             
               Must
               that
               Renowned
               City
               ,
               here-to-fore
            
             
               Fam'd
               for
               her
               Vertues
               ,
               well
               as
               for
               her
               Pow'r
               ;
            
             
               Instead
               of
               Consuls
               ,
               Vagabonds
               employ
               ?
            
             
               And
               suborn
               Felons
               ,
               MONARCHS
               to
               destroy
               ?
            
             
               Bribe
               Men
               (
               thro'
               Want
               made
               boldly
               Desperate
               )
            
             
               To
               Fire-ball
               Cities
               ,
               to
               their
               Grov'ling
               Fate
               ;
            
             
             
               Whilst
               Hellish-Iesuits
               Porters
               Garbs
               profane
               ;
            
             
               Assist
               the
               Fire
               ,
               and
               Bless
               the
               growing
               Flame
               !
            
             
               Must
               
               Rome's
               Great
               Pope
               ,
               whose
               Piety
               should
               run
            
             
               As
               an
               Example
               ,
               thro'
               all
               Christendom
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Signal
               Vertues
               ,
               Arguments
               should
               be
            
             
               Of
               his
               Admir'd
               Infallability
               ?
            
             
               Does
               he
               hire
               Ruffains
               ,
               Iustices
               to
               Kill
               ;
            
             
               And
               send
               the
               Murd'res
               Pardons
               at
               his
               Will
               ?
            
             
               Bids
               them
               in
               Hereticks
               Blood
               their
               hands
               embrue
               ;
            
             
               Tells
               them
               withal
               't
               is
               Meritorious
               too
               !
               —
            
             
               If
               this
               thy
               Practice
               be
               ,
               false
               Rome
               Fare-well
               !
               —
            
             
               Go
               ,
               Teach
               thy
               Doctrine
               to
               the
               Damn'd
               in
               Hell
               !
            
             
               Where
               ,
               by
               Black
               
               Lucifer's
               Destructive
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               may'st
               in
               part
               thy
               future
               Fate
               decide
               :
            
             
               Whil'st
               from
               our
               City
               we
               thy
               Imps
               remove
               ,
            
             
               To
               shake
               their
               Heels
               in
               some
               cold
               Field
               or
               Grove
               .
            
             
               Since
               both
               by
               Ours
               ,
               and
               all
               Mens
               just
               Esteem
               .
            
             
               They
               're
               fitter
               to
               Converse
               with
               Beasts
               than
               Men.
               
            
          
           
             
               A
               New
               Song
               on
               the
               Hellish
               Popish
               Plot
               ;
               Sung
               by
               BELZEBUB
               ,
               at
               a
               Merry-meeting
               of
               the
               Devils
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 COme
                 Brother
                 Devils
                 ,
                 with
                 full
                 Bowls
              
               
                 Let
                 us
                 refresh
                 our
                 thirsty
                 Souls
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 there
                 be
                 joy
                 in
                 Heaven
                 when
                 men
                 repent
                 ;
              
               
                 Why
                 should
                 not
                 we
              
               
                 As
                 merry
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 thousands
                 to
                 our
                 Regions
                 are
                 sent
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 first
                 let
                 's
                 give
                 unto
                 
                   Christ's
                   Vicar
                
              
               
                 The
                 Supremacy
                 o'
                 th'
                 Liquor
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 drink
                 his
                 health
                 ,
                 and
                 may
                 his
                 Kingdoms
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 farther
                 he
              
               
                 Extends
                 his
                 See
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 larger
                 our
                 Dominions
                 are
                 below
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Of
                 Heaven
                 and
                 Hell
                 Popes
                 have
                 the
                 Keys
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 damn
                 or
                 save
                 whom
                 e'r
                 they
                 please
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 sign
                 they
                 are
                 our
                 friends
                 ,
                 if
                 this
                 be
                 true
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 send
                 to
                 th'
                 Skies
              
               
                 Their
                 Enemie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 in
                 here
                 only
                 their
                 Popish
                 crue
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Next
                 to
                 our
                 Friends
                 the
                 
                   Priests
                   of
                   Mass
                
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Bumper
                 round
                 about
                 shall
                 pass
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 many
                 Proselyte●
                 to
                 Hell
                 they
                 win
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 we
                 trepan
              
               
                 In
                 tempting
                 Man.
              
               
                 By
                 helping
                 to
                 Indulgencies
                 for
                 sin
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Before
                 the
                 day
                 of
                 doom
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 Devils
                 must
                 be
                 bound
                 and
                 laid
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 the
                 Popish-Priests
                 on
                 earth
                 may
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 from
                 tempting
                 wee
              
               
                 May
                 well
                 be
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 'l
                 do
                 more
                 harm
                 than
                 all
                 the
                 arts
                 of
                 Hell.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 after
                 death
                 these
                 Saints
                 are
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Divine
                 honour
                 to
                 them
                 's
                 paid
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 them
                 for
                 help
                 the
                 common
                 people
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 Oramus
                 vos
                 ,
              
               
                 Servate
                 nos
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 in
                 these
                 flames
                 they
                 here
                 tormented
                 lye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 the
                 name
                 of
                 Saints
                 they
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 their
                 Church
                 have
                 felt
                 the
                 pain
              
               
                 Of
                 transitory
                 earthly
                 fires
                 ;
                 then
                 sure
              
               
                 Much
                 more
                 that
                 name
              
               
                 The
                 Priests
                 may
                 claim
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 their
                 Church
                 eternal
                 flames
                 endure
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Oft
                 have
                 I
                 try'd
                 the
                 British-Land
              
               
                 To
                 re-inslave
                 to
                 Romes
                 command
              
               
                 If
                 in
                 that
                 lesser
                 World
                 I
                 had
                 my
                 hopes
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 sing
                 
                   Old
                   Rose
                
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fuddle
                 my
                 Nose
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Universe
                 should
                 quickly
                 be
                 the
                 Popes
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Early
                 and
                 late
                 what
                 pains
                 I
                 take
              
               
                 For
                 th'
                 Catholick
                 Religion
                 's
                 sake
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 they
                 but
                 know
                 ,
                 me
                 too
                 they
                 'd
                 Canonize
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Cloven-foot
              
               
                 And
                 Horns
                 they
                 'd
                 put
              
               
                 Among
                 those
                 Reliques
                 that
                 they
                 highest
                 prize
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 First
                 to
                 conspire
                 ,
                 
                   Guy
                   Faux
                
                 I
                 mov'd
              
               
                 Though
                 Fatal
                 to
                 himself
                 it
                 prov'd
                 .
              
               
                 After
                 that
                 upwards
                 to
                 the
                 firmament
              
               
                 It
                 could
                 not
                 rent
              
               
                 The
                 Parliament
                 ,
              
               
                 Him
                 downwards
                 to
                 this
                 place
                 the
                 Powder
                 sent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XI
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 this
                 time
                 to
                 kill
                 the
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Popery
                 again
                 to
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Many
                 I
                 've
                 tempted
                 ;
                 if
                 i'
                 th'
                 first
                 they
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Counterplot
              
               
                 Still
                 they
                 have
                 got
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 hope
                 their
                 next
                 Attempt
                 may
                 yet
                 prevail
              
            
             
               
                 XII
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 French
                 are
                 ready
                 to
                 send
                 o're
              
               
                 Their
                 Armies
                 to
                 the
                 Brittish-shore
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 set
                 fresh
                 forces
                 on
                 the
                 English
                 ground
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 again
              
               
                 Perswaded
                 Spain
                 ,
              
               
                 Although
                 in
                 eighty-eight
                 their
                 strength
                 it
                 found
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIII
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 English
                 Papists
                 too
                 I
                 'le
                 Arm
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 they
                 shall
                 rise
                 at
                 the
                 Allarm
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 blow
                 these
                 forces
                 shall
                 together
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Charles
                 they
                 kill
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 my
                 will
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Protestants
                 they
                 shall
                 combine
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XIV
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 do
                 I
                 long
                 to
                 see
                 that
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Bibles
                 shall
                 be
                 took
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Popish
                 Legends
                 in
                 their
                 places
                 laid
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 Beads
                 motion
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 devotion
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 an
                 unknown
                 tongue
                 Prayers
                 shall
                 be
                 said
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XV.
                 
              
               
                 With
                 joy
                 I
                 think
                 upon
                 the
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Whoring
                 shall
                 be
                 thought
                 no
                 crime
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 Monks
                 and
                 Fryers
                 ev'ry
                 place
                 shall
                 store
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 Marriage
                 all
              
               
                 A
                 sin
                 shall
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Images
                 for
                 God
                 they
                 shall
                 adore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XVI
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 by
                 their
                 own
                 Accomplices
              
               
                 I
                 hear
                 that
                 all
                 detected
                 is
                 .
              
               
                 Th'
                 impeached
                 Traitors
                 into
                 Goal
                 are
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Arms
                 are
                 found
              
               
                 Hid
                 under
                 ground
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 their
                 Letters
                 to
                 the
                 King
                 are
                 known
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XVII
                 .
              
               
                 Th'
                 unwelcom
                 news
                 by
                 Staley
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 hansel'd
                 Tyburn
                 for
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 his
                 own
                 hand
                 ,
                 had
                 he
                 been
                 longer
                 lived
              
               
                 In
                 open
                 day
              
               
                 The
                 King
                 to
                 slay
                 ,
              
               
                 
                 Raviliae-like
                 ,
                 he
                 says
                 he
                 had
                 contrived
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 XVIII
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 that
                 these
                 puny
                 Rogues
                 I
                 'd
                 got
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 did
                 relent
                 and
                 spoil
                 the
                 Plot
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 it
                 were
                 possible
                 ,
                 more
                 cruelty
              
               
                 I
                 would
                 Invent
              
               
                 Them
                 to
                 torment
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 e're
                 was
                 exercis'd
                 on
                 Godfery
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIX
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 we
                 can't
                 come
                 at
                 these
                 men
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 's
                 swinge
                 the
                 rest
                 for
                 trusting
                 them
                 .
              
               
                 Each
                 of
                 you
                 take
                 his
                 tort'ring
                 instrument
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Hangmans
                 Noose
              
               
                 When
                 Life
                 they
                 lose
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Conspirators
                 our
                 spleen
                 wee
                 'l
                 vent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XX.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 mean
                 while
                 't
                 is
                 best
                 I
                 think
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 an
                 end
                 of
                 all
                 our
                 drink
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 when
                 they
                 're
                 come
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 the
                 height
                 of
                 pain
              
               
                 Their
                 Teeth
                 they
                 gnash
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Throats
                 would
                 wash
                 ,
              
               
                 Nothing
                 to
                 cool
                 their
                 Tongues
                 may
                 here
                 remain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               Burning
               of
               several
               Cart-loads
               of
               Popish
               Books
               ,
               at
               the
               Royal
               Exchange
               .
            
             
               WElcome
               
                 blest
                 day
              
               ,
               that
               happily
               didst
               save
            
             
               Our
               Church
               and
               Nation
               from
               a
               threatned
               Grave
               :
            
             
               A
               day
               !
               must
               never
               Marks
               of
               Hononr
               want
               ,
            
             
             
               Whilst
               there
               survives
               one
               grateful
               Protestant
               ;
            
             
               But
               in
               our
               Callender
               shall
               stand
               inrol'd
            
             
               Through
               every
               Age
               ,
               with
               Characters
               of
               Gold.
            
             
               As
               once
               proud
               Haman
               ,
               with
               a
               curs'd
               Decree
               ,
            
             
               Had
               sign'd
               God's
               Peoples
               general
               Destinie
               ,
            
             
               So
               cruel
               Factors
               now
               of
               Hell
               and
               Rome
               ,
            
             
               Resovl'd
               on
               
               England's
               universal
               Doom
               :
            
             
               But
               Heaven's
               
                 bright
                 Eye
              
               Revea'ld
               the
               Hellish
               Plot
               ,
            
             
               Which
               had
               it
               prosper'd
               boldly
               might
               have
               shot
            
             
               At
               the
               Celestial
               Throne
               ,
               put
               out
               the
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               the
               world
               back
               to
               its
               Chaos
               run
               ,
            
             
               Though
               deep
               as
               Hell
               they
               laid
               the
               black
               Designe
               ,
            
             
               Fate
               blasts
               their
               Projects
               with
               a
               Countermine
               :
            
             
               And
               then
               the
               desperate
               Vndertakers
               be
            
             
               Like
               Haman
               ,
               sentenc'd
               to
               the
               fatal
               Tree
               :
            
             
               Thus
               Pharaoh
               perish'd
               ,
               Israel
               scap'd
               free
               .
            
             
               And
               shall
               
                 such
                 Mercies
              
               ever
               be
               forgot
               ?
            
             
               No
               ,
               no
               —
               Were
               we
               so
               thankless
               ,
               they
               would
               not
            
             
               Permit
               it
               ;
               whose
               
                 new
                 Treasons
              
               still
               we
               see
            
             
               Revive
               their
               
                 Old
                 ones
              
               to
               our
               Memorie
               .
            
             
               The
               Cockatrice
               on
               the
               same
               Eggs
               doth
               brood
               ;
            
             
               Rebellion's
               Venom
               is
               their
               natural
               food
               .
            
             
               
               Rome's
               Founder
               by
               a
               Wolf
               ,
               (
               't
               is
               said
               )
               was
               nurs'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               his
               
                 Brother's
                 blood
              
               her
               walls
               at
               first
            
             
               He
               cemented
               :
               whence
               ever
               since
               we
               finde
            
             
               Her
               Off-spring
               of
               a
               
                 Ravenous
                 ,
                 Bloody
              
               Kinde
               .
            
             
               Long
               since
               with
               
                 temporal
                 arms
              
               and
               flags
               unfurl●d
            
             
               She
               Tyranny
               o're
               Conquer'd
               Nations
               hurl'd
            
             
               And
               now
               with
               
                 spiritual
                 thraldom
                 grasps
                 the
              
               world
               .
            
             
             
               Sooner
               the
               
                 Aethiop
                 may
                 blanch
              
               his
               skin
               ,
            
             
               And
               Devils
               cease
               from
               tempting
               men
               to
               sin
               ;
            
             
               Sooner
               shall
               darkness
               dwell
               in
               the
               Suns
               beams
            
             
               And
               Tybur
               mix
               with
               our
               Thames
               Purer
               Streams
               ,
            
             
               Than
               the
               slie
               Iesuit
               his
               old
               arts
               will
               leave
               ,
            
             
               Or
               cursed
               nets
               of
               Treasoncease
               to
               weave
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               behold
               !
               methinks
               a
               gallant
               Sight
               .
            
             
               Doctrines
               of
               Darkness
               yonder
               brought
               to
               Light
               :
            
             
               Boone-fires
               in
               Earnest
               !
               where
               
                 Rome's
                 Pamphlets
              
               fry
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Popish
                 Authors
              
               pass
               their
               Purgat'ry
               .
            
             
               Unto
               the
               Fire
               their
               Books
               most
               justly
               came
               ,
            
             
               Which
               first
               were
               wrote
               to
               set
               us
               in
               a
               Flame
               .
            
             
               As
               in
               the
               Air
               the
               burning
               Papers
               flew
               ,
            
             
               We
               might
               in
               Emblem
               that
               Religion
               view
               ,
            
             
               Which
               makes
               a
               while
               a
               glorious
               glittering
               Blaze
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               gay
               Pomp
               inviteth
               fools
               to
               gaze
               ;
            
             
               Pretends
               directly
               towards
               heaven
               to
               fly
            
             
               On
               whings
               of
               flaming
               Love
               and
               Charity
               :
            
             
               But
               waite
               a
               while
               ,
               approach
               a
               little
               nigher
            
             
               Its
               Glory
               fades
               ,
               grows
               faint
               ,
               and
               does
               Expire
               .
            
             
               What
               at
               first
               view
               appear'd
               so
               warm
               and
               bright
               ,
            
             
               Like
               painted
               Fires
               ,
               yields
               niether
               Heat
               ,
               nor
               Light
               ,
            
             
               But
               Grose
               and
               Earthly
               down
               it
               comes
               again
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               its
               Blackness
               ,
               where
               't
               doth
               touch
               doth
               stain
               .
            
             
               Was
               it
               for
               this
               the
               Monk
               in
               his
               dark
               Cell
               ,
            
             
               With
               nitrous
               Earth
               ,
               and
               Brimstone
               stoln
               from
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               First
               compos'd
               Gun-powder
               ,
               that
               it
               might
               be
            
             
               The
               future
               Engine
               of
               their
               Butchery
               ?
            
             
               At
               one
               sad
               stroak
               to
               Massacre
               a
               Land
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               them
               fall
               ,
               whom
               Heaven
               ordain'd
               to
               stand
               ?
            
             
             
               Or
               could
               the
               bold
               ,
               but
               silly
               Traytors
               hope
               ,
            
             
               
                 Great
                 Britain
              
               e're
               would
               Truckle
               to
               the
               Pope
               ?
            
             
               Erect
               and
               Lofty
               still
               her
               Genius
               stands
               ,
            
             
               And
               defies
               all
               their
               Heads
               ,
               and
               all
               their
               Hands
               .
            
             
               Nor
               shall
               their
               Strength
               or
               Policy
               ,
               e're
               reach
            
             
               Our
               ruine
               ,
               if
               our
               Crimes
               op'e
               not
               the
               Breach
               :
            
             
               Still
               we
               are
               safe
               ,
               till
               our
               Transgression
               merits
            
             
               The
               dreadful
               Reformation
               from
               such
               Spirits
               .
            
             
               They
               dig
               in
               vain
               ,
               nor
               need
               our
               Nation
               fear
            
             
               Dark-Lanthorns
               ,
               whilst
               God's
               Candlesticks
               are
               here
               .
            
             
               "
               The
               Purple-Whore
               may
               lay
               her
               Mantle
               by
               ,
            
             
               "
               Until
               our
               Sins
               are
               of
               a
               Scarlet-dye
               .
            
             
               Lord
               !
               may
               they
               never
               to
               that
               Bulk
               proceed
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               fester
               so
               within
               ,
               that
               we
               should
               need
            
             
               
                 Italian
                 Horse-leeches
              
               to
               make
               us
               bleed
               .
            
             
               May
               Reviv'd
               London
               never
               more
               become
            
             
               The
               
                 Priests
                 Burnt-Offering
              
               to
               Insulting
               Rome
               .
            
             
               With
               
                 Guarding
                 Mercies
              
               still
               our
               Soveraign
               tender
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               thou
               His
               ,
               as
               He
               's
               thy
               
                 Faiths
                 Defender
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Catholick
               Ballad
               :
               Or
               an
               Invitation
               to
               Popery
               .
            
             
               To
               the
               Tune
               of
               88.
               
            
             
               SInce
               Pop'ry
               of
               late
               is
               so
               much
               in
               debate
               ,
            
             
               And
               great
               strivings
               have
               been
               to
               restore
               it
               ,
            
             
               I
               cannot
               forbear
               openly
               to
               declare
               ,
            
             
               That
               the
               Ballad-makers
               are
               for
               it
               .
            
             
               We
               'l
               dispute
               no
               more
               then
               ,
               these
               
                 Heretical
                 men
              
            
             
               Have
               exposed
               our
               Books
               unto
               laughter
               ,
            
             
             
               So
               that
               many
               do
               say
               ,
               't
               will
               be
               the
               best
               way
            
             
               To
               sing
               for
               the
               Cause
               hereafter
               .
            
             
               O
               the
               
                 Catholick
                 Cause
              
               !
               now
               assist
               me
               my
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               How
               earnestly
               do
               I
               desire
               thee
               !
            
             
               Neither
               will
               I
               pray
               to
               St.
               Bridget
               to
               day
               ,
            
             
               But
               only
               to
               thee
               to
               inspire
               me
               .
            
             
               Whence
               should
               Purity
               come
               ,
               but
               from
               Catholick
               Rome
               ?
            
             
               I
               wonder
               much
               at
               your
               folly
               ?
            
             
               For
               Saint
               Peter
               was
               there
               ,
               and
               left
               an
               old
               Chair
               ,
            
             
               Enough
               to
               make
               all
               the
               World
               holy
               .
            
             
               For
               this
               Sacred
               old
               Wood
               is
               so
               excellent
               good
               ,
            
             
               If
               our
               Doctors
               may
               be
               believed
               ,
            
             
               That
               whoever
               sits
               there
               needs
               never
               more
               fear
            
             
               The
               danger
               of
               being
               deceived
               .
            
             
               If
               the
               Devil
               himself
               should
               (
               God
               bless
               us
               )
               get
               up
            
             
               Though
               his
               Nature
               we
               know
               to
               be
               evil
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               whilst
               he
               sat
               there
               ,
               as
               divers
               will
               swear
               ,
            
             
               He
               would
               be
               an
               infallible
               Devil
               .
            
             
               Now
               who
               sits
               in
               this
               Seat
               ,
               but
               our
               Father
               the
               Pope
               ?
            
             
               Which
               is
               a
               plain
               demonstration
               ,
            
             
               As
               clear
               as
               Noon-day
               ,
               we
               are
               in
               the
               right
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               others
               are
               doom'd
               to
               damnation
               .
            
             
               If
               this
               will
               not
               suffice
               ,
               yet
               to
               open
               your
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Which
               are
               blinded
               with
               bad
               Education
               ;
            
             
               We
               have
               Arguments
               plenty
               ,
               and
               Miracles
               twenty
               ,
            
             
               Enow
               to
               convince
               a
               whole
               Nation
               .
            
             
               If
               you
               give
               but
               good
               heed
               ,
               you
               shall
               see
               the
               Host
               bleed
               ,
            
             
               Aud
               if
               any
               thing
               can
               perswade
               ye
               ,
            
             
               An
               Image
               shall
               speak
               ,
               or
               at
               least
               it
               shall
               squeak
            
             
               In
               the
               Honour
               of
               our
               Lady
               .
            
             
             
               You
               shall
               see
               without
               doubt
               the
               Devil
               cast
               out
               ,
            
             
               As
               of
               old
               by
               
                 Erra
                 Pater
              
               ;
            
             
               He
               shall
               skip
               about
               and
               tear
               like
               a
               dancing
               Bear
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               feels
               the
               Holy
               Water
               .
            
             
               If
               yet
               doubtful
               you
               are
               ,
               we
               have
               Relicks
               most
               rare
               ,
            
             
               We
               can
               shew
               you
               the
               Sacred
               Manger
               ;
            
             
               Several
               loads
               of
               the
               Cross
               as
               good
               as
               ere
               was
            
             
               To
               preserve
               your
               Souls
               from
               danger
               .
            
             
               Should
               I
               tell
               you
               of
               all
               ,
               it
               would
               move
               a
               stone-wall
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               spare
               you
               a
               little
               for
               pity
               ,
            
             
               That
               each
               one
               may
               prepare
               ,
               and
               rub
               up
               his
               ear
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               second
               part
               of
               my
               Ditty
               .
            
             
               Now
               listen
               again
               to
               those
               things
               that
               remain
               ,
            
             
               They
               are
               matters
               of
               weight
               ,
               I
               assure
               you
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               first
               thing
               I
               say
               ,
               throw
               your
               Bibles
               away
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               impossible
               else
               for
               to
               cure
               you
               .
            
             
               O
               that
               pestilent
               Book
               !
               never
               on
               it
               more
               look
               ,
            
             
               I
               wish
               I
               could
               sing
               it
               out
               louder
               :
            
             
               It
               has
               done
               men
               more
               harm
               ,
               I
               dare
               boldly
               affirm
            
             
               Than
               th'
               Invention
               of
               Guns
               &
               Powder
               .
            
             
               As
               for
               matters
               of
               Faith
               ,
               believe
               what
               the
               Church
               saith
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               Scripture
               ,
               leave
               that
               to
               the
               Learned
               ;
            
             
               For
               these
               are
               edge-tools
               ,
               &
               you
               Laymen
               are
               fools
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               touch
               them
               you
               are
               sure
               to
               be
               harmed
               .
            
             
               But
               pray
               what
               is
               it
               for
               ,
               that
               you
               make
               all
               this
               stir
               ?
            
             
               You
               must
               read
               ,
               you
               must
               hear
               ,
               and
               be
               learned
               :
            
             
               If
               you
               'l
               be
               on
               our
               part
               ,
               we
               will
               teach
               you
               an
               Art
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               need
               not
               be
               so
               much
               concerned
               .
            
             
               Be
               the
               Churches
               good
               Son
               ,
               and
               your
               work
               is
               half
               done
               ,
            
             
               After
               that
               you
               may
               do
               your
               own
               pleasure
               :
            
             
             
               If
               your
               Beads
               you
               can
               tell
               ,
               and
               say
               
                 Ave
                 Mary
              
               well
               ,
            
             
               Never
               doubt
               of
               the
               Heavenly
               Treasure
               .
            
             
               For
               the
               Pope
               keeps
               the
               Keys
               ,
               and
               can
               do
               what
               he
               please
               ,
            
             
               And
               without
               all
               peradventure
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               cannot
               at
               the
               fore
               ,
               yet
               at
               the
               back-door
            
             
               Of
               Indulgence
               you
               may
               enter
               .
            
             
               But
               first
               by
               the
               way
               ,
               you
               must
               make
               a
               short
               stay
            
             
               At
               a
               place
               called
               Purgatory
               ,
            
             
               Which
               the
               Learned
               us
               tell
               ,
               in
               the
               buildings
               of
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               Is
               about
               the
               middlemost
               story
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               monstrous
               hot
               place
               ,
               and
               a
               mark
               of
               disgrace
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               torment
               on
               't
               long
               to
               endure
               :
            
             
               None
               are
               kept
               there
               but
               Fools
               &
               poor
               pitiful
               Souls
               ,
            
             
               Who
               can
               no
               ready
               money
               procure
               .
            
             
               For
               a
               handsom
               round
               Sum
               you
               may
               quickly
               be
               gon
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               Church
               has
               wisely
               ordaind
               ,
            
             
               That
               they
               who
               build
               Crosses
               and
               pay
               well
               for
               Masses
               ,
            
             
               Should
               not
               there
               be
               too
               long
               detaind
               .
            
             
               So
               that
               's
               a
               plain
               case
               ,
               as
               the
               Nose
               on
               ones
               Face
               ,
            
             
               We
               are
               in
               the
               surest
               condition
               ,
            
             
               And
               none
               but
               poor
               Fools
               and
               some
               niggardly
               Owls
               ,
            
             
               Need
               fall
               into
               utter
               perdition
               .
            
             
               What
               aileth
               you
               then
               ,
               O
               ye
               great
               and
               rich
               men
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               will
               not
               hearken
               to
               reason
               ,
            
             
               Since
               as
               long
               as
               y'
               have
               Pence
               ,
               y'
               need
               scruple
               no
               offence
               ,
            
             
               Be
               it
               Murther
               ,
               Adultery
               ,
               Treason
               .
            
             
               And
               ye
               sweet-natur'd
               Women
               ,
               who
               hold
               all
               things
               common
               ,
            
             
               My
               addresses
               to
               you
               are
               most
               hearty
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               give
               you
               your
               due
               ,
               you
               are
               to
               us
               most
               true
               ,
            
             
               And
               we
               hope
               we
               shall
               gain
               the
               whole
               party
               .
            
             
             
               If
               you
               happen
               to
               fall
               ,
               your
               Penance
               is
               small
               ,
            
             
               And
               although
               you
               cannot
               forgo
               it
               ,
            
             
               We
               have
               for
               you
               a
               cure
               ,
               if
               of
               this
               you
               be
               sure
            
             
               To
               confess
               before
               you
               go
               to
               it
               .
            
             
               There
               is
               one
               reason
               yet
               ,
               which
               I
               cannot
               omit
               ,
            
             
               To
               those
               who
               affect
               the
               
                 French
                 Nation
              
               ,
            
             
               Hereby
               we
               advance
               the
               Religion
               of
               France
               ,
            
             
               The
               Religion
               that
               's
               only
               in
               fashion
               .
            
             
               If
               these
               rea●ons
               prevail
               ,
               (
               as
               how
               can
               they
               fail
               ?
               )
            
             
               To
               have
               Popery
               entertain'd
               ,
            
             
               You
               cannot
               conceive
               ,
               and
               will
               hardly
               believe
               ,
            
             
               What
               benefits
               hence
               may
               be
               gain'd
               .
            
             
               For
               the
               Pope
               shall
               us
               bless
               (
               that
               's
               no
               small
               happiness
               )
            
             
               And
               again
               we
               shall
               see
               restored
            
             
               The
               
                 Italian
                 Trade
              
               ,
               which
               formerly
               made
            
             
               This
               Land
               to
               be
               so
               much
               adored
               .
            
             
               O
               the
               Pictures
               and
               Rings
               ,
               the
               Beads
               &
               fine
               things
               ,
            
             
               The
               good
               words
               as
               sweet
               as
               Honey
               ,
            
             
               All
               this
               and
               much
               more
               shall
               be
               brought
               to
               our
               door
               ,
            
             
               For
               a
               little
               dull
               English-money
               .
            
             
               Then
               shall
               Justice
               and
               Love
               ,
               &
               whatever
               can
               move
            
             
               Be
               restored
               again
               to
               our
               Britain
               .
            
             
               And
               Learning
               so
               common
               ,
               that
               every
               old
               woman
            
             
               Shall
               say
               her
               Prayers
               in
               Latin.
            
             
               Then
               the
               Church
               shall
               bear
               sway
               ,
               &
               the
               State
               shall
               obey
               ,
            
             
               Which
               is
               now
               lookt
               upon
               as
               a
               wonder
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               proudest
               of
               Kings
               ,
               with
               all
               temporal
               things
            
             
               Shall
               submit
               and
               truckle
               under
               .
            
             
               And
               the
               Parliament
               too
               ,
               who
               have
               tak'n
               us
               to
               do
            
             
               And
               have
               handled
               us
               with
               so
               much
               terror
               ,
            
             
             
               May
               chance
               on
               that
               score
               (
               't
               is
               no
               time
               to
               say
               more
               )
            
             
               They
               may
               chance
               to
               acknowledge
               their
               error
               .
            
             
               If
               any
               man
               yet
               shall
               have
               so
               little
               Wit
            
             
               As
               still
               to
               be
               refractory
               ,
            
             
               I
               swear
               by
               the
               Mass
               ,
               he
               is
               a
               meer
               Ass
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               there
               's
               an
               end
               of
               a
               Story
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               Continuation
               of
               the
               Catholick
               Ballad
               inviting
               to
               Popery
               ;
               Vpon
               the
               best
               Grounds
               and
               Reasons
               ,
               that
               could
               ever
               yet
               be
               produced
               .
               To
               an
               excellent
               Tune
               ,
               called
               ,
               The
               Powder-plot
               .
            
             
               FRom
               Infallible
               Rome
               ,
               once
               more
               I
               am
               come
               ,
            
             
               With
               a
               Budget
               of
               
                 Catholick
                 Ware
              
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               dazle
               your
               Eyes
               ,
               and
               your
               Fancies
               surprize
               ,
            
             
               To
               embrace
               a
               Religion
               so
               rare
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               the
               Love
               and
               good
               Will
               ,
               of
               his
               Holiness
               still
               ,
            
             
               What
               will
               he
               not
               do
               for
               to
               save
               ye
               :
            
             
               If
               such
               Pains
               and
               such
               Art
               ,
               cannot
               you
               Convert
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               pity
               but
               Old
               Nick
               should
               have
               ye
               .
            
             
               Now
               our
               Priests
               are
               run
               down
               ,
               and
               our
               Iesuits
               aground
            
             
               And
               their
               Arguments
               all
               prove
               invalid
               :
            
             
               See
               here
               he
               hath
               got
               ,
               an
               unheard
               of
               New-plot
               ,
            
             
               To
               Proselite
               you
               with
               a
               Ballad
               .
            
             
               Then
               lay
               by
               your
               Jeers
               ,
               and
               prick
               up
               your
               Ears
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               unto
               you
               do
               display
               ,
            
             
               The
               advantage
               and
               worth
               ,
               the
               Truth
               and
               so
               forth
            
             
               Of
               the
               
                 Roman
                 Catholick
              
               way
               .
            
             
             
               If
               you
               did
               but
               behold
               the
               Faith
               and
               the
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               Of
               which
               
                 Holy
                 Church
              
               is
               possest
               ;
            
             
               You
               would
               never
               more
               stray
               ,
               in
               the
               Heretical
               way
               ,
            
             
               But
               flie
               to
               her
               Lap
               to
               be
               blest
               .
            
             
               The
               Pope
               is
               the
               Head
               ,
               and
               doth
               Peter
               succeed
               ,
            
             
               (
               Pray
               come
               away
               faster
               and
               faster
               )
            
             
               He
               succeeds
               him
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               but
               would
               you
               know
               how
               ,
            
             
               T
               is
               only
               in
               denying
               his
               Master
               .
            
             
               He
               's
               Infallible
               too
               ,
               what
               need
               more
               ado
               ,
            
             
               And
               ever
               hath
               Truth
               in
               possession
               :
            
             
               For
               though
               once
               Mob
               Ioan
               ,
               Ascended
               the
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               The
               same
               was
               no
               breach
               of
               Succession
               .
            
             
               Our
               Church
               and
               no
               other
               ,
               is
               the
               Reverend
               Mother
            
             
               Of
               Christians
               throughout
               the
               whole
               Earth
               ;
            
             
               Though
               Older
               they
               be
               ,
               perhaps
               far
               than
               she
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               they
               must
               owe
               unto
               Her
               their
               Birth
               .
            
             
               Our
               Faith
               is
               so
               great
               ,
               so
               sound
               and
               compleat
               ,
            
             
               It
               scorneth
               both
               Scripture
               and
               Reason
               ;
            
             
               And
               builds
               on
               Tradition
               ,
               sometimes
               Superstition
               ,
            
             
               And
               oft-times
               Rebellion
               and
               Treason
               .
            
             
               Our
               strict
               Purity
               ,
               is
               plain
               to
               each
               eye
               ,
            
             
               That
               Catholick
               Countries
               view
               ;
            
             
               For
               there
               to
               suppress
               ,
               the
               sins
               of
               the
               Flesh
               ,
            
             
               Sodomy
               is
               in
               use
               ;
               and
               the
               Stews
               .
            
             
               Our
               Zeal
               has
               been
               felt
               ,
               whereever
               we
               dwelt
               ,
            
             
               On
               all
               that
               our
               Doctrine
               deny
               :
            
             
               If
               we
               have
               a
               Suspicion
               ,
               we
               make
               Inquisition
               ,
            
             
               And
               straight
               the
               poor
               Hereticks
               fry
               .
            
             
               In
               vain
               they
               may
               plead
               ,
               or
               their
               Scriptures
               read
               ,
            
             
               We
               value
               them
               all
               not
               a
               Pin
               :
            
             
             
               The
               best
               Argument
               ,
               that
               we
               can
               invent
               ,
            
             
               Is
               with
               Fire
               and
               Sword
               to
               begin
               .
            
             
               A
               most
               Godly
               way
               ,
               whatever
               they
               say
               ,
            
             
               Since
               it
               their
               Salvation
               o●tains
               ,
            
             
               Makes
               them
               Orthodox
               ,
               with
               blows
               and
               with
               knocks
               ,
            
             
               And
               hammers
               Faith
               into
               their
               Brains
               .
            
             
               A
               God
               we
               can
               make
               ,
               of
               a
               thin
               Wafer-Cake
               ,
            
             
               And
               eat
               him
               up
               when
               we
               have
               done
               :
            
             
               But
               a
               Drop
               of
               the
               Cup
               ,
               Lay-men
               must
               not
               sup
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               Priest
               guzles
               that
               all
               alone
               .
            
             
               We
               have
               terrible
               Bulls
               ,
               and
               Pardons
               for
               Gulls
               ,
            
             
               Holy
               Water
               to
               Scar-crow
               the
               Devil
               ;
            
             
               With
               Consecrate
               Swords
               ,
               take
               them
               on
               our
               words
               ,
            
             
               They
               shall
               make
               the
               Great
               Turk
               be
               civil
               .
            
             
               We
               have
               Saints
               great
               store
               ,
               and
               Miracles
               more
               ,
            
             
               With
               Martyrs
               a
               great
               many
               from
               Tyburn
               ;
            
             
               Pretty
               Nuns
               that
               dwell
               ,
               mewd
               up
               in
               a
               Cell
               ,
            
             
               As
               chast
               as
               Night-walkers
               of
               Holbourn
               .
            
             
               We
               have
               Holy
               Blood
               ,
               we
               have
               Holy
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               A
               Ship-load
               ,
               or
               some
               such
               matter
               :
            
             
               We
               have
               Holy
               Bones
               ,
               and
               some
               Holy
               Stones
               ,
            
             
               Would
               make
               an
               old
               Ladies
               Chops
               water
               .
            
             
               We
               have
               Holy
               Men
               ,
               seen
               but
               now
               and
               then
               ,
            
             
               Monks
               ,
               Abbots
               ,
               and
               Capuchin
               Friars
               ,
            
             
               With
               Merits
               so
               great
               ,
               they
               can
               buy
               one
               a
               Seat
            
             
               In
               Heaven
               ,
               or
               else
               they
               are
               Liars
               .
            
             
               Then
               all
               you
               that
               would
               sure
               Salvation
               procure
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               still
               live
               as
               you
               list
               ;
            
             
               Do
               but
               mutter
               and
               pray
               ,
               and
               say
               as
               we
               say
               ,
            
             
               And
               your
               Catholicks
               good
               as
               e're
               P
               —
               .
            
             
             
               We
               are
               brisk
               and
               free
               ,
               and
               always
               agree
               ,
            
             
               Allowing
               our selves
               to
               be
               jolly
               ;
            
             
               And
               the
               Puritan
               Tricks
               ,
               of
               dull
               Hereticks
               .
            
             
               We
               count
               but
               Fanatical
               Folly.
            
             
               Swearing
               and
               Whoring
               ,
               Drinking
               and
               Roaring
               ,
            
             
               All
               those
               are
               but
               Venial
               Transgressions
               :
            
             
               The
               Murthering
               of
               Kings
               ,
               and
               such
               petty
               things
               ,
            
             
               Are
               easily
               Absolv'd
               in
               Confession
               .
            
             
               A
               little
               short
               Penance
               ,
               doth
               wipe
               away
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               And
               there
               's
               an
               end
               of
               all
               trouble
               ;
            
             
               Which
               having
               dispatcht
               ,
               you
               may
               fall
               to
               't
               agen
               ,
            
             
               And
               safely
               your
               Wickedness
               double
               .
            
             
               Bring
               a
               good
               round
               Sum
               ,
               Sins
               past
               and
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               presently
               be
               forgiven
               ;
            
             
               But
               this
               you
               must
               know
               ,
               before
               you
               do
               go
               ,
            
             
               The
               Excize
               runs
               high
               upon
               Heaven
               .
            
             
               For
               we
               have
               the
               Price
               ,
               of
               every
               Vice
               ,
            
             
               Assest
               at
               a
               certain
               Rate
               ;
            
             
               So
               near
               at
               a
               word
               ,
               we
               do
               them
               afford
               ,
            
             
               Not
               a
               Penny
               thereof
               we
               can
               bate
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               you
               're
               content
               ,
               a
               while
               to
               be
               pent
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               Purgatory
               purged
               ;
            
             
               A
               smaller
               Spell
               ,
               shall
               preserve
               you
               from
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               And
               keep
               you
               from
               being
               scourged
               .
            
             
               Though
               you
               have
               liv'd
               a
               Devil
               ,
               in
               all
               kind
               of
               Evil
            
             
               Bequeath
               but
               a
               Monastery
               ,
            
             
               And
               Angels
               your
               Soul
               ,
               without
               Controul
               ,
            
             
               To
               
               Abraham's
               Bosom
               shall
               Carry
               .
            
             
               Nor
               need
               you
               to
               fear
               ,
               who
               have
               bought
               Lands
               dear
            
             
               That
               were
               Holy
               Churches
               before
               ;
            
             
             
               We
               'l
               lend
               them
               for
               life
               ,
               but
               for
               your
               Souls
               health
            
             
               At
               your
               Death
               you
               must
               them
               restore
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Popery
               ,
               you
               see
               ,
               will
               kindly
               agree
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               will
               it
               but
               embrace
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               you
               delay
               ,
               there
               's
               somany
               i'
               th
               way
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               will
               hardly
               get
               a
               good
               place
               .
            
             
               The
               Critical
               Time
               ,
               is
               now
               in
               the
               prime
               ,
            
             
               See
               how
               Holy
               Mother
               does
               smile
               ,
            
             
               And
               spreading
               her
               Arms
               ,
               to
               preserve
               you
               from
               harms
               ,
            
             
               So
               gladly
               would
               you
               Reconcile
               .
            
             
               To
               which
               purpose
               behold
               ,
               do
               but
               tell
               out
               your
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               things
               in
               readiness
               be
               ;
            
             
               For
               the
               next
               Year
               ,
               His
               Holiness
               (
               we
               hear
               )
            
             
               Doth
               intend
               a
               Jubilee
               .
            
             
               You
               that
               Pardons
               would
               have
               ,
               or
               Indulgence
               crave
               ,
            
             
               To
               ROME
               ,
               to
               ROME
               be
               trudging
               ,
            
             
               And
               do
               not
               contemn
               ,
               good
               Advice
               from
               a
               Friend
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               take
               his
               Ballad
               in
               dudgeon
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               ROME's
               Pardons
               ,
               By
               the
               E.
               of
               R.
               
            
             
               IF
               Rome
               can
               Pardon
               Sins
               ,
               as
               Romans
               hold
               ,
            
             
               And
               if
               those
               Pardons
               can
               be
               bought
               and
               sold
               ,
            
             
               It
               were
               no
               Sin
               ,
               to
               adore
               and
               worship
               Gold.
            
             
               If
               they
               can
               purchase
               Pardons
               with
               a
               Sum
               ,
            
             
               For
               Sins
               they
               may
               commit
               in
               time
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               Sins
               past
               ;
               't
               is
               very
               well
               for
               Rome
               .
            
             
             
               At
               this
               rate
               ,
               they
               are
               happiest
               that
               have
               most
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               purchase
               Heaven
               at
               their
               own
               proper
               cost
               :
            
             
               Alas
               ,
               the
               Poor
               !
               all
               that
               are
               so
               ,
               are
               lost
               .
            
             
               Whence
               came
               this
               Knack
               ,
               or
               when
               did
               it
               begin
               ?
            
             
               What
               Author
               have
               they
               ,
               or
               who
               brought
               it
               in
               ?
            
             
               Did
               Christ
               e're
               keep
               a
               Custom-House
               for
               Sin
               ?
            
             
               Some
               subtile
               Devil
               ,
               without
               more
               ado
               ,
            
             
               Did
               certainly
               this
               sly
               Invention
               brew
               ,
            
             
               To
               gull'em
               of
               their
               Souls
               and
               Mony
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               Written
               by
               Stephen
               Colledge
               ,
               the
               day
               before
               he
               dyed
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Wrongful
                   Imprisonment
                
              
               
                 
                   Hurts
                   not
                   the
                   Innocent
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 WHat
                 if
                 I
                 am
                 into
                 a
                 Prison
                 cast
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Hellish
                 Combinations
                 am
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Soul
                 is
                 free
                 ,
                 although
                 my
                 Body's
                 fast
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 Repent
                 that
                 have
                 this
                 Evil
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 Eternal
                 Vengeance
                 be
                 afraid
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 Racks
                 and
                 Gibbets
                 ,
                 can
                 my
                 Body
                 kill
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 God
                 is
                 with
                 me
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 fear
                 no
                 Ill.
              
               
                 What
                 boots
                 the
                 Clamours
                 of
                 the
                 Giddy
                 Throng
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Antidotes
                 against
                 a
                 poysonous
                 Breath
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Fence
                 is
                 there
                 against
                 a
                 lying
                 Tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 Sharpen'd
                 by
                 Hell
                 ,
                 to
                 wound
                 a
                 Man
                 to
                 Death
                 ?
              
               
                 Snakes
                 ,
                 Vipers
                 ,
                 Adders
                 do
                 lurk
                 underneath
                 :
              
               
               
                 Say
                 what
                 you
                 will
                 ,
                 or
                 never
                 speak
                 at
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 very
                 Prayers
                 (
                 such
                 Wretches
                 )
                 Treason
                 call
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Walls
                 and
                 Bars
                 ,
                 cannot
                 a
                 Prison
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 free-born
                 Soul
                 enjoyes
                 it's
                 Liberty
                 ;
              
               
                 These
                 Clods
                 of
                 Earth
                 it
                 may
                 incaptivate
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Heavenly
                 Minds
                 are
                 conversant
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Ranging
                 the
                 Fields
                 of
                 Blest
                 Eternity
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 let
                 this
                 Bird
                 sing
                 sweetly
                 in
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Conscience
                 clear
                 ;
                 a
                 Rush
                 for
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 I
                 have
                 done
                 ,
                 I
                 did
                 with
                 good
                 Intent
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 serve
                 my
                 King
                 ,
                 my
                 Country
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Bloody
                 Papists
                 I
                 was
                 bent
                 ,
              
               
                 Cost
                 what
                 it
                 will
                 ,
                 I
                 'le
                 ne're
                 repent
                 my
                 Cause
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 do
                 I
                 fear
                 their
                 Hell-devouring
                 Jawes
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Protestant
                 I
                 am
                 ,
                 and
                 such
                 I
                 'le
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 Maugre
                 all
                 Death
                 ,
                 and
                 Popish
                 Cruelty
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 need
                 I
                 these
                 Protestations
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 Actions
                 speak
                 Men
                 far
                 better
                 than
                 their
                 Words
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 e're
                 I
                 suffer
                 for
                 my
                 Country's
                 sake
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 Cause
                 I
                 had
                 a
                 Gun
                 ,
                 or
                 Horse
                 ,
                 or
                 Sword
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 that
                 my
                 Heart
                 did
                 Treason
                 e're
                 afford
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 not
                 me
                 (
                 alone
                 )
                 they
                 do
                 intend
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Thousands
                 more
                 ,
                 to
                 gain
                 their
                 cursed
                 Ends.
              
               
                 And
                 sure
                 (
                 of
                 this
                 )
                 the
                 World
                 's
                 so
                 well
                 aware
              
               
                 That
                 here
                 it
                 's
                 needless
                 more
                 for
                 me
                 to
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 must
                 conclude
                 ;
                 no
                 time
                 have
                 I
                 to
                 spare
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 winged
                 hours
                 fly
                 too
                 fast
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 work
                 (
                 Repentance
                 )
                 must
                 I
                 not
                 delay
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 'le
                 add
                 my
                 Prayers
                 to
                 God
                 ,
                 for
                 Englands
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 he
                 please
                 ,
                 will
                 seal
                 them
                 with
                 my
                 Blood.
              
               
               
                 O
                 blessed
                 God!
                 destroy
                 this
                 black
                 Design
              
               
                 Of
                 Popish
                 Consults
                 ;
                 it
                 's
                 in
                 thee
                 we
                 trust
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Eyes
                 are
                 on
                 thee
                 ,
                 help
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 !
                 in
                 time
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 God
                 of
                 Truth
                 ,
                 most
                 merciful
                 and
                 just
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 thou
                 defend
                 us
                 ,
                 or
                 we
                 perish
                 must
                 :
              
               
                 Save
                 England
                 Lord
                 ,
                 from
                 Popish
                 Cruelty
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Country
                 bless
                 ,
                 thy
                 will
                 be
                 done
                 on
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 Man's
                 Life
                 's
                 a
                 Voyage
                 ,
                 through
                 a
                 Sea
                 of
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 he
                 would
                 gain
                 the
                 Heaven
                 of
                 his
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Sighs
                 must
                 fill
                 the
                 Sails
                 (
                 whilst
                 some
                 men
                 steers
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 storms
                 arise
                 ,
                 let
                 each
                 Man
                 do
                 his
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cast
                 the
                 Anchor
                 of
                 his
                 hopes
                 (
                 opprest
                 )
              
               
                 Till
                 Time
                 ,
                 or
                 Death
                 ,
                 shall
                 bring
                 us
                 to
                 that
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Time
                 nor
                 Death
                 ,
                 shall
                 never
                 be
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Laus
                 Deo
                 :
                 S.
                 C.
                 
              
               
                 From
                 my
                 Prison
                 in
                 the
                 Tower
                 ,
                 
                   Aug.
                   15.
                   1681.
                   
                
              
            
             
               Amen
               .
            
          
           
             
               LONDON's
               Fatal
               Fall
               :
               Being
               an
               ACROSTICK
               ,
               &c.
               
               Written
               (
               as
               a
               Second
               Poetical
               Diversion
               )
               the
               8
               th
               .
               of
               September
               ,
               1666.
               
            
             
               
                 L
                 o
                 !
                 now
                 confused
                 Heaps
                 only
                 stand
              
               
                 O
                 n
                 what
                 did
                 bear
                 the
                 
                   Glory
                   of
                   the
                   Land.
                
              
               
                 N
                 o
                 Stately
                 Places
                 ,
                 no
                 Edefices
                 ,
              
               
                 D
                 o
                 now
                 appear
                 :
                 No
                 ,
                 here
                 's
                 now
                 none
                 of
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 h
                 Cruel
                 Fates
                 !
                 Can
                 ye
                 be
                 so
                 unkind
                 ?
              
               
                 N
                 ot
                 to
                 leave
                 ,
                 scarce
                 a
                 Mansion
                 behind
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 L
                 et
                 England
                 then
                 lament
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 her
                 keep
              
               
                 
                   A
                   dismal
                   day
                
                 ,
                 let
                 every
                 Soul
                 to
                 weep
              
               
                 T
                 o
                 wash
                 away
                 those
                 Sins
                 ,
                 that
                 thus
                 provoke
              
               
                 E
                 ternal
                 Heavens
                 all-consuming
                 stroke
                 .
              
               
                 L
                 et
                 Penitential
                 Tears
                 quench
                 out
                 the
                 Fire
              
               
                 Y
                 et
                 reigning
                 in
                 our
                 Lusts
                 ,
                 let
                 that
                 expire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 E
                 lse
                 we
                 can
                 have
                 no
                 blessed
                 Confiden●e
                 ,
              
               
                 N
                 or
                 hopes
                 in
                 Heavens
                 merciful
                 Defence
                 .
              
               
                 G
                 race
                 is
                 the
                 best
                 inducement
                 too
                 to
                 move
              
               
                 L
                 ove
                 from
                 the
                 
                   God
                   of
                   Mercies
                   ,
                   God
                   of
                   Love.
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   sighing
                   Heart
                
                 becomes
                 this
                 Tragedy
                 ,
              
               
                 N
                 ero's
                 may
                 laugh
                 at
                 it
                 ,
                 so
                 must
                 not
                 we
                 .
              
               
                 D
                 on
                 't
                 soon
                 forget
                 this
                 greatest
                 Accident
                 ,
              
               
                 S
                 ince
                 
                   Iulius
                   Caesar
                
                 enter'd
                 into
                 Kent
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   G
                   reatest
                   of
                   Men
                
                 or
                 Cities
                 ,
                 now
                 ye
                 see
              
               
                 L
                 ay
                 subject
                 unto
                 Heavens
                 just
                 Decree
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 let
                 us
                 then
                 be
                 careful
                 to
                 prevent
              
               
                 R
                 eligiously
                 ,
                 such
                 future
                 punishment
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Y
                   esterday
                
                 though
                 not
                 thought
                 of
                 ,
                 yet
                 ye
                 see
              
            
             
               
                 N
                 othing
                 to
                 day
                 but
                 sad
                 extremity
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 bdurate
                 Hearts
                 might
                 melt
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 W
                 hich
                 made
                 e'en
                 Bells
                 themselves
                 to
                 do
                 the
                 same
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 
                   B
                   arbarians
                
                 may
                 weep
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 City
              
               
                 E
                 steem'd
                 so
                 much
                 ,
                 destroy'd
                 ,
                 (
                 Ah
                 pitty
                 !
                 pitty
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 C
                 onduits
                 not
                 now
                 ,
                 but
                 Gutters
                 ,
                 ran
                 with
                 Wine
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 ils
                 also
                 did
                 unto
                 the
                 like
                 combine
                 .
              
               
                 
                   M
                   ortality
                
                 ne'er
                 Men
                 so
                 fast
                 did
                 mow
                 ,
              
               
               
                 A
                 s
                 the
                 consuming
                 Flames
                 did
                 Housen
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 T
                 roy's
                 Flames
                 were
                 fatal
                 ,
                 What
                 did
                 those
                 begin
                 ?
              
               
                 R
                 ape
                 was
                 the
                 cause
                 of
                 that
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 was
                 Sin.
              
               
                 A
                 nd
                 we
                 have
                 
                 Hellen's
                 too
                 too
                 many
                 ,
                 that
              
               
                 G
                 od
                 knows
                 ,
                 our
                 guilt
                 (
                 I
                 fear
                 )
                 do
                 aggravate
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 ncontinency's
                 (
                 in
                 our
                 sinful
                 time
                 )
              
               
                 C
                 all'd
                 by
                 fond
                 Man
                 ,
                 a
                 Failing
                 ,
                 not
                 a
                 Crime
                 ;
              
               
                 K
                 nowledge
                 by
                 Will
                 is
                 so
                 disfigured
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 
                   S
                   atan
                
                 now
                 as
                 a
                 Saint
                 is
                 worshipped
                 .
              
               
                 T
                 hen
                 this
                 it
                 is
                 ,
                 (
                 We
                 cannot
                 but
                 confess
                 )
              
               
                 O
                 btrudeth
                 Judgments
                 on
                 our
                 happiness
                 .
              
               
                 R
                 epent
                 then
                 ,
                 God
                 will
                 (
                 if
                 we
                 
                   Sinno
                   more
                
                 )
              
               
                 Y
                 ield
                 us
                 more
                 Blessings
                 unto
                 those
                 before
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               A
               QVADRVPLE
               ACROSTICK
               on
               LONDON
               .
            
             
               
               L-o
               !
               what
               a
               Chaos
               this
               unhappy
               
                 Fal
                 —
                 L
              
               ,
            
             
               
               O-nly
               a
               dismal
               sight
               ,
               and
               signs
               of
               W
               —
               O
               ,
            
             
               
               N-ow
               
                 Metamorphis'd
                 ,
                 Ovid
              
               writeth
               o
               —
               
                 N
                 ▪
              
            
             
               D-emocritus
               had
               wept
               too
               (
               doubtless
               )
               ha
               —
               D
            
             
               
               O-nly
               
               Melpomene's
               the
               Singer
               wh
               —
               O
            
             
               
               N-ow
               each
               ,
               a
               Stoick
               look
               too
               putteth
               o
               —
               N.
            
             
             
               
               L-ends
               us
               instead
               of
               
                 Englands
                 Capital
                 —
                 L.
              
            
             
               
               O-ffers
               our
               Opticks
               objects
               ,
               Things
               are
               s
               —
               O
            
             
               
               N-o
               such
               ,
               not
               to
               ,
               but
               from
               ,
               Confusio
               —
               N.
            
             
               
               D-estiny
               rais'd
               an
               Object
               then
               so
               sa
               —
               D.
            
             
               
               O-rders
               my
               Muse
               ,
               and
               best
               becomes
               it
               to
               —
               O.
            
             
               
               N-othing
               but
               Clouds
               appear
               ,
               the
               Sun
               is
               go
               —
               N.
               
            
          
           
             
               LONDON
               Anagram
               ,
               NOLO
               .
               DOLO
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 EXPLICATION
                 .
              
               
                 THough
                 Now
                 
                   I
                   am
                   unwilling
                
                 ,
                 wOes
                 attend
              
               
                 Me
                 ,
                 so
                 I
                 grieve
                 by
                 fOrce
                 ,
                 Let
                 Heaven
                 send
              
               
                 Such
                 Detriment
                 no
                 more
                 ,
                 for
                 nOw
                 I
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Grief
                 wilL
                 alONe
                 DepOse
                 the
                 Noblest
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 this
                 will
                 highest
                 Spirits
                 subjugate
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 must
                 (
                 though
                 most
                 unwilling
                 )
                 yield
                 to
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 LONDON's
                 Epitaph
                 .
              
               
                 HEre
                 lies
                 the
                 Flower
                 (
                 as
                 you
                 may
                 understand
                 )
              
               
                 Not
                 of
                 a
                 Family
                 ,
                 but
                 of
                 a
                 Land
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 beauteous
                 LADY
                 ,
                 Nations
                 did
                 her
                 court
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 unto
                 her
                 did
                 resort
                 :
              
               
               
                 She
                 had
                 a
                 vast
                 Estate
                 (
                 as
                 may
                 appear
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 many
                 Sisters
                 ,
                 but
                 made
                 none
                 her
                 Heir
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 She
                 (
                 that
                 they
                 the
                 more
                 might
                 sadly
                 mourn
                 )
              
               
                 Has
                 all
                 ,
                 consumed
                 with
                 her
                 in
                 her
                 URN
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 from
                 those
                 Ashes
                 all
                 her
                 Sisters
                 crys
              
               
                 Are
                 ,
                 that
                 another
                 PHAENIX
                 yet
                 may
                 rise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 hopes
                 are
                 ,
                 Heaven
                 yet
                 will
                 send
              
               
                 Unto'em
                 such
                 another
                 in
                 the
                 End.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Fifth
               of
               November
               .
            
             
               HAil
               happy
               Hour
               ,
               wherein
               that
               Hellish
               Plot
            
             
               Was
               found
               ,
               which
               ,
               had
               it
               prosper'd
               ,
               might
               have
               shot
            
             
               At
               the
               Celestial
               Throne
               ;
               at
               whose
               dread
               stroke
            
             
               Atlas
               had
               reel'd
               ,
               and
               both
               the
               Poles
               had
               shoke
               :
            
             
               And
               Tellus
               (
               sympathizing
               in
               the
               woe
               )
            
             
               Had
               felt
               an
               Ague
               and
               a
               Feaver
               too
               :
            
             
               Hell-Gates
               had
               been
               set
               ope
               ,
               to
               make
               men
               say
               ,
            
             
               Saint
               
               Peter's
               Vicar
               hath
               mistook
               his
               Key
               .
            
             
               Methinks
               I
               see
               a
               dismal
               gloomy
               Cell
               ,
            
             
               The
               Lobby-Porch
               and
               Wicket
               unto
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               The
               Devil's
               Shop
               ,
               where
               great
               had
               been
               his
               Prize
               ,
            
             
               Had
               he
               prevail'd
               to
               make
               his
               Wares
               to
               rise
               .
            
             
               Say
               ,
               gentle
               Drawer
               ,
               were
               they
               Casks
               of
               Beer
               ?
            
             
               Or
               was
               old
               Bacchus
               tunn'd
               and
               firkin'd
               there
               ?
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               then
               the
               
               Pope's
               turn'd
               Vintner
               :
               Friends
               ,
               behold
            
             
               What
               mortal
               Liquor
               's
               at
               the
               Mitre
               sold
               !
            
             
             
               Fire-spewing
               Aetna
               with
               good
               Cause
               may
               fear
            
             
               That
               her
               Distemper
               springs
               from
               too
               much
               Beer
               :
            
             
               And
               old
               Enceladus
               may
               well
               confess
            
             
               That
               all
               his
               Belching's
               caus'd
               by
               Drunkenness
               .
            
             
               Had
               wretched
               Dives
               begg'd
               a
               Drop
               of
               this
               ,
            
             
               To
               allay
               his
               heat
               ,
               the
               Fool
               had
               ask'd
               amiss
               :
            
             
               His
               hapless
               Rhet'rick
               might
               have
               done
               him
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               'T
               would
               have
               tormented
               ,
               not
               have
               could
               his
               tongue
               .
            
             
               Had
               
               Heber's
               Wife
               but
               known
               this
               Trick
               of
               thine
               ,
            
             
               She
               'd
               spar'd
               her
               Milk
               ,
               &
               given
               the
               Captain
               Wine
               .
            
             
               Strange
               ,
               sure
               ,
               had
               been
               th'
               Effects
               ;
               it
               would
               have
               sped
            
             
               Our
               lawful
               King
               ,
               and
               left
               the
               Pope
               instead
               .
            
             
               Right
               Drunkenness
               indeed
               ,
               which
               ,
               for
               a
               space
               ,
            
             
               Steals
               Man
               away
               ,
               and
               leaves
               a
               Beast
               in
               's
               place
               .
            
             
               'T
               had
               caus'd
               a
               general
               intoxication
               .
            
             
               The
               stag'ring
               ,
               nay
               ,
               the
               Downfal
               of
               the
               Nation
               .
            
             
               Oh
               murth'rous
               Plot
               !
               Posterity
               shall
               say
               ,
            
             
               His
               Holiness
               o're-shoots
               Caligula
               .
            
             
               The
               Pope
               by
               this
               and
               such
               Designs
               (
               't
               is
               plain
               )
            
             
               Out
               -
               
                 Babels
                 Nimrod
              
               ,
               and
               Out-butchers
               Cain
               .
            
             
               About
               this
               time
               the
               brave
               Mounteagle
               ,
               whose
            
             
               Firm
               Love
               to
               his
               Religion
               rather
               chose
            
             
               To
               break
               the
               
                 Roman
                 Yoke
              
               ,
               than
               see
               the
               Reign
            
             
               Of
               deceas'd
               Mary
               ,
               wheel
               about
               again
               ,
            
             
               Receiv'd
               a
               Letter
               in
               a
               dubious
               sense
               ,
            
             
               It
               seem'd
               a
               piece
               of
               
                 Stygian
                 Eloquence
              
               :
            
             
               The
               Characters
               look'd
               just
               like
               conj'ring
               Spells
               ;
            
             
               For
               this
               bout
               Hell
               here
               spoke
               in
               Parables
               .
            
             
               The
               Pope's
               and
               Devil's
               Signets
               were
               set
               to
               't
               ,
            
             
               Th
               Clo●en
               Mitre
               and
               the
               Clo●en
               Foot.
            
             
             
               But
               shall
               our
               State
               by
               an
               unlook'd-for
               Blow
            
             
               Receive
               a
               mortal
               Wound
               ,
               and
               yet
               not
               know
            
             
               The
               hand
               that
               smote
               her
               ?
               shall
               she
               sigh
               and
               cry
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Polyphemus
               ,
               Out
               is
               quench'd
               mine
               Eye
               ?
            
             
               Is
               England
               by
               the
               angry
               Fates
               sad
               Doom
            
             
               Condemn'd
               to
               play
               at
               Hot-cockles
               with
               Rome
               ?
            
             
               No
               ,
               Man
               of
               Myst'ries
               ,
               no
               ,
               we
               understand
            
             
               Thy
               Gibb'rish
               ,
               though
               thou
               art
               confounded
               ,
               and
            
             
               Have
               found
               thy
               meaning
               ;
               Heav'n
               can
               read
               thy
               hand
               .
            
             
               Thus
               were
               our
               Senate
               like
               to
               be
               betraid
            
             
               By
               a
               strange
               Egg
               which
               Peter's
               Cock
               had
               laid
               :
            
             
               For
               had
               the
               servant
               hatch'd
               it
               ,
               the
               Device
            
             
               Had
               prov'd
               to
               us
               a
               baneful
               Cockatrice
               .
            
             
               Now
               like
               proud
               H●man
               being
               stretch'd
               upon
            
             
               The
               heightned
               Pegs
               of
               vain
               Ambition
               ,
            
             
               Above
               Pride's
               highest
               Ela
               ,
               how
               he
               took
            
             
               Poor
               
               Mordechai's
               advancement
               ,
               and
               could
               brook
            
             
               Hanging
               ,
               instead
               of
               Honouring
               ;
               that
               Curse
            
             
               Which
               made
               him
               set
               the
               Cart
               before
               the
               Horse
               :
            
             
               Just
               such
               was
               Faux
               ,
               his
               baffled
               hopes
               bequeath
            
             
               No
               comforts
               now
               ,
               but
               thoughts
               of
               suddain
               Death
               .
            
             
               Like
               
               Haman's
               fate
               ,
               he
               only
               could
               aspire
            
             
               To
               be
               advanced
               fifty
               Cubits
               higher
               .
            
             
               What
               Phoebus
               said
               to
               th'
               Laurel
               ,
               that
               sure
               he
            
             
               Said
               to
               the
               Gallows
               ,
               
                 Thou
                 shalt
                 be
                 my
                 Tree
              
               .
            
             
               But
               didst
               thou
               think
               ,
               thou
               mitred
               Man
               of
               Rome
               ,
            
             
               Who
               bellowest
               threatnings
               and
               thy
               dreadful
               Doom
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               Perillus
               roarest
               in
               thy
               Bull
            
             
               Curses
               and
               Blasphemies
               a
               Nation
               full
               ,
            
             
             
               At
               one
               sad
               stroke
               to
               Massacree
               a
               Land
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               them
               fall
               ,
               whom
               Heaven
               ordain'd
               to
               stand
               .
            
             
               No
               ,
               though
               thy
               head
               was
               fire
               and
               thou
               could
               turn
            
             
               Thy
               Ten
               Branch'd
               Antler
               to
               a
               Powder-horn
               ;
            
             
               Still
               we
               are
               safe
               ,
               till
               our
               transgressions
               merit
            
             
               A
               Reformation
               from
               such
               a
               Spirit
            
             
               As
               comes
               from
               thence
               :
               our
               Nation
               need
               not
               fear
            
             
               Dark
               Lanterns
               ,
               whilst
               God's
               Candlestick
               is
               here
               .
            
             
               The
               Purple
               Whore
               may
               lay
               her
               Mantle
               by
               ,
            
             
               Until
               our
               Sins
               are
               of
               a
               Scarlet-dye
               .
            
             
               Those
               Horns
               alone
               can
               sound
               our
               overthrow
               ,
            
             
               And
               blow
               us
               up
               ,
               which
               blew
               down
               Iericho
               ,
            
             
               Christ
               bless
               this
               Kingdom
               from
               intestine
               quarrels
               ;
            
             
               From
               Schism
               in
               Tubs
               ,
               and
               Popery
               in
               Barrels
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               DEVIL
               pursued
               :
               Or
               ,
               The
               right
               Saddle
               laid
               upon
               the
               right
               Mare
               .
               A
               SATYR
               upon
               Madam
               CELLIERS
               standing
               in
               the
               Pillory
               ,
               By
               a
               Person
               of
               Quality
               .
            
             
               ALas
               !
               What
               has
               this
               poor
               Animal
               done
               ,
            
             
               That
               she
               stands
               thus
               before
               the
               rising
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               In
               all
               the
               heats
               of
               Infamy
               and
               Disgrace
               ,
            
             
               The
               sure
               Remarks
               of
               a
               bold
               Brazen-face
               ?
            
             
               Truly
               for
               no
               great
               hurt
               ,
               nor
               for
               much
               harm
               ;
            
             
               Only
               inventing
               to
               spill
               Royal
               Blood
               ,
               to
               keep
               it
               warm
               ;
            
             
             
               Fire
               Cities
               ,
               Burn
               Houses
               ,
               and
               Devast
               Nations
               ;
            
             
               Ruine
               us
               in
               all
               our
               several
               Stations
               .
            
             
               But
               who
               would
               think
               it
               from
               the
               Woman
               fine
               ,
            
             
               A
               thing
               whom
               Nature
               it self
               hath
               made
               Divine
               ,
            
             
               That
               she
               should
               act
               such
               horrid
               barbarous
               things
               ,
            
             
               As
               to
               design
               to
               stab
               Statesmen
               ,
               and
               to
               Murder
               Kings
               ?
            
             
               But
               here
               she
               still
               appears
               for
               her
               ill
               acts
               ,
            
             
               Like
               second
               storms
               after
               Thunder-claps
               .
            
             
               Philosophers
               tell
               us
               ,
               
                 The
                 best
                 things
                 corrupted
                 are
                 the
                 worst
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               from
               their
               own
               fine
               species
               are
               ever
               curst
               .
            
             
               When
               once
               we
               take
               to
               Ill
               and
               Vices
               Road
               ,
            
             
               We
               then
               paint
               our selves
               much
               like
               the
               Toad
               ;
            
             
               Since
               Vice
               not
               only
               horrid
               is
               from
               the
               being
               of
               Nature
               ,
            
             
               But
               also
               from
               the
               thing
               it self
               ,
               and
               from
               its
               own
               feature
               .
            
             
               Who
               makes
               us
               look
               at
               once
               ,
               and
               that
               several
               ways
               ,
            
             
               Like
               
                 squinting
                 people
              
               ,
               from
               their
               false
               
                 Optick
                 Rays
              
               .
            
             
               This
               teaches
               us
               therefore
               how
               a
               strange
               a
               thing
               is
               Religion
               ,
            
             
               That
               makes
               one
               a
               Vulture
               ,
               the
               other
               a
               Raven
               ,
               and
               the
               other
               a
               Widgeon
               ;
            
             
               To
               be
               so
               very
               false
               ,
               in
               the
               instructing
               those
            
             
               To
               commit
               such
               horrid
               acts
               ,
               and
               with
               them
               close
               :
            
             
               As
               what
               is
               opened
               and
               presented
               here
               ,
            
             
               By
               a
               Popish
               Midwife
               ,
               called
               Madam
               Cellier
               .
            
             
               Go
               to
               therefore
               ,
               all
               ye
               Papists
               and
               Men
               of
               the
               
                 Red
                 Letter
              
               ,
            
             
               Would
               you
               but
               seriously
               consider
               of
               it
               ,
               yon
               would
               do
               much
               better
            
             
               Than
               Plot
               such
               secret
               Villanies
               against
               the
               State
               ,
            
             
               The
               direful
               operations
               of
               your
               ungodly
               hate
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Murther
               of
               Sir
               EDMONDBURY
               GODFREY
               of
               WESTMINSTER
               :
               An
               hasty
               POEM
               .
            
             
               O
               Murder
               !
               Murder
               !
               let
               this
               Shreik
               fly
               round
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Hills
               and
               Dales
               ,
               and
               Rocks
               and
               Shores
               rebound
               ;
            
             
               Send
               it
               to
               Heav'n
               and
               Hell
               ;
               for
               both
               will
               be
            
             
               Astonish'd
               and
               Concern'd
               as
               much
               as
               we
               .
            
             
               First
               send
               to
               Endor
               where
               of
               old
               did
               dwell
            
             
               An
               Hag
               ,
               could
               Fates
               of
               Kings
               and
               Kingdoms
               tell
               ;
            
             
               If
               that
               cannot
               be
               found
               ,
               to
               Ekron
               go
               ,
            
             
               To
               
               Pluto's
               Oracle
               and
               Hell
               below
               .
            
             
               There
               serve
               this
               Hue
               and
               Cry
               ,
               for
               there
               't
               was
               hatch'd
               ,
            
             
               (
               Except
               the
               Priests
               their
               Gods
               have
               over-match'd
               .
               )
            
             
               Methinks
               Belzebub
               ,
               if
               he
               be
               out-done
            
             
               In
               his
               Grand
               Misteries
               ;
               and
               Rome
               needs
               none
            
             
               Of
               his
               Black
               Arts
               ,
               but
               can
               Out-Devil
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               His
               Envy
               and
               Revenge
               this
               Plot
               should
               tell
               :
            
             
               And
               by
               disclosing
               in
               his
               own
               defence
               ,
            
             
               Not
               only
               vindicate
               his
               Innocence
               ,
            
             
               But
               hasten
               their
               destruction
               ,
               and
               prevent
               .
            
             
               Loss
               of
               his
               Trade
               ,
               (
               the
               Jesuits
               intent
               )
            
             
             
               Unless
               he
               fears
               them
               ,
               as
               indeed
               he
               may
               ;
            
             
               When
               once
               in
               Hell
               ,
               none
               shall
               Command
               but
               they
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               this
               Tragedy
               be
               all
               his
               own
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Roman
                 Actors
              
               (
               taught
               by
               him
               )
               have
               shown
            
             
               How
               they
               can
               play
               all
               parts
               he
               can
               devise
               ;
            
             
               Female
               or
               Male
               ,
               with
               or
               without
               disguise
               :
            
             
               And
               need
               no
               Cacodoemons
               prompting
               Art
            
             
               Or
               Whisper
               ,
               but
               can
               fill
               up
               any
               part
               ;
            
             
               Fast
               ,
               Pray
               and
               Weep
               ,
               Swear
               and
               Forswear
               ,
               Decoy
               ,
            
             
               Trapan
               ,
               Kiss
               ,
               Flatter
               ,
               Smile
               ,
               and
               so
               Destroy
               ,
            
             
               Stab
               ,
               Pistol
               ,
               Poyson
               Kings
               ,
               un-King
               ,
               de-Throne
               ,
            
             
               Blow
               up
               or
               down
               ,
               Save
               ,
               Damn
               ,
               make
               all
               their
               own
               .
            
             
               Knows
               not
               he
               then
               ,
               tho'
               Founder
               of
               the
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               The
               Laws
               of
               Theatres
               in
               every
               Age.
            
             
               That
               th'
               Actors
               ,
               not
               the
               Author
               of
               the
               Play
               ,
            
             
               Do
               challenge
               the
               Rewards
               of
               the
               first
               day
               .
            
             
               Make
               then
               their
               
                 names
                 renown'd
              
               ,
               and
               come
               to
               hide
            
             
               Such
               Children
               of
               thy
               Revels
               and
               thy
               Pride
               ;
            
             
               Send
               to
               their
               Father
               ,
               and
               thy
               eldest
               Son
            
             
               That
               Lucifer
               of
               Rome
               ,
               what
               feats
               they
               've
               done
               :
            
             
               That
               he
               may
               make
               their
               names
               be
               understood
               ,
            
             
               Written
               in
               Kalenders
               of
               Martyrs
               Blood.
            
             
               But
               if
               the
               Fiends
               below
               be
               Deaf
               and
               Dumb
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               Conjuring
               cannot
               overcome
               ;
            
             
               They
               and
               their
               Imps
               be
               damn'd
               together
               :
               I
            
             
               To
               Gods
               on
               Earth
               will
               send
               my
               Hue
               and
               Cry.
            
             
               Arise
               Just
               Charles
               ,
               Three
               Kingdoms
               Soul
               and
               mine
               ,
            
             
               Great
               Iames
               thy
               Grandfather
               could
               well
               divine
               ;
            
             
               And
               without
               Spell
               the
               bloody
               Riddle
               Spell
               ,
            
             
               Writ
               by
               like
               S●●●etaries
               of
               Rome
               and
               Hell.
            
             
             
               And
               if
               Thy
               Proclamation
               cannot
               do
               ,
            
             
               We
               pray
               Gods
               Spirit
               may
               inspire
               Thee
               too
               .
            
             
               If
               Thy
               Prophetick
               Vsher
               did
               not
               err
               ,
            
             
               The
               Mass
               would
               enter
               by
               a
               Massacre
               .
            
             
               The
               Wounds
               Thy
               Godfrey
               found
               were
               meant
               for
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               Thou
               ly'st
               Murder'd
               in
               Effigie
               .
            
             
               In
               Gods
               Kings
               Kingdoms
               Cause
               this
               Knight
               was
               slain
               ,
            
             
               Let
               him
               a
               Noble
               Monument
               obtain
               ;
            
             
               Erected
               in
               your
               Westminsters
               great
               Hall
               ,
            
             
               That
               Courts
               of
               Justice
               may
               lament
               his
               Fall
               :
            
             
               And
               may
               (
               when
               any
               Papist
               cometh
               near
               )
            
             
               His
               Marble
               Statue
               yield
               a
               bloody
               tear
               .
            
             
               Yet
               let
               him
               not
               be
               buried
               ,
               let
               him
               lie
               ,
            
             
               The
               fairest
               Image
               to
               draw
               Justice
               by
               .
            
             
               There
               needs
               no
               Balm
               or
               Spices
               to
               preserve
            
             
               The
               Corps
               from
               Stench
               ,
               his
               Innocence
               will
               serve
               .
            
             
               Ye
               Lords
               and
               Commons
               joyn
               your
               speedy
               Votes
               ,
            
             
               A
               Pack
               of
               Blood-Hounds
               threaten
               all
               your
               Throats
               .
            
             
               And
               if
               their
               Treason
               be
               not
               understood
               ,
            
             
               Expect
               to
               be
               Dissolv'd
               in
               your
               own
               Blood.
            
             
               O
               Vote
               that
               every
               Papist
               (
               high
               and
               low
               )
            
             
               To
               Martyr'd
               Godfry's
               Corps
               in
               person
               go
               ;
            
             
               And
               laying
               hand
               upon
               his
               wounded
               Brest
               ,
            
             
               By
               Oath
               and
               Curse
               his
               ignorance
               protest
               .
            
             
               But
               Oh
               the
               Atheism
               of
               that
               Monstrous
               Crew
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               
                 Holy
                 Father
              
               can
               all
               Bonds
               undo
               :
            
             
               Whose
               Breath
               can
               put
               away
               the
               heavi'st
               Oath
               ;
            
             
               Who
               fears
               no
               Heaven
               nor
               Hell
               ,
               but
               laughs
               at
               both
            
             
               Therefore
               a
               safer
               Vote
               my
               Muse
               suggests
               ,
            
             
               For
               Priests
               and
               Iesuits
               can
               swallow
               Tests
            
             
             
               As
               
                 Hocus
                 Pocus
              
               doth
               his
               Rope
               or
               Knife
               ,
            
             
               And
               cheats
               the
               gaping
               Farmer
               and
               his
               Wife
               .
            
             
               Oh
               Vote
               each
               Sign-post
               shall
               a
               Gibbet
               be
               ,
            
             
               And
               hang
               a
               Traytor
               upon
               every
               Tree
               .
            
             
               Yet
               we
               'l
               find
               Wood
               enough
               for
               Bone-fire-piles
               ,
            
             
               T'
               inlighten
               and
               inflame
               our
               Brittish
               Isles
            
             
               Upon
               the
               approaching
               Fifth
               November
               night
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               Incendiaries
               curse
               the
               light
               .
            
             
               November
               Fires
               Septembers
               may
               reveal
               ,
            
             
               One
               Burn
               (
               we
               say
               )
               another
               Burn
               will
               heal
               .
            
             
               Lastly
               ,
               And
               surely
               ,
               let
               this
               Hue
               and
               Cry
            
             
               Reach
               Heaven
               ,
               where
               every
               Star
               looks
               like
               an
               Eye
            
             
               To
               that
               High
               Court
               of
               Parliament
               above
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Laws
               are
               mixt
               with
               Justice
               and
               with
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Whither
               Just
               
               Godfry's
               Souls
               already
               come
               ,
            
             
               And
               hath
               receiv'd
               the
               Crown
               of
               Martyrdom
               ;
            
             
               Where
               Murder'd
               Kings
               and
               slaughter'd
               Saints
               do
               cry
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Blood
               may
               never
               unrevenged
               lie
               .
            
             
               Ye
               Saints
               and
               Angels
               hate
               that
               
                 Scarlet
                 Whore
              
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Priests
               and
               Brats
               before
               your
               Shrines
               adore
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               their
               Massacres
               your
               Aid
               implore
               :
            
             
               Staining
               your
               Altars
               with
               the
               precious
               Gore
               :
            
             
               Pour
               down
               your
               Vials
               on
               their
               Cursed
               heads
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               Eternal
               flames
               prepare
               their
               Beds
               .
            
             
               And
               Thou
               Judge
               Jesus
               Hang'd
               and
               Murder'd
               too
               ,
            
             
               By
               Power
               of
               Rome
               and
               Malice
               of
               the
               Iew
               ,
            
             
               In
               
               Godfry's
               Wounds
               Thine
               own
               to
               bleed
               anew
               .
            
             
               Oh
               Rend
               Thy
               Heavens
               !
               Come
               Lord
               and
               take
               Thy
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Revenge
               Thy
               Martyrs
               and
               Thine
               own
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Loyal
               Protestants
               New
               LITANY
               .
            
             
               
                 FRom
                 the
                 
                   Romish
                   Whore
                
                 with
                 her
                 
                   Triple
                   Crown
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Fom
                 the
                 Plot
                 she
                 hath
                 hatch'd
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Babes
                 now
                 disown
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 they
                 dy'd
                 with
                 a
                 Lie
                 in
                 their
                 Mouth
                 is
                 well
                 known
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 Domine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 such
                 as
                 presume
                 to
                 speak
                 ill
                 of
                 Queen
                 Bess
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 a
                 Popish
                 Midwife
                 in
                 a
                 Sanctified
                 Dress
                 ,
              
               
                 Adorn'd
                 with
                 a
                 Wooden
                 Ruff
                 for
                 a
                 Crest
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 Iudas
                 the
                 Purse-bearers
                 Protestant
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 any
                 more
                 of
                 his
                 Machiavel
                 race
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 henceforth
                 may
                 ever
                 succeed
                 in
                 his
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 a
                 Doctor
                 that
                 durst
                 prepare
                 such
                 a
                 Dose
              
               
                 That
                 would
                 take
                 a
                 Protestant
                 Prince
                 by
                 the
                 Nose
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Although
                 it
                 be
                 spoken
                 under
                 the
                 Rose
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 a
                 Papist
                 that
                 Curses
                 the
                 Catholick
                 Whore
                 ,
              
               
                 Although
                 in
                 his
                 Heart
                 he
                 the
                 same
                 do
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 his
                 contriving
                 more
                 Plots
                 than
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 a
                 Jesuit
                 drest
                 up
                 in
                 Masquerade
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 understands
                 his
                 Blood-thirsty
                 Trade
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 can
                 neither
                 by
                 Justice
                 or
                 Mercy
                 be
                 laid
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 From
                 Bum●kin
                 and
                 Citt
                 that
                 at
                 random
                 do
                 range
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 a
                 Sham-Plot
                 do
                 true
                 honesty
                 change
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 come
                 off
                 by
                 the
                 LEE
                 ,
                 methinks
                 it
                 is
                 STRANGE
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 such
                 a
                 hard
                 Fortune
                 as
                 barely
                 to
                 write
              
               
                 But
                 only
                 for
                 Bred
                 from
                 Morning
                 till
                 Night
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 would
                 more
                 than
                 a
                 Crack-farts
                 Courage
                 affright
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 those
                 that
                 Sedition
                 do
                 dayly
                 invent
              
               
                 To
                 render
                 a
                 breach
                 and
                 gross
                 discontent
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 our
                 Great
                 King
                 and
                 Loyal
                 Parliament
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 such
                 as
                 do
                 dayly
                 possess
                 us
                 with
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 at
                 the
                 same
                 do
                 prick
                 up
                 their
                 ears
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 care
                 not
                 which
                 Course
                 our
                 Council
                 now
                 steers
                 .
              
               
                 Libra
                 nos
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 the
                 Rhomish
                 Whore
                 may
                 be
                 stript
                 of
                 her
                 dress
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cast
                 in
                 the
                 Pit
                 that
                 is
                 call'd
                 Bottomless
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 her
                 Plots
                 ,
                 Loyal
                 Subjects
                 no
                 more
                 distress
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 te
                 Domine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 Queen
                 Besses
                 Enemies
                 run
                 the
                 same
                 Fate
              
               
                 As
                 lately
                 they
                 did
                 in
                 the
                 last
                 Eighty
                 Eight
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 never
                 one
                 want
                 to
                 peep
                 through
                 a
                 Grate
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 the
                 Purse-bearer
                 Iudas
                 his
                 Protestant
                 face
              
               
                 May
                 never
                 resume
                 his
                 former
                 high
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 Except
                 for
                 to
                 fall
                 in
                 Eternal
                 Disgrace
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 That
                 the
                 Doctor
                 beyond
                 Sea
                 in
                 spight
                 of
                 his
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 never
                 return
                 ,
                 but
                 keep
                 close
                 there
                 still
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 may
                 he
                 die
                 by
                 his
                 own
                 Poysonous
                 Pill
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 Popish
                 Curr
                 in
                 honest
                 disguise
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Curses
                 us
                 all
                 before
                 he
                 do
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 his
                 Plots
                 be
                 confounded
                 though
                 never
                 so
                 wise
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 such
                 whose
                 hands
                 are
                 still
                 dipt
                 in
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 intend
                 to
                 make
                 second
                 
                 Noah's
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 such
                 may
                 perish
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 of
                 their
                 Brood
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 such
                 as
                 do
                 render
                 the
                 Plot
                 for
                 a
                 Fable
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 it
                 the
                 talk
                 of
                 each
                 Coffee-house
                 Table
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 enter
                 Heaven
                 Gates
                 may
                 they
                 never
                 be
                 able
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 such
                 as
                 are
                 forced
                 to
                 write
                 but
                 for
                 bread
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 be
                 by
                 the
                 dayly
                 Providence
                 fed
                 ,
              
               
                 Much
                 rather
                 than
                 those
                 who
                 will
                 Plot
                 till
                 they
                 're
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 Seditious
                 Spirits
                 may
                 now
                 be
                 supprest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 in
                 true
                 earnest
                 ,
                 not
                 only
                 in
                 Jest
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 such
                 may
                 never
                 more
                 feather
                 their
                 Nest.
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 those
                 who
                 do
                 dayly
                 possess
                 us
                 with
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 fall
                 themselves
                 together
                 by
                 th'
                 Ears
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 quit
                 us
                 all
                 from
                 that
                 Cloud
                 which
                 appears
                 .
              
               
                 Quesimus
                 te
                 Domine
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               JESUIT
               Ierk'd
               :
               A
               SATYR
               .
            
             
               AScend
               ,
               Alecto
               ,
               from
               thy
               Den
               ,
               and
               come
            
             
               Just
               as
               thou
               look'st
               in
               that
               Infernal
               Home
               ,
            
             
               Hell
               ,
               Fury
               ,
               Fire
               ,
               my
               Fancy
               ,
               for
               I
               have
            
             
               More
               Cause
               than
               Poet
               e're
               had
               yet
               ,
               to
               Rave
               :
            
             
               Thou
               art
               my
               Muse
               ,
               thy
               Snakes
               my
               Lawrels
               are
               ,
            
             
               Inspir'd
               by
               thee
               ,
               I
               'll
               
               Rome's
               Intrigues
               declare
               :
            
             
               Then
               to
               thy
               intermitted
               Task
               retire
               ,
            
             
               And
               pay
               the
               
                 Iesuits
                 their
                 Arrears
                 of
                 Fire
              
               .
            
             
               A
               Iesunt
               old
               
               Satan's
               Envoy
               is
               ,
            
             
               Sent
               to
               succeed
               the
               Snake
               of
               Paradice
               ;
            
             
               For
               when
               the
               fatal
               stroke
               of
               
               Adam's
               Loss
               ,
            
             
               Was
               healed
               by
               the
               Great
               Theanthropos
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               first
               Argument
               of
               Hellish
               Power
               ,
            
             
               Was
               quite
               Confuted
               by
               a
               Saviour
               :
            
             
               Then
               baffled
               Lucifer
               no
               answer
               had
               ,
            
             
               Till
               he
               a
               Iesuit
               his
               Rejoynder
               made
               ,
            
             
               By
               whom
               he
               hopes
               compleatly
               to
               renew
            
             
               The
               Battel
               ,
               and
               once
               more
               Mankind
               undo
               ;
            
             
               Plotting
               his
               Old
               Dominion
               to
               make
               good
            
             
               By
               false
               Implicit
               Faith
               ,
               or
               Fire
               and
               Blood
               :
            
             
               That
               catches
               Fools
               ,
               and
               These
               destroy
               the
               Wise
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               all
               Mankind
               are
               equally
               his
               Prize
               .
            
             
               "
               Shut
               your
               Eyes
               close
               ,
               believe
               me
               ,
               and
               you
               'l
               see
               ,
            
             
               "
               Th'
               Ignatian
               crys
               the
               way
               t'
               Eternity
               :
            
             
               "
               Deny
               all
               Reason
               ,
               misbelieve
               your
               Sense
               ,
            
             
               "
               Church
               cannot
               erre
               ,
               be
               that
               your
               Confidence
               :
            
             
             
               "
               Pin
               on
               your
               Sleeve
               your
               Faith
               ,
               and
               tho'
               you
               'r
               blind
               ,
            
             
               "
               Take
               but
               fast
               hold
               ,
               and
               follow
               us
               behind
               ;
            
             
               "
               Our
               open
               Eyes
               the
               way
               for
               both
               will
               find
               .
            
             
               This
               Wine
               and
               Wafer
               now
               are
               common
               Food
               ,
            
             
               But
               a
               few
               words
               shall
               make
               e'm
               Flesh
               and
               Blood
               ;
            
             
               And
               though
               they
               still
               the
               self
               same
               things
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               is
               Christ's
               very
               Blood
               and
               Body
               here
               :
            
             
               Such
               plain
               Impostures
               ,
               such
               bold
               Cheats
               as
               these
               ,
            
             
               Can
               surely
               none
               but
               Fools
               or
               Madmen
               please
               .
            
             
               The
               Snake
               of
               Paradice
               play'd
               fairer
               far
            
             
               With
               
               Adam's
               Wife
               ,
               and
               more
               upon
               the
               square
               ;
            
             
               He
               call'd
               an
               Apple
               ,
               Apple
               ,
               bid
               her
               see
            
             
               How
               fair
               the
               Fruit
               ,
               desireable
               the
               Tree
               :
            
             
               The
               
               Iesuit's
               tricks
               would
               ne're
               have
               ta'ne
               with
               Eve
               ,
            
             
               She
               saw
               and
               felt
               before
               she
               did
               believe
               :
            
             
               Besides
               he
               told
               her
               that
               't
               would
               make
               her
               wise
               ,
            
             
               But
               these
               the
               gros●est
               ignorance
               advise
               .
            
             
               And
               thus
               we
               lose
               our selves
               b'
               a
               greater
               cheat
               ,
            
             
               Than
               what
               the
               Devil
               us'd
               in
               
               Eve's
               Defeat
               :
            
             
               Thus
               we
               our
               Sense
               and
               Reason
               lay
               aside
               ,
            
             
               To
               take
               an
               Old
               Ambitious
               Pope
               for
               Guide
               .
            
             
               Thus
               we
               turn
               Stocks
               and
               Ideots
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               Become
               good
               Cath'licks
               ,
               ceasing
               to
               be
               Men
               ;
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               only
               way
               to
               save
               our
               Souls
               ,
            
             
               Were
               to
               be
               easie
               Slaves
               ,
               or
               senseless
               Fools
               .
            
             
               To
               all
               this
               fond
               Credulity
               we
               're
               hurld
               ,
            
             
               By
               slavish
               fears
               about
               a
               burning
               World
               ;
            
             
               So
               (
               to
               be
               sure
               )
               to
               feel
               no
               torment
               there
               ,
            
             
               First
               strip
               our selves
               of
               all
               our
               senses
               here
               ▪
            
             
             
               Now
               my
               Alecto
               ,
               let
               's
               advance
               and
               view
            
             
               The
               frauds
               that
               lurk
               under
               Religious
               shew
               ;
            
             
               For
               though
               to
               Heaven
               their
               fair
               pretences
               swell
               ,
            
             
               The
               root
               lies
               deep
               and
               dark
               ,
               as
               is
               thy
               Cell
               :
            
             
               No
               
                 Heathen
                 Law-giver
              
               ,
               no
               
                 Pagan
                 Priest
              
               ,
            
             
               Could
               e're
               with
               such
               mysterious
               Wiles
               infest
            
             
               The
               superstitious
               Multitude
               ,
               for
               they
            
             
               Are
               still
               most
               apt
               to
               fear
               they
               know
               not
               why
               ;
            
             
               No
               Cabalist
               of
               State
               could
               e're
               trapan
            
             
               With
               such
               firm
               subtilety
               as
               
               Rome's
               Divan
               .
            
             
               And
               First
               ,
               lest
               
                 Holy
                 Church
              
               should
               chance
               to
               float
            
             
               Without
               a
               last
               Appeal
               in
               endless
               doubt
               ;
            
             
               You
               must
               with
               dumb
               Obedience
               still
               repair
            
             
               Unto
               
               Rome's
               Holy
               Apostolick
               Chair
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               that
               's
               Infallible
               and
               cannot
               erre
               .
            
             
               This
               bold
               Assumption
               keeps
               more
               in
               awe
               ,
            
             
               Than
               Numa
               with
               his
               feig●'d
               Egeria
               ;
            
             
               For
               though
               it
               seems
               at
               point
               of
               Faith
               to
               aim
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               to
               be
               uncontroulibly
               Supream
               ,
            
             
               Get
               universal
               Def'rence
               ,
               and
               Create
            
             
               A
               close
               dependance
               on
               the
               Roman
               Seat
               :
            
             
               Branding
               on
               all
               damnable
               Heresie
               ,
            
             
               That
               dare
               oppose
               the
               Apostolick
               See
               ,
            
             
               Or
               
               Rome's
               Political
               Divinity
               .
            
             
               
               Rome's
               Doctrine
               is
               a
               secular
               Device
               ,
            
             
               Mere
               trick
               of
               State
               in
               rev'rend
               Disguise
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               Ambitious
               Spawn
               of
               latter
               Centuries
               .
            
             
               And
               tho'
               it
               proudly
               boast
               an
               ancient
               Line
            
             
               From
               Peter
               ,
               't
               is
               of
               basest
               Origine
               ;
            
             
             
               A
               Priestly
               Brat
               ,
               by
               them
               Ingendred
               on
            
             
               Ignorance
               ,
               Fear
               ,
               and
               Superstition
               ;
            
             
               These
               three
               compleatly
               make
               the
               
                 Triple
                 Crown
              
               ,
            
             
               And
               still
               support
               Old
               
               Rome's
               Imperial
               Throne
               .
            
             
               How
               slily
               do
               the
               Priests
               by
               help
               of
               these
            
             
               Make
               Men
               believe
               ,
               and
               then
               do
               what
               they
               please
               ;
            
             
               How
               solemnly
               they
               dazle
               vulgar
               Eyes
            
             
               With
               fine
               mysteriovs
               Holy
               Vanities
               :
            
             
               Whose
               Ceremonious
               Pomp
               strikes
               awful
               dread
            
             
               In
               Fools
               that
               by
               their
               Eyes
               and
               Ears
               are
               led
               :
            
             
               But
               should
               I
               here
               endeavour
               to
               declare
            
             
               The
               num'rous
               Gimcracks
               of
               the
               Romish
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               Their
               mystick
               Idols
               ,
               consecrated
               Bawbles
               ,
            
             
               Feign'd
               Miracles
               ,
               and
               monstrous
               Holy
               Fables
               ;
            
             
               How
               dead
               Saints
               Relicks
               cure
               the
               Gout
               and
               Ptisick
               ,
            
             
               And
               are
               like
               
                 Aegypts
                 Mummy
              
               ,
               us'd
               for
               
                 Physick
                 ▪
              
            
             
               How
               they
               can
               scare
               the
               Devil
               with
               a
               stench
               ,
            
             
               As
               young
               Tobias
               did
               to
               get
               the
               Wench
               .
            
             
               In
               telling
               this
               I
               might
               as
               tedious
               be
               ,
            
             
               As
               the
               return
               of
               their
               next
               Jubilee
               ;
            
             
               But
               these
               are
               petty
               Trifles
               ,
               petty
               Toys
               ,
            
             
               Tricks
               to
               catch
               Women
               ,
               gaping
               Fools
               ,
               and
               Boies
               ;
            
             
               They
               have
               devices
               of
               a
               larger
               Size
               ,
            
             
               Traps
               to
               ensnare
               the
               Wary
               and
               the
               Wise.
            
             
               And
               if
               you
               chance
               to
               boggle
               at
               the
               Bait
               ,
            
             
               They
               curse
               ,
               and
               cry
               Damnation
               be
               your
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               you
               swallow
               it
               at
               any
               rate
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               what
               a
               melancholly
               dismal
               Story
            
             
               They
               roar
               in
               dying
               Ears
               of
               Purgatory
               ;
            
             
             
               That
               rather
               than
               the
               affrighted
               Wretch
               will
               bu●●
            
             
               So
               long
               ,
               he
               'll
               all
               his
               Gold
               to
               Masses
               turn
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Ecclesiastick
               Chymists
               (
               you
               'd
               admire
               )
            
             
               Make
               real
               Gold
               by
               a
               fictitious
               Fire
               .
            
             
               Next
               extream
               Unction
               comes
               from
               whence
               the
               Prie●
            
             
               Gets
               the
               most
               good
               by
               greasing
               in
               the
               Fist
               ;
            
             
               But
               of
               all
               cheats
               that
               necessary
               are
            
             
               Unto
               Salvation
               ,
               Aur●cular
            
             
               Confession
               bears
               the
               Bell
               ,
               and
               seems
               to
               me
            
             
               Next
               to
               Infallible
               Supremacy
               .
            
             
               It
               wears
               a
               Holy
               Vail
               ,
               but
               underneath
            
             
               Is
               Shame
               and
               Slavery
               far
               worse
               than
               Death
               :
            
             
               The
               Priest
               may
               tyrannize
               without
               Controul
               ,
            
             
               That
               knows
               the
               guilty
               secret
               of
               the
               Soul.
            
             
               So
               when
               the
               Gentle
               Sex
               Confession
               makes
            
             
               That
               they
               have
               often
               sinn'd
               upon
               their
               Backs
               ,
            
             
               How
               easily
               the
               Priest
               comes
               in
               for
               snacks
               ,
            
             
               And
               shrieves
               the
               pretty
               Pen'tent
               Alamode
               ,
            
             
               No
               trick
               like
               a
               
                 Iure
                 Divino
              
               Fraud
               .
            
             
               Thus
               are
               their
               chiefest
               Doctrines
               plain
               Device
               ,
            
             
               Pimp
               to
               their
               Pride
               ,
               their
               Lust
               and
               Avarice
               ?
            
             
               In
               Holy
               Apostolical
               Disguise
               .
            
             
               In
               short
               ,
               the
               whole
               mysterious
               Cheat
               doth
               lye
               ,
            
             
               In
               Superstition
               and
               Idolatry
               ,
            
             
               Two
               Spurious
               Graffs
            
             
               Set
               in
               the
               Tree
               of
               Life
               ,
               Religion
               ,
            
             
               By
               whose
               luxurious
               Branches
               't
               is
               o'regrown
            
             
               To
               such
               a
               monstrous
               Disproportion
               ;
            
             
               That
               first
               the
               Planters
               would
               it
               quite
               disown
               .
            
             
             
               Religion
               like
               a
               modest
               Rural
               Maid
               ,
            
             
               No
               artificial
               Dress
               ,
               no
               Fucus
               had
               ,
            
             
               But
               was
               in
               Native
               Innocency
               clad
               .
            
             
               Till
               in
               
               Rome's
               Court
               she
               ceased
               to
               be
               such
               ,
            
             
               Thence
               sprang
               her
               Infamy
               and
               first
               Debauch
               ;
            
             
               There
               laying
               plain
               simplicity
               aside
               ,
            
             
               She
               grew
               to
               lazie
               Wantonness
               and
               Pride
               :
            
             
               Yet
               still
               some
               modesty
               confin'd
               her
               home
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               rambled
               she
               beyond
               the
               Walls
               of
               Rome
               ;
            
             
               Till
               proud
               of
               her
               successful
               Charms
               ,
               she
               grew
            
             
               Ambitious
               greatest
               Monarchs
               to
               subdue
               ▪
            
             
               So
               by
               deceitful
               Arts
               sh'
               enlarg'd
               her
               Power
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               them
               Slaves
               that
               she
               had
               serv'd
               before
               ▪
            
             
               Then
               wisely
               some
               the
               Vassalage
               forsook
               ,
            
             
               Others
               repin'd
               ,
               as
               weary
               of
               the
               Yoke
               ;
            
             
               She
               jealous
               lest
               her
               Universal
               Sway
            
             
               Should
               lessen
               ,
               and
               her
               former
               Fa●e
               decay
               ;
            
             
               Mongst
               others
               ,
               did
               the
               Schoolmens
               Pen
               employ
            
             
               To
               vindicate
               her
               Truth
               and
               Honesty
               ,
            
             
               (
               Schoolmen
               who
               ransack
               Sciences
               and
               Arts
               ,
            
             
               To
               prove
               with
               pains
               that
               they
               are
               Fools
               of
               parts
               )
            
             
               So
               these
               her
               Honour
               justify'd
               in
               Words
               ,
            
             
               As
               Bully
               Iesuits
               Plot
               to
               do
               with
               Swords
               ;
            
             
               But
               both
               in
               vain
               ,
               for
               't
               is
               concluded
               on
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Mistress
               is
               the
               
                 Whore
                 of
                 Babylon
              
               .
            
             
               Shift
               ,
               shift
               the
               Scene
               ,
               Alecto
               ,
               Fury
               ,
               Fiend
               ,
            
             
               Wake
               all
               thy
               Snakes
               and
               make
               this
               Tragick
               End
               ;
            
             
               By
               Hellish
               Art
               raise
               up
               in
               dark
               Cabal
               ,
            
             
               The
               Pope
               ,
               a
               Iesuit
               ,
               and
               Cardinal
               :
            
             
             
               Thy self
               place
               in
               the
               middle
               raving
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               With
               Poysons
               ,
               Pistols
               ,
               Daggers
               ,
               Fire
               and
               Blood.
            
             
               Now
               let
               this
               Scene
               start
               into
               sudden
               sight
               ,
            
             
               By
               gloomy
               Flashes
               of
               sulphureous
               Light
               ;
            
             
               There
               let
               his
               Holiness's
               Face
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Full
               of
               deep
               Counsel
               ,
               weighty
               thought
               ,
               and
               care
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               each
               of
               you
               in
               awful
               silence
               hears
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Oracle
               with
               humble
               Ears
               .
            
             
               Was
               it
               for
               this
               my
               ample
               Power
               was
               giv'n
               ,
            
             
               For
               this
               have
               I
               the
               Keys
               of
               Hell
               and
               Heaven
               ?
            
             
               In
               Vain
               I
               boast
               of
               a
               Supremacy
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               my
               Chair
               the
               Universal
               See
               :
            
             
               A
               little
               Nest
               of
               Hereticks
               cut
               off
            
             
               From
               
               Europe's
               Earth
               ,
               at
               all
               my
               power
               doth
               laug●
            
             
               Who
               though
               they
               kindly
               could
               decline
               to
               be
            
             
               A
               Bar
               to
               ballance
               Gallick
               Tyranny
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               still
               oppose
               my
               Holy
               Monarchy
               .
            
             
               False
               Agents
               Heartless
               Traytors
               ,
               have
               you
            
             
               So
               often
               swore
               by
               Sacramental
               Vow
               ,
            
             
               Or
               to
               Convert
               this
               Island
               ,
               or
               undo
               ?
            
             
               Was
               your
               Commission
               scant
               ,
               did
               I
               deny
            
             
               Plenipotentiary
               Villany
               ?
            
             
               Have
               not
               I
               null'd
               Divine
               and
               Humane
               Laws
               ,
            
             
               That
               without
               Let
               ,
               you
               might
               promote
               the
               Cau●●
            
             
               Heaven's
               Laws
               ,
               though
               fix'd
               by
               an
               Eternal
               Seal
               ,
            
             
               Stoop
               and
               are
               liable
               to
               my
               Repeal
               .
            
             
               Moses
               once
               broke
               these
               Tables
               ,
               often
               I
               ,
            
             
               Not
               to
               prevent
               ,
               but
               fix
               Idolatry
               .
            
             
               Thus
               had
               your
               large
               Commission
               no
               restraint
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               did
               you
               Apostolick
               Blessing
               want
               ;
            
             
             
               Nay
               more
               the
               blackest
               Crimes
               in
               you
               were
               Merit
               ,
            
             
               For
               which
               all
               others
               endless
               Flames
               in
               herit
               :
            
             
               So
               Treasons
               ,
               Murders
               ,
               Perjuries
               ,
               became
            
             
               Sure
               Monuments
               of
               your
               Eternal
               Fame
               ;
            
             
               So
               Nature's
               Course
               was
               chang'd
               ,
               yet
               nothing's
               done
            
             
               T'
               Advance
               the
               Catholick
               Religion
               .
            
             
               Be
               gone
               ,
               Slave
               ,
               fly
               ,
               Delude
               with
               crafty
               Words
               ,
            
             
               If
               they
               prove
               vain
               ,
               use
               Poyson
               ,
               Fire
               ,
               and
               Swords
               ;
            
             
               Make
               better
               work
               on
               't
               ,
               or
               I
               swear
               by
               th'
               Mass
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Divinity
               of
               Holy
               Cross
               —
            
             
               These
               chance
               unlucky
               Words
               broke
               all
               the
               Spell
               ,
            
             
               They
               vanisht
               ,
               and
               Alecto
               sunk
               to
               Hell.
               
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               Murther
               of
               Sir
               EDMONDBURY
               GOD
               FREY
               .
            
             
               ARe
               these
               the
               Popes
               Grand
               Tools
               ?
            
             
               Worshipful
               Noddies
               !
               Who
               but
               blund'ring
               Fools
            
             
               Would
               ever
               have
               forgot
            
             
               To
               Burn
               those
               Letters
               that
               reveal'd
               their
               Plot
               ?
            
             
               Or
               in
               an
               Ale-house
               told
               that
               
               Godfrey's
               Dead
               ,
            
             
               Three
               Days
               before
               he
               was
               Discovered
               ;
            
             
               Leaving
               the
               silly
               World
               to
               call
               to
               mind
            
             
               That
               Common
               Logick
               ,
               
                 They
                 that
                 hide
                 can
                 find
              
               ?
            
             
               But
               see
               their
               Master
               Pollicy
               on
               Primrose
               Hill
               ,
            
             
               Where
               their
               great
               Enemy
            
             
               Like
               Saul
               upon
               
                 Mount
                 Gilboa
              
               doth
               lye
               ,
            
             
               Fal'n
               on
               his
               Sword
               ,
               as
               if
               he
               himself
               did
               Kill
               .
            
             
             
               But
               oh
               ,
               the
               Infelicity
               !
            
             
               That
               Blood
               was
               fresh
               ,
               and
               gusht
               out
               of
               the
               wound
               ,
            
             
               This
               so
               congeal'd
               that
               not
               one
               spot
               was
               found
               :
            
             
               No
               ,
               not
               upon
               his
               Sword
               ,
               as
               if
               it
               wou'd
            
             
               Tell
               us
               't
               was
               guiltless
               of
               its
               Masters
               Blood
               ;
            
             
               Some
               Carkasses
               by
               bleeding
               do
               declare
               ,
            
             
               This
               by
               not
               bleeding
               ,
               shews
               the
               Murtherer
               .
            
             
               But
               to
               its
               broken
               Neck
               I
               pray
            
             
               What
               can
               our
               Polititians
               say
               ?
            
             
               He
               Hang'd
               ,
               then
               stab'd
               himself
               ,
               for
               a
               sure
               way
               .
            
             
               Or
               first
               he
               stab'd
               himself
               ,
               than
               wrung
               about
            
             
               His
               Head
               for
               madness
               ,
               that
               advis'd
               him
               to
               't
               ;
            
             
               Well
               Primrose
               ,
               may
               our
               
               Godfrey's
               Name
               on
               thee
            
             
               (
               Like
               Hyacinth
               )
               inscribed
               be
               :
            
             
               On
               thee
               his
               Memory
               shall
               flourish
               still
               ,
            
             
               (
               Sweet
               as
               thy
               Flower
               ,
               and
               lasting
               as
               thy
               Hill
               ;
               )
            
             
               Whilst
               blushing
               Somerset
               to
               her
            
             
               Eternal
               shame
               ,
               shall
               this
               Inscription
               bear
               :
            
             
               The
               Devil
               's
               an
               Ass
               ,
               for
               Jesuits
               on
               this
               spot
            
             
               Broke
               both
               the
               Neck
               of
               Godfrey
               ,
               &
               their
               Plot.
               
            
          
           
             
               A
               Passionate
               SATYR
               upon
               a
               Devillish
               Great
               He-Whore
               that
               lives
               yonder
               at
               ROME
               .
            
             
               A
               Pox
               on
               the
               Pope
               ,
               with
               his
               damn'd
               bald
               Pate
               ,
            
             
               What
               a
               stir
               hath
               this
               Toad
               made
               here
               of
               late
               ;
            
             
               Such
               a
               Noise
               and
               a
               horrible
               Clamour
            
             
               Is
               here
               with
               this
               Whore
               ,
               
                 a
                 Plague
                 of
                 God
                 on
                 her
                 .
              
            
             
             
               Must
               the
               Kingdom
               and
               State
               be
               at
               a
               loss
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               their
               sweet
               Peace
               to
               lye
               under
               a
               Cross
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Church
               and
               Church-men
               be
               expos'd
               to
               scorns
               ,
            
             
               Tost
               up
               and
               down
               by
               a
               Beast
               with
               Ten
               Horns
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Christians
               that
               know
               no
               more
               but
               one
               God
               ,
            
             
               Worship
               Ten
               Thousand
               ,
               or
               be
               scourg'd
               with
               a
               Rod
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Beads
               ,
               and
               a
               Cross
               ,
               and
               a
               Relick
               from
               Ione
               ,
            
             
               Make
               us
               fall
               down
               to
               Prayers
               right
               or
               wrong
               ?
            
             
               Must
               
                 Hobgoblin
                 Mass
              
               ,
               that
               's
               learn'd
               of
               Old-Nick
               ,
            
             
               Complement
               God
               for
               the
               Well
               and
               the
               Sick
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Water
               bless'd
               by
               a
               Conjuring
               Monk
               ,
            
             
               Scoure
               away
               Sins
               from
               a
               Pockyfi'd
               Punk
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Souls
               be
               pray'd
               out
               ,
               the
               Devil
               hath
               got
               ,
            
             
               At
               so
               much
               
                 per
                 Mass
              
               ,
               else
               there
               they
               must
               rot
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Sinners
               be
               sav'd
               by
               Old
               Sinning
               Gulls
               ?
            
             
               I
               'll
               ne're
               beg
               your
               Pardon
               ,
               those
               are
               damn'd
               Bulls
               .
            
             
               Must
               We
               ,
               
               Canibal-like
               ,
               eat
               up
               our
               God
               ,
            
             
               Or
               else
               must
               We
               not
               in
               Heaven
               have
               aboad
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Fire
               and
               Wood
               burn
               all
               that
               won't
               bow
               ,
            
             
               Worship
               S.
               Doll
               ,
               and
               the
               Devil
               knows
               who
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Ignorance
               be
               our
               Guide
               to
               Glory
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Heaven
               I
               'm
               sure
               is
               but
               an
               Old
               Story
               .
            
             
               Must
               all
               Men
               be
               blind
               that
               open
               their
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               That
               Priests
               may
               do
               what
               they
               please
               with
               their
               Wives●
            
             
               Must
               killing
               of
               Kings
               ,
               and
               Princes
               to
               boot
            
             
               Be
               Marks
               that
               the
               Pope
               is
               sound
               at
               the
               Root
               ?
            
             
               Must
               a
               Conclave
               of
               Rogues
               ,
               and
               Jesuit
               Priests
               ,
            
             
               Perswade
               all
               the
               World
               to
               Worship
               the
               Beast
               ?
            
             
               Must
               the
               Pope
               order
               all
               by
               Sea
               and
               by
               Land
               ,
            
             
               Who
               must
               turn
               out
               ,
               and
               who
               is
               to
               〈◊〉
            
             
             
               Must
               those
               be
               intrusted
               that
               swear
               and
               receive
            
             
               What
               e're
               you
               impose
               ,
               that
               they
               may
               deceive
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Iudas
               be
               saved
               that
               eat
               of
               the
               Sop
               ?
            
             
               No
               ,
               by
               the
               Mass
               ,
               he
               deserved
               the
               Rope
               :
            
             
               Must
               such
               be
               employed
               at
               Sea
               and
               at
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               That
               would
               subvert
               all
               to
               set
               up
               the
               Whore
               ?
            
             
               Must
               those
               be
               good
               that
               designed
               to
               seem
               such
               ?
            
             
               Who
               in
               Parliament
               time
               subscrib'd
               to
               the
               Church
               :
            
             
               Must
               We
               all
               be
               undone
               by
               a
               damn'd
               Popish
               Crew
               ,
            
             
               Some
               that
               is
               about
               us
               ,
               and
               some
               We
               ne're
               knew
               ?
            
             
               Must
               the
               King
               and
               his
               Friends
               see
               and
               know
               this
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               be
               advised
               that
               nothing's
               amiss
               ?
            
             
               Must
               this
               be
               the
               Trap
               ,
               then
               the
               Devil
               take
               it
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Hogs
               We
               've
               brought
               to
               a
               blessed
               Market
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vpon
               the
               Execution
               of
               the
               late
               Viscount
               STAFFORD
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 SHall
                 every
                 Jack
                 and
                 every
                 Jill
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 rides
                 in
                 State
                 up
                 Holbourn
                 Hill
              
               
                 By
                 aid
                 of
                 Smithfield
                 Rhymes
                 defie
              
               
                 The
                 Malice
                 of
                 Mortality
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 shall
                 Lord
                 Stafford
                 dye
                 forgot
                 ?
              
               
                 He
                 that
                 would
                 needs
                 be
                 such
                 a
                 Sot
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 dye
                 for
                 love
                 of
                 a
                 damn'd
                 Plot
                 ?
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 Viscount
                 ,
                 no
                 ;
                 believe
                 it
                 not
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 
                 Diana's
                 Temple
                 ,
                 all
                 in
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Advanc'd
                 th'
                 Incendiaries
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 Ruffians
                 ,
                 and
                 Bauds
                 ,
                 and
                 Whores
                 ,
                 and
                 Theives
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Ballad
                 Records
                 live
                 new
                 lives
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 shall
                 a
                 Lord
                 because
                 a
                 Traytor
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 such
                 an
                 Age
                 so
                 given
                 to
                 flatter
                 ,
              
               
                 Want
                 that
                 which
                 others
                 ,
                 Saints
                 to
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 want
                 to
                 fame
                 them
                 ,
                 Words
                 ,
                 and
                 Rhime
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Oh
                 Sir
                 !
                 the
                 Papishes
                 ,
                 you
                 know
              
               
                 Have
                 much
                 more
                 gratitude
                 than
                 so
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 same
                 Lord
                 that
                 brake
                 the
                 Laws
              
               
                 Of
                 God
                 and
                 Man
                 ,
                 to
                 serve
                 their
                 Cause
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 live
                 in
                 Pravers
                 ,
                 and
                 Almanacks
              
               
                 Beyond
                 what
                 Ballad-Monger
                 makes
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 some
                 Years
                 hence
                 ,
                 you
                 'l
                 see
                 ,
                 shall
                 work
              
               
                 Such
                 Miracles
                 ,
                 would
                 turn
                 a
                 Turk
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Blest
                 is
                 that
                 Man
                 that
                 has
                 a
                 Box
              
               
                 To
                 save
                 the
                 Saw-dust
                 in
                 ,
                 that
                 sokes
              
               
                 His
                 tainted
                 Blood
                 ,
                 or
                 can
                 besmeare
              
               
                 One
                 corner
                 of
                 his
                 Muckinder
                 :
              
               
                 Oh!
                 then
                 ,
                 some
                 Ages
                 hence
                 they
                 'l
                 cry
              
               
                 Lo
                 ,
                 
                 Stafford's
                 Blood
                 ,
                 and
                 shed
                 for
                 why
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 nothing
                 but
                 because
                 he
                 sought
              
               
                 To
                 kill
                 his
                 Prince
                 ,
                 and
                 sham
                 the
                 Plot.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Now
                 they
                 that
                 dye
                 for
                 crimes
                 like
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Papists
                 send
                 to
                 Heaven
                 with
                 case
                 :
              
               
               
                 For
                 they
                 secure
                 'em
                 safe
                 from
                 Hell
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 once
                 believ'd
                 ,
                 the
                 rest
                 is
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 strange
                 Belief
                 ,
                 that
                 Men
                 should
                 think
              
               
                 That
                 were
                 not
                 drunk
                 with
                 worse
                 than
                 Drink
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 such
                 Rewards
                 as
                 Deifying
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Treason
                 should
                 begain'd
                 and
                 Lying
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Man
                 that
                 for
                 Religion
                 dyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 nothing
                 more
                 before
                 his
                 Eyes
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 that
                 dyes
                 a
                 Criminal
                 ,
              
               
                 Dyes
                 with
                 a
                 load
                 ,
                 and
                 none
                 can
                 call
              
               
                 Religion
                 that
                 which
                 makes
                 him
                 dream
                 ,
              
               
                 Obduracy
                 can
                 hide
                 his
                 shame
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VII
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Pope
                 may
                 do
                 what
                 he
                 Conjectures
              
               
                 As
                 to
                 the
                 business
                 of
                 his
                 Pictures
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Colours
                 ne're
                 can
                 hide
                 the
                 Crimes
                 ,
              
               
                 Stories
                 will
                 read
                 to
                 after
                 Times
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 't
                 will
                 be
                 found
                 in
                 the
                 Hangman's
                 Hands
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 strangely
                 blur
                 the
                 Pope's
                 Commands
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VIII
                 .
              
               
                 Had
                 he
                 but
                 shewed
                 some
                 
                   Christmas
                   Gambles
                
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Headless
                 took
                 St.
                 
                   Denis
                   Rambles
                
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Plot
                 had
                 been
                 a
                 damnable
                 thing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 down
                 had
                 gon
                 the
                 Scaffolding
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 'cause
                 his
                 Lordship
                 this
                 forgot
                 ,
              
               
                 Men
                 still
                 believe
                 there
                 is
                 a
                 Plot.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 IX
                 .
              
               
                 Where
                 was
                 St.
                 Dominick
                 asleep
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 did
                 St.
                 Frank
                 his
                 Kennel
                 keep
                 ?
              
               
               
                 That
                 on
                 a
                 business
                 so
                 emergen
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 did
                 not
                 brisly
                 teize
                 the
                 Virgin
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 let
                 his
                 Lordship
                 play
                 a
                 Prank
              
               
                 Her
                 Grace
                 becoming
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Rank
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 X.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 they
                 that
                 Heaven
                 and
                 Earth
                 Command
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 see
                 sometimes
                 they
                 're
                 at
                 a
                 stand
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 truth
                 to
                 tell
                 ye
                 ,
                 should
                 the
                 Saints
              
               
                 Be
                 bound
                 to
                 hear
                 all
                 Fools
                 complaints
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 Lives
                 would
                 be
                 as
                 void
                 of
                 mirth
              
               
                 In
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 as
                 formerly
                 on
                 Earth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XI
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 Ballad●wise
                 before
                 he
                 's
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tell
                 ye
                 what
                 the
                 Sufferer
                 said
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 both
                 defended
                 ,
                 and
                 gain-said
                 ,
              
               
                 Held
                 up
                 his
                 hands
                 and
                 cry'd
                 ,
                 and
                 pray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swore
                 he
                 ne're
                 was
                 in
                 the
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 by
                 his
                 Vicountship
                 .
                 God
                 wot
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XII
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 had
                 it
                 not
                 been
                 better
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 dy'd
                 to
                 Death
                 common
                 Debter
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 upon
                 your
                 lasting
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 Character
                 had
                 been
                 alone
                 ?
              
               
                 Here
                 lies
                 a
                 very
                 Honest
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 True
                 to
                 his
                 King
                 ,
                 true
                 to
                 his
                 Word
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIII
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 of
                 your
                 Religion
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 now
                 a
                 days
                 so
                 damn'd
                 high
                 flown
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 think
                 that
                 nothing
                 makes
                 a
                 Saint
              
               
                 But
                 Plot
                 refin'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Treason
                 Quaint
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 Heaven
                 accepts
                 no
                 Offerings
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Ruin'd
                 Kingdoms
                 ,
                 Murdered
                 Kings
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XIV
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 you
                 that
                 knew
                 who
                 were
                 his
                 Judges
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 found
                 him
                 Guilty
                 without
                 grudges
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 gave
                 him
                 over
                 to
                 the
                 Block
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 how
                 he
                 sham'd
                 to
                 save
                 the
                 stroak
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 believe
                 the
                 Speech
                 he
                 made
                 ye
                 ,
              
               
                 Le'strange
                 ,
                 and
                 P
                 —
                 ton's
                 shame
                 degrade
                 ye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 XV.
                 
              
               
                 Thus
                 us'd
                 all
                 Arts
                 that
                 could
                 cajole
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 may
                 be
                 sure
                 ,
                 his
                 silly
                 Soul
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 were
                 those
                 promises
                 perform'd
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 his
                 Conscience
                 they
                 had
                 charm'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 would
                 betray
                 a
                 Cursed
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 when
                 Dead
                 ,
                 the
                 Lord
                 knows
                 what
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 XVI
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 those
                 jolly
                 Promises
              
               
                 Do
                 send
                 thee
                 into
                 
                   Little
                   ●ase
                
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 certainly
                 they
                 must
                 undo
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 Fools
                 and
                 Knaves
                 said
                 to
                 thee
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 Phlegeus
                 like
                 in
                 Hell
                 condole
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Curse
                 them
                 that
                 betray'd
                 thy
                 Soul.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 XVII
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 God
                 preserve
                 our
                 Noble
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bless
                 all
                 them
                 that
                 thus
                 did
                 bring
              
               
                 Unto
                 the
                 Block
                 that
                 silly
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 car'd
                 not
                 what
                 it
                 did
                 or
                 said
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 good
                 Men
                 may
                 Heaven
                 defend
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 such
                 a
                 vile
                 untimely
                 End.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Lord
               STAFFORD's
               Ghost
               ,
               &c.
               
            
             
               FRom
               Stygian
               shade
               ,
               lo
               ,
               my
               pale
               Ghost
               doth
               rise
               ,
            
             
               To
               visit
               Earth
               ,
               and
               these
               sublunar
               Skies
               ;
            
             
               For
               some
               few
               moments
               I'm
               in
               Mercy
               sent
               ,
            
             
               To
               bid
               my
               Fellow-Traytors
               to
               Repent
               :
            
             
               Repent
               before
               you
               taste
               of
               Horrid
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Guilt
               confess
               ,
               before
               it
               be
               too
               late
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               not
               here
               arriv'd
               on
               Earth
               ,
               to
               tell
            
             
               The
               hidden
               secrets
               that
               belong
               to
               Hell
               :
            
             
               Nor
               am
               I
               sent
               to
               publish
               or
               declare
               ▪
            
             
               Who
               are
               tormenters
               ,
               whom
               tormented
               there
               .
            
             
               For
               now
               I
               know
               that
               it
               is
               Heavens
               decree
               ,
            
             
               These
               things
               to
               Mortals
               still
               shall
               secrets
               be
               ;
            
             
               Who
               have
               fantastick
               Dreams
               ,
               and
               nothing
               know
               ,
            
             
               Of
               what
               is
               done
               above
               ,
               or
               yet
               below
               :
            
             
               But
               I
               have
               seen
               with
               my
               Immortal
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Things
               that
               with
               horror
               do
               my
               Soul
               surprize
               ;
            
             
               Too
               late
               alas
               !
               too
               late
               ,
               I
               see
               my
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               With
               strange
               Chymera's
               I
               've
               deluded
               been
               ,
            
             
               By
               a
               curs'd
               brood
               ,
               who
               sounded
               in
               my
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               Dye
               obstinate
               ,
               no
               Chains
               of
               Conscience
               fear
               :
            
             
               Upon
               us
               firmly
               let
               your
               Faith
               be
               built
               ,
            
             
               We
               can
               and
               do
               Absolve
               you
               from
               your
               Guilt
               ;
            
             
               And
               after
               this
               ,
               you
               need
               no
               more
               Repent
               ,
            
             
               For
               you
               a
               Martyr
               dye
               ,
               and
               Innocent
               .
            
             
               O
               Cursed
               Men
               !
               who
               on
               Wretches
               thus
               Intrude
               ,
            
             
               And
               thus
               poor
               Souls
               ,
               Eternally
               delude
               :
            
             
             
               Whilst
               they
               believe
               what
               these
               deluders
               say
               ,
            
             
               Li●e
               is
               snatch'd
               from
               them
               ,
               and
               they
               drop
               away
               ;
            
             
               And
               falling
               down
               ,
               by
               Charon
               Death
               they
               're
               hurl'd
            
             
               Into
               the
               Mansions
               of
               a
               dismal
               World
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Conscience
               stands
               ,
               and
               stares
               them
               in
               the
               face
               ,
            
             
               Shewing
               a
               Table
               of
               Eternal
               Brass
               :
            
             
               In
               which
               in
               noted
               Characters
               are
               wrot
            
             
               Their
               whole
               lifes
               crimes
               ,
               which
               living
               they
               forgot
               .
            
             
               With
               Conscience
               these
               have
               an
               Eternal
               strife
               ,
            
             
               And
               Curse
               the
               vain
               delusive
               Dreams
               of
               Life
               :
            
             
               With
               torment
               now
               their
               crimes
               read
               o're
               and
               o're
               ,
            
             
               And
               waking
               ,
               see
               they
               did
               but
               Dream
               before
               :
            
             
               Too
               late
               ,
               and
               than
               too
               late
               ,
               what
               Plague
               is
               worse
               ?
            
             
               They
               see
               their
               folly
               ,
               and
               themselves
               they
               Curse
               ;
            
             
               They
               Curse
               themselves
               ,
               because
               they
               did
               believe
               ,
            
             
               And
               doubtly
               Curse
               those
               who
               did
               them
               deceive
               .
            
             
               When
               to
               the
               fatal
               Scaffold
               I
               was
               brought
               ,
            
             
               I
               said
               ,
               and
               did
               what
               I
               was
               bid
               ,
               and
               laught
               ,
            
             
               Tho'
               Conscience
               said
               ,
               I
               did
               not
               what
               I
               ought
               .
            
             
               Stoutly
               the
               Guilt
               ,
               as
               I
               was
               bid
               ,
               deny'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               the
               Cause
               ,
               I
               
               Rome's
               great
               Martyr
               dy'd
               .
            
             
               I
               that
               Religion
               then
               esteemed
               good
               ,
            
             
               And
               gladly
               would
               have
               seal'd
               it
               with
               my
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               Because
               I
               then
               no
               better
               understood
               .
            
             
               Let
               not
               the
               World
               to
               vain
               delusions
               flye
               ,
            
             
               I
               did
               for
               Treason
               ,
               not
               Religion
               ,
               dye
               .
            
             
               Tho'
               on
               the
               Scaffold
               I
               would
               not
               confess
               ,
            
             
               My
               Ghost
               ,
               alas
               !
               too
               late
               can
               do
               no
               less
               .
            
             
               Let
               all
               Complotters
               warning
               take
               by
               me
               ,
            
             
               The
               World
               we
               may
               delude
               ,
               but
               God
               doth
               see
               ;
            
             
             
               Tho'
               what
               we
               did
               should
               never
               come
               to
               light
               ,
            
             
               It
               can't
               be
               hid
               from
               the
               Almighty's
               sight
               :
            
             
               Give
               God
               the
               Glory
               ,
               and
               confess
               your
               Crime
               ,
            
             
               Confess
               your
               horrid
               Treason
               while
               you
               've
               time
               ;
            
             
               Publick
               Confession
               shews
               you
               do
               Repent
               ,
            
             
               And
               is
               the
               best
               way
               to
               grow
               Innocent
               .
            
             
               I
               see
               too
               late
               ,
               I
               have
               been
               led
               astray
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               Error
               ,
               far
               from
               Truth
               ,
               was
               led
               away
               ;
            
             
               For
               that
               Religion
               never
               can
               be
               good
               ,
            
             
               That
               would
               erect
               it self
               by
               Humane
               Blood.
            
             
               I
               pin'd
               my self
               upon
               anothers
               sleeve
               ,
            
             
               And
               blindly
               I
               did
               as
               the
               Church
               believe
               ;
            
             
               What
               my
               delusive
               Guides
               did
               bid
               me
               do
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               believ'd
               was
               Holy
               ,
               Just
               ,
               and
               True.
            
             
               With
               Zeal
               I
               acted
               ,
               and
               hop'd
               for
               Applause
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Men
               and
               Heaven
               ,
               in
               so
               good
               a
               Cause
               :
            
             
               But
               Oh!
               I
               sigh
               ,
               and
               now
               my
               Airy
               Ghost
               ,
            
             
               Shivers
               to
               think
               what
               Blessings
               I
               have
               lost
               :
            
             
               The
               broadway
               to
               Destruction
               then
               I
               took
               ,
            
             
               And
               Vertues
               Road
               my
               blinded
               Zeal
               mistook
               .
            
             
               But
               you
               my
               Friends
               ,
               who
               yet
               are
               left
               behind
               ,
            
             
               Now
               to
               your selves
               ,
               and
               to
               your
               Souls
               be
               kind
               ;
            
             
               Open
               her
               Eyes
               ,
               and
               be
               no
               longer
               blind
               ,
            
             
               Pry
               my
               sad
               End
               ,
               do
               you
               your
               Errors
               find
               .
            
             
               Confess
               your
               Crimes
               before
               it
               be
               too
               late
               ,
            
             
               Confess
               ,
               confess
               ,
               before
               you
               yield
               to
               Fate
               :
            
             
               Before
               from
               Life
               ,
               and
               from
               the
               World
               you
               go
               ,
            
             
               Before
               that
               you
               descend
               to
               Shades
               below
               ,
            
             
               Before
               your
               Souls
               taste
               of
               Eternal
               Woe
               .
            
             
             
               Truth
               cannot
               Dye
               ,
               it
               stronger
               is
               than
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Remains
               when
               Mortals
               have
               resign'd
               their
               breath
               ;
            
             
               To
               amazed
               Souls
               with
               Conscience
               she
               appears
               ,
            
             
               To
               aggravate
               ,
               and
               to
               encrease
               their
               fears
               .
            
             
               Confess
               her
               while
               you
               live
               ,
               though
               drawn
               to
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               Repentance
               with
               Confession
               doth
               begin
               .
            
             
               Believe
               no
               longer
               that
               accursed
               Brood
               ,
            
             
               Who
               on
               the
               Necks
               of
               Kings
               have
               proudly
               trod
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               him
               who
               thinks
               himself
               an
               Earthly
               God.
            
             
               Those
               Hectoring
               Jesuits
               who
               so
               Zealous
               be
               ,
            
             
               Who
               think
               to
               Rule
               the
               World
               by
               Policy
               ;
            
             
               Who
               to
               the
               Gallows
               seem
               with
               joy
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               the
               Martyrs
               ,
               and
               the
               Raints
               of
               Rome
               .
            
             
               When
               Life
               is
               fled
               ,
               and
               they
               are
               gon
               from
               hence
               ,
            
             
               In
               tumbling
               down
               are
               waked
               into
               Sense
               ;
            
             
               Where
               all
               amaz'd
               ,
               and
               wondring
               where
               they
               've
               bin
               ,
            
             
               They
               howl
               ,
               and
               cry
               ,
               and
               wish
               to
               Dye
               agin
               .
            
             
               Beware
               I
               say
               ,
               be
               fool'd
               no
               longer
               here
               ,
            
             
               For
               Rhadamanthus
               is
               a
               Judge
               severe
               .
            
             
               Hark!
               I
               am
               call'd
               ,
               I
               must
               descend
               below
               ,
            
             
               But
               let
               me
               Prophesie
               before
               I
               go
               :
            
             
               See
               the
               bright
               Star●
               which
               o're
               your
               Heads
               doth
               shine
               ,
            
             
               I
               can
               as
               well
               as
               Gadbury
               Divine
               ;
            
             
               What
               the
               bright
               stream
               of
               Radient
               Light
               doth
               mean
               ,
            
             
               Which
               every
               Night
               so
               frequently
               is
               seen
               .
            
             
               Hear
               me
               ,
               O
               Rome
               !
               though
               in
               your
               Cause
               I
               dy'd
               ,
            
             
               Nigh
               is
               the
               setting
               of
               your
               Pomp
               and
               Pride
               :
            
             
               That
               Star
               doth
               shew
               ,
               that
               day
               is
               near
               at
               hand
               ,
            
             
               That
               Rome
               no
               longer
               shall
               the
               world
               command
               ,
            
             
               And
               many
               Years
               it
               hath
               not
               now
               to
               stand
               .
            
             
             
               By
               that
               bright
               stream
               ,
               which
               still
               points
               to
               the
               East
               ,
            
             
               The
               Everlasting
               Gospel's
               Light
               's
               exprest
               :
            
             
               Which
               just
               is
               breaking
               forth
               ,
               and
               doth
               bespeak
               ,
            
             
               That
               its
               most
               Glorious
               Day
               's
               about
               to
               break
               ;
            
             
               When
               Peace
               ,
               and
               Truth
               ,
               and
               Righteousness
               shall
               stand
               ,
            
             
               Everlasting
               Pillars
               set
               in
               every
               Land
               ,
            
             
               And
               Christ
               in
               Power
               alone
               the
               world
               command
               .
            
             
               Then
               shall
               the
               world
               shine
               with
               Eternal
               Glory
               ,
            
             
               And
               Perhaps
               ,
               may
               then
               leave
               PVRGATORY
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Ghosts
               of
               Edward
               Fitz
               Harris
               ,
               and
               Oliver
               Plunket
               ,
               who
               were
               Executed
               at
               Tyburn
               for
               High
               Treason
               ,
               &c.
               
            
             
               
                 Fitz
                 Harirs
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Groan
                 and
                 Languish
                 to
                 Relate
              
               
                 My
                 Countries
                 present
                 Case
                 and
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 now
                 lies
                 under
                 pressures
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 been
                 in
                 my
                 time
                 a
                 Thing
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 would
                 have
                 done
                 ought
                 'gainst
                 the
                 King
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 I
                 Popery
                 in
                 might
                 bring
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Boggled
                 not
                 Shams
                 to
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereby
                 to
                 charge
                 upon
                 (
                 with
                 Lies
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Presbyterians
                 Plotting
                 Guise
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 they
                 in
                 Truth
                 for
                 ought
                 I
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 naught
                 under
                 design
                 or
                 view
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 was
                 Loyal
                 ,
                 Just
                 ,
                 and
                 True.
              
               
                 In
                 order
                 this
                 Sham-Plot
                 to
                 vent
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 a
                 damn'd
                 Libell
                 did
                 invent
                 ,
              
               
                 'gainst
                 both
                 the
                 King
                 and
                 Government
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Plunket
                 .
              
               
                 Tush
                 ,
                 Fellow
                 Martyr
                 ,
                 Tush
                 I
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 do
                 what
                 misbecomes
                 your
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 
                 Rome's
                 Plottings
                 if
                 you
                 do
                 betray
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 Man
                 ever
                 think
                 you
                 ,
                 got
              
               
                 A
                 Pardon
                 for
                 being
                 in
                 the
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 to
                 the
                 last
                 deny'd
                 it
                 not
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 ever
                 heard
                 you
                 was
                 there
                 one
              
               
                 That
                 was
                 o'
                 th
                 Roman
                 Church
                 a
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 went
                 on
                 as
                 he
                 had
                 begun
                 ?
              
               
                 D'
                 ye
                 think
                 you
                 ever
                 sav'd
                 shall
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 retract
                 not
                 what
                 you
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Holy
                 Church
                 don't
                 justifie
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 as
                 a
                 Priest
                 pronounce
                 you
                 damn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 shall
                 be
                 into
                 Hell
                 now
                 Cram'd
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 persist
                 in
                 things
                 forenam'd
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 in
                 endless
                 Torments
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 all
                 our
                 Rogueries
                 I
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thereby
                 into
                 Heaven
                 fly
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fitz.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 Heaven
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 think
                 to
                 win
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 persevering
                 in
                 known
                 Sin
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 will
                 I
                 doubt
                 fall
                 into
                 th'
                 Gin.
              
               
                 For
                 if
                 one
                 Crime
                 that
                 unrepented
              
               
                 Be
                 damnable
                 ,
                 how
                 you
                 've
                 prevented
              
               
                 Your
                 Fate
                 I
                 know
                 not
                 ,
                 but
                 contented
              
               
                 Am
                 ,
                 that
                 you
                 should
                 a
                 Papist
                 dye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 by
                 telling
                 many
                 a
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Heav'n
                 reach
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 ,
                 Poor
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 make
                 a
                 free
                 and
                 true
                 discov'ry
              
               
                 Of
                 what
                 I
                 know
                 at
                 large
                 or
                 by
              
               
                 Of
                 this
                 vile
                 Plot
                 which
                 I
                 decry
                 ;
              
               
               
                 ●ost
                 Heartily
                 confessing
                 ,
                 that
              
               
                 〈◊〉
                 truly
                 sorry
                 am
                 ,
                 for
                 what
              
               
                 ●●ve
                 done
                 ,
                 t'
                 advance
                 the
                 Romish
                 Plot.
              
               
                 ●or
                 now
                 at
                 last
                 I
                 plainly
                 see
              
               
                 ●omes
                 Religion's
                 damn'd
                 Heresie
              
               
                 ●ept
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 carryed
                 on
                 by
                 Cursed
                 Cruelty
                 .
              
               
                 ●or
                 else
                 how
                 comes
                 it
                 pray
                 about
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Friends
                 to
                 'th
                 Cause
                 have
                 been
                 so
                 stout
              
               
                 Toth
                 '
                 very
                 last
                 ,
                 to
                 brave
                 it
                 out
                 ?
              
               
                 〈◊〉
                 wonder
                 how
                 you
                 durst
                 presume
                 ,
              
               
                 God's
                 Sacred
                 Name
                 in
                 Mouth
                 t'assume
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 justifie
                 your
                 Lyes
                 ,
                 and
                 Rome
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 thereby
                 weakly
                 to
                 keep
                 up
              
               
                 The
                 Credit
                 of
                 your
                 damn'd
                 Pope
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho
                 't
                 cost
                 you
                 Hell
                 for
                 't
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Rope
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 do
                 confess
                 I
                 justly
                 dye
              
               
                 For
                 serving
                 you
                 and
                 Popery
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Villanies
                 I
                 Blush
                 to
                 say
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Judges
                 freely
                 I
                 forgive
                 ,
              
               
                 Being
                 one
                 no
                 way
                 deserv'd
                 to
                 Live
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 grace
                 of
                 a
                 Reprieve
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 favour
                 great
                 indeed
                 ,
                 I
                 think
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 th'
                 King
                 to
                 give
                 me
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 brink
              
               
                 Of
                 my
                 sad
                 Fate
                 ,
                 time
                 e're
                 I
                 sink
                 .
              
               
                 Wherein
                 I
                 reconcil'd
                 might
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 enraged
                 Diety
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Crimes
                 against
                 His
                 Majesty
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 might
                 my
                 Countries
                 danger
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 had
                 surely
                 it
                 befell
                 ,
                 (
                 Viz.
                 )
              
               
                 All
                 Protestants
                 that
                 therein
                 dwell
                 .
              
               
               
                 Oh!
                 that
                 this
                 time
                 allotted
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 Whereon
                 depends
                 my
                 Eternity
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 tend
                 to
                 extirpate
                 Popery
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 I
                 therein
                 do
                 all
                 such
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 may
                 Attone
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 Kings
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 is
                 the
                 thing
                 true
                 comfort
                 brings
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 likewise
                 warn
                 poor
                 England
                 yet
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 dark
                 day
                 ,
                 e're
                 it
                 be
                 too
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 avoid
                 both
                 French
                 and
                 Popish
                 ▪
                 State.
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 it
                 ,
                 as
                 one
                 Man
                 ,
                 oppose
              
               
                 It self
                 to
                 Ruin
                 by
                 its
                 Foes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strive
                 to
                 save
                 it self
                 from
                 Threat
                 and
                 Woes
                 .
              
               
                 May
                 now
                 my
                 Soul
                 lie
                 down
                 in
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ne're
                 hereafter
                 may
                 it
                 cease
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 praise
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Infinite
                 Grace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Pl.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 long
                 Harangues
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 have
                 you
                 mad●
              
               
                 You
                 've
                 made
                 me
                 by
                 'em
                 quite
                 afraid
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Persevere
                 in
                 what
                 I
                 said
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 do
                 confess
                 likewise
                 ,
                 that
                 I
              
               
                 Concern'd
                 was
                 much
                 i'
                 th
                 Villany
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 I
                 am
                 Condemn'd
                 to
                 Die.
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 from
                 Popish
                 Treachery
                 ,
              
               
                 England
                 was
                 like
                 Reduc'd
                 to
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 French
                 and
                 Romish
                 Tyranny
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 this
                 I
                 always
                 took
                 for
                 Truth
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 what
                 comes
                 out
                 o'
                 th'
                 Churches
                 Mouth
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 Oracle
                 from
                 North
                 to
                 South
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 I
                 knew
                 the
                 Church
                 had
                 given
              
               
                 Power
                 to
                 go
                 on
                 with
                 the
                 Old
                 Leaven
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 thought
                 it
                 surely
                 come
                 from
                 Heaven
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 now
                 I
                 doubt
                 I
                 was
                 mistaken
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fear
                 Rome
                 Babel
                 will
                 be
                 shaken
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 England
                 throughly
                 awaken
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 in
                 Truth
                 in
                 doubt
                 ,
                 we
                 shall
              
               
                 E're
                 long
                 receive
                 a
                 lasting
                 fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Ne're
                 more
                 to
                 vex
                 the
                 World
                 at
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 though
                 I
                 Dye
                 o'
                 th'
                 Church
                 of
                 Rome
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 I
                 believe
                 those
                 things
                 will
                 come
              
               
                 Upon
                 her
                 ,
                 which
                 will
                 be
                 the
                 Final
                 Doom
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fitz.
                 
              
               
                 Sir
                 ,
                 If
                 you
                 do
                 these
                 things
                 Believe
                 ,
              
               
                 Your self
                 you
                 wretchedly
                 deceive
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 that
                 you
                 quickly
                 don
                 't
                 receive
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Protestants
                 Religion
                 's
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 I
                 almost
                 Conform
                 to
                 cou'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 for
                 my
                 having
                 sought
                 their
                 Blood.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Pl.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 then
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 are
                 not
                 convinced
              
               
                 Which
                 is
                 the
                 Right
                 ,
                 pray
                 do
                 not
                 mince
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 leave
                 to
                 Time
                 for
                 to
                 evince
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 us
                 hearttly
                 both
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 our
                 Prayers
                 now
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 words
                 of
                 the
                 ensuing
                 Line
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Both.
                 
              
               
                 May
                 God
                 long
                 Bless
                 the
                 King
                 ,
                 we
                 Pray
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 Plots
                 'gainst
                 him
                 still
                 bewray
                 .
              
               
                 Popish
                 and
                 Factious
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 all
                 Men
                 lay
              
            
             
               Amen
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Answer
               of
               Coleman's
               Ghost
               ,
               to
               H.
               N's
               .
               POETICK
               OFFERING
               .
            
             
               Rise
               Nevil
               ,
               Rise
               and
               do
               not
               punish
               me
               ,
            
             
               With
               the
               vain
               sight
               of
               your
               Idolatry
               .
            
             
               You
               may
               with
               equal
               Reason
               call
               upon
            
             
               The
               good
               Saint
               I●arus
               or
               Phaeton
               ,
            
             
               Who
               do
               the
               Sacred
               Name
               deserve
               as
               far
               ,
            
             
               As
               some
               who
               blush
               in
               
                 Roman
                 Kalendar
              
               :
            
             
               With
               like
               Ambition
               I
               design'd
               to
               know
            
             
               No
               other
               Triumphs
               but
               of
               things
               below
               ;
            
             
               And
               rather
               labour'd
               how
               there
               might
               be
               given
               ,
            
             
               
                 French
                 Crowns
              
               ,
               postponing
               all
               the
               Crowns
               of
               Heaven
               .
            
             
               Favour'd
               in
               this
               ,
               because
               kind
               Heaven
               declines
            
             
               My
               high
               Intr●gues
               ,
               and
               baffles
               my
               Designs
               .
            
             
               None
               with
               more
               covetous
               Zeal
               pursu'd
               our
               Cause
               ,
            
             
               Or
               fell
               a
               more
               due
               Sacrifice
               to
               Laws
               .
            
             
               In
               that
               sad
               day
               when
               strangled
               Life
               expir'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               just
               flames
               my
               bloody
               Limbs
               requir'd
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               my
               hot
               Soul
               in
               hasty
               flight
               retires
               ,
            
             
               From
               Tyburns
               only
               Purgatory
               Fires
               .
            
             
               Immortal
               shapes
               crowd
               on
               in
               Troops
               to
               view
               ,
            
             
               My
               Plotting
               Soul
               and
               stopt
               me
               as
               I
               flew
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Spirits
               who
               Incarnate
               ever
               mov'd
            
             
               In
               their
               By-Paths
               ,
               and
               never
               quiet
               lov'd
               .
            
             
               The
               Cunning
               Machiavel
               drew
               near
               and
               fear'd
               ,
            
             
               Screek't
               a●
               the
               sight
               of
               me
               and
               disappeard
               .
            
             
             
               Shewing
               how
               weak
               all
               human
               Plots
               are
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Hopes
               and
               Souls
               have
               always
               been
               betray'd
               .
            
             
               Scylla
               and
               Marius
               wondring
               at
               our
               Crimes
               ,
            
             
               Pityed
               the
               near
               misfortune
               of
               our
               times
               ,
            
             
               Sigh'd
               at
               those
               streams
               of
               blood
               which
               were
               to
               run
               ,
            
             
               And
               curst
               our
               Tables
               of
               Proscription
               .
            
             
               Fierce
               Cataline
               our
               Villany
               decry'd
               ,
            
             
               To
               whom
               the
               bold
               Cethegus
               soon
               reply'd
               ,
            
             
               How
               New
               Rome
               imitates
               and
               yet
               exceeds
            
             
               In
               dire
               Conspiracies
               our
               puny
               deeds
               !
            
             
               Great
               Caesars
               Ghost
               with
               Envy
               lookt
               on
               me
               ,
            
             
               That
               for
               Romes
               sake
               I
               aim'd
               at
               more
               than
               he
               ,
            
             
               To
               Conquer
               all
               the
               Isles
               of
               Britanny
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               blam'd
               the
               Cruelties
               which
               were
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               From
               that
               Dictator
               which
               now
               reigns
               at
               Rome
               .
            
             
               Spiritual
               Dictator
               !
               who
               more
               controuls
            
             
               Than
               he
               ,
               and
               claps
               his
               Fetters
               on
               our
               Souls
               ?
            
             
               He
               told
               me
               old
               Romes
               Walls
               had
               longer
               stood
               ,
            
             
               If
               Romulus
               had
               spar'd
               his
               Brothers
               blood
            
             
               And
               that
               Romes
               happiness
               grew
               always
               worse
               ,
            
             
               When
               it
               resembled
               the
               fierce
               Wolf
               its
               Nurse
               .
            
             
               Ah
               ,
               my
               good
               Friend
               ,
               how
               clearly
               do
               I
               find
               ,
            
             
               In
               this
               new
               State
               the
               faults
               of
               human
               kind
               .
            
             
               Nothing
               procures
               so
               high
               a
               place
               above
               ,
            
             
               As
               Universal
               Charity
               and
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Infus'd
               and
               manag'd
               by
               the
               Heavenly
               Dove
            
             
               Heav'n
               is
               quiet
               Kingdom
               which
               we
               call
            
             
               Your
               injur'd
               Scriptures
               true
               Original
               ,
            
             
               There
               no
               false
               Comments
               on
               the
               Text
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               must
               Trents
               Swurio●s
               Council
               dom●●eer
               .
            
             
             
               Sometime
               with
               me
               ,
               dear
               Nevel
               ,
               you
               must
               grant
               ,
            
             
               The
               Church
               Triumphant
               to
               be
               Protestant
               .
            
             
               If
               against
               them
               on
               Earth
               Romes
               Malice
               thrives
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               Romes
               Cause
               prevails
               ,
               but
               their
               ill
               Lives
               .
            
             
               So
               Babylon
               of
               old
               vext
               Israel
               ,
            
             
               And
               wicked
               Men
               raise
               Enemies
               from
               Hell.
            
             
               As
               once
               on
               Earth
               I
               did
               your
               good
               attend
               ,
            
             
               So
               now
               for
               Love
               I
               am
               your
               Ghostly
               Friend
               :
            
             
               Let
               your
               Soul
               hate
               all
               bloody
               ways
               and
               things
               ,
            
             
               To
               subvert
               States
               and
               Laws
               ,
               to
               murther
               Kings
               .
            
             
               Or
               you
               are
               sure
               to
               equal
               my
               disgrace
               ,
            
             
               And
               without
               Mercy
               you
               may
               name
               your
               place
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               Dialogue
               between
               the
               POPE
               and
               the
               TURK
               ,
               Concerning
               the
               Propagation
               of
               the
               Catholick
               Faith.
               
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 HAil
                 mighty
                 Monarch
                 !
                 by
                 whose
                 aid
              
               
                 I
                 hope
                 I
                 shall
                 subdue
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 the
                 future
                 make
                 afraid
              
               
                 The
                 whole
                 Heretical
                 Crew
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 will
                 both
                 wise
                 and
                 grateful
                 prove
              
               
                 While
                 you
                 with
                 me
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 always
                 have
                 shew'd
                 you
                 my
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 your
                 good
                 design
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 mean
                 these
                 ambiguities
              
               
                 With
                 which
                 to
                 me
                 you
                 come
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Is
                 th'
                 Oracle
                 of
                 doubtful
                 lies
              
               
                 From
                 Delphos
                 gone
                 to
                 Rome
                 ?
              
               
                 Your
                 kindness
                 I
                 ne're
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 Whatever
                 you
                 pretend
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 ,
                 to
                 whom
                 you
                 ne'er
                 did
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 can
                 you
                 be
                 a
                 Friend
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 Ungrateful
                 Man
                 !
                 do
                 you
                 forget
              
               
                 How
                 I
                 did
                 once
                 betray
              
               
                 The
                 Grecian-Empire
                 ,
                 which
                 as
                 yet
              
               
                 Your
                 Scepter
                 doth
                 obey
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 did
                 the
                 Greeks
                 to
                 Florence
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kept
                 them
                 there
                 with
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 were
                 Master
                 made
                 of
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 we
                 could
                 agree
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 manifests
                 your
                 wickedness
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 your
                 cause
                 yet
                 worse
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 no
                 reason
                 you
                 to
                 bless
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 Greece
                 hath
                 cause
                 to
                 Curse
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 prove
                 your
                 Treachery
                 indeed
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 not
                 your
                 love
                 to
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 'd
                 ne're
                 have
                 helpt
                 me
                 in
                 my
                 need
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 they
                 'd
                 submitted
                 t'
                 ee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 think
                 I
                 stood
                 your
                 Friend
                 (
                 good
                 Sir
                 )
              
               
                 When
                 Iames
                 did
                 aspire
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 both
                 did
                 keep
                 him
                 Prisoner
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 poyson'd
                 him
                 for
                 hire
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Then
                 against
                 France
                 't
                 was
                 I
                 did
                 send
              
               
                 For
                 your
                 victorious
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 promise
                 that
                 I
                 would
                 defend
              
               
                 Your
                 Kingdoms
                 from
                 all
                 harms
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 Two
                 Hundred
                 Thousand
                 Florens
                 ,
                 when
              
               
                 You
                 did
                 my
                 Brother's
                 work
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 had
                 :
                 The
                 Benefactor
                 then
              
               
                 Was
                 not
                 the
                 Pope
                 but
                 Turk
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 true
                 ,
                 me
                 once
                 you
                 did
                 invite
              
               
                 Your
                 int'rest
                 to
                 advance
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 cause
                 you
                 lov'd
                 me
                 ,
                 but
                 for
                 spite
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 France
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 still
                 Ingratitude
                 you
                 pay
              
               
                 For
                 kindnesses
                 good
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 'l
                 be
                 rul'd
                 ,
                 I
                 'le
                 on
                 you
                 lay
              
               
                 One
                 obligation
                 more
                 ▪
              
               
                 I
                 'le
                 raise
                 your
                 Empire
                 yet
                 so
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 shall
                 straitway
                 yield
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 pull
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 I
              
               
                 Do
                 Monarchies
                 rebuild
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 your
                 talk
                 ,
                 I
                 still
                 do
                 fear
              
               
                 That
                 while
                 you
                 make
                 a
                 pother
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 one
                 hand
                 pretend
                 to
                 rear
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 pull
                 down
                 with
                 the
                 other
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 is
                 't
                 now
                 that
                 I
                 must
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Kingdoms
                 to
                 extend
                 ;
              
               
               
                 That
                 I
                 may
                 see
                 at
                 last
                 that
                 you
              
               
                 Are
                 really
                 my
                 Friend
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 first
                 I
                 'le
                 give
                 you
                 all
                 those
                 Lands
              
               
                 That
                 'gainst
                 me
                 do
                 Rebel
                 ,
              
               
                 Go
                 take
                 them
                 strait
                 into
                 your
                 Hands
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 curst
                 their
                 Kings
                 to
                 Hell
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 freely
                 to
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 Spain
              
               
                 The
                 British
                 Islands
                 gave
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 wanted
                 strength
                 those
                 Isles
                 to
                 gain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 I
                 am
                 sure
                 you
                 have
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 're
                 generous
                 Sir
                 ,
                 and
                 at
                 one
                 word
              
               
                 Great
                 Territories
                 grant
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 if
                 Men
                 gain
                 not
                 by
                 the
                 Sword
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 must
                 for
                 ever
                 want
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 while
                 you
                 Saintship
                 give
                 to
                 some
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 frankly
                 Heaven
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 doubt
                 (
                 what
                 ere
                 's
                 decreed
                 at
                 Rome
                 )
              
               
                 Their
                 Portion
                 is
                 below
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 Whether
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Hell
                 are
                 in
                 my
                 gift
              
               
                 I
                 do
                 not
                 greatly
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Let
                 learned
                 Men
                 those
                 Questions
                 sift
                 )
              
               
                 sure
                 earthly
                 Kingdoms
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 can
                 from
                 antient
                 deeds
                 declare
              
               
                 What
                 pow'r
                 belongs
                 to
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 Kings
                 are
                 what
                 they
                 are
              
               
                 By
                 my
                 Authority
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 've
                 often
                 heard
                 what
                 Tricks
                 you
                 use
              
               
                 To
                 help
                 you
                 in
                 your
                 needs
                 ,
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 you
                 do
                 the
                 World
                 abuse
              
               
                 With
                 forged
                 Books
                 and
                 Deeds
                 :
              
               
                 Sometimes
                 you
                 Kingdoms
                 give
                 away
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 now
                 you
                 do
                 to
                 me
                 )
              
               
                 Hoping
                 that
                 thus
                 obliged
                 ,
                 they
              
               
                 Your
                 Vassals
                 still
                 will
                 be
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 POPE
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 your
                 Benefactor
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 hope
                 you
                 won't
                 think
                 much
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 When
                 I
                 've
                 rais'd
                 you
                 to
                 high
                 degree
                 )
              
               
                 To
                 Honour
                 me
                 as
                 such
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 
                   Vniversal
                   Monarchy
                
              
               
                 You
                 do
                 receive
                 from
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 
                   Vniversal
                   Pastor
                
                 I
              
               
                 May
                 be
                 allow'd
                 to
                 be
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 TVRK
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 understand
                 your
                 kindness
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Me
                 thus
                 you
                 will
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 unto
                 you
                 I
                 'le
                 cringe
                 and
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 after
                 your
                 Pipe
                 dance
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 you
                 'l
                 unto
                 me
                 be
                 so
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 will
                 crack
                 your
                 brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 place
                 i'
                 th
                 Alcoran
                 to
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 shall
                 your
                 Pride
                 maintain
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Honour
                 more
                 you
                 'l
                 on
                 me
                 heap
                 .
              
               
                 Whenever
                 I
                 you
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
               
                 That
                 on
                 my
                 Knees
                 I
                 strait
                 must
                 creep
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Kiss
                 your
                 Worships
                 Feet
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 ere
                 your
                 Pride
                 I
                 do
                 oppose
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 'l
                 curse
                 me
                 strait
                 to
                 Hell
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Subjects
                 too
                 shall
                 ne're
                 want
                 those
              
               
                 Shall
                 stir
                 them
                 to
                 Rebel
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 still
                 unto
                 me
                 plagues
                 will
                 send
              
               
                 As
                 you
                 have
                 done
                 to
                 others
                 ▪
              
               
                 From
                 Priests
                 I
                 must
                 my self
                 defend
                 ,
              
               
                 Worse
                 than
                 aspiring
                 Brothers
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 you
                 set
                 foot
                 no
                 Prince
                 is
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 strait
                 must
                 be
                 your
                 slave
                 ,
              
               
                 Good
                 Sir
                 ,
                 pray
                 cease
                 to
                 treat
                 with
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 other
                 business
                 have
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               Sir
               John
               Oldcaste
               ,
               Lord
               Cobham
               ,
               who
               suffered
               '
               December
               1417.
               
            
             
               ROMES
               old
               new
               fraud
               in
               Cobhoms
               Fate
               we
               view
               ;
            
             
               The
               Hereticks
               must
               still
               be
               Traitors
               too
               ;
            
             
               All
               Popish
               Sham-plots
               are
               not
               hatch'd
               of
               late
            
             
               Long
               since
               thir
               Int'rest
               cnllid
               in
               the
               State
               ;
            
             
               For
               God
               ;
               and
               for
               the
               King
               the
               Prelates
               cry'd
            
             
               But
               only
               meant
               thir
               own
               Revenge
               and
               Pride
               .
            
             
               Had
               the
               sly
               Meal-tub
               fadg'd
               ,
               or
               Irish
               Oathes
            
             
               Been
               Jury-proof
               ,
               old
               Churches
               hated
               Foes
            
             
               Ere
               now
               ,
               had
               been
               Old-Castled
               ,
               Hang'd
               and
               Burn'd
               ;
            
             
               And
               Loyalst
               Patriots
               into
               Rebells
               turn'a
               .
            
             
             
               But
               Midwife
               time
               at
               last
               brings
               Truth
               to
               light
               ,
            
             
               For
               after
               Death
               each
               Man
               receives
               his
               right
               .
            
             
               Then
               sleep
               ,
               brave
               Hero
               !
               till
               last
               Judgments
               day
            
             
               Raisins
               to
               Glory
               thy
               twice
               martyr'd
               Clay
            
             
               Romes
               Malice
               ,
               and
               thy
               Innocence
               display
            
          
           
             
               Ignoramus
               :
               a
               Song
               .
               To
               the
               Tune
               Law
               lies
               a
               bleeding
               .
            
             
               
                 [
                 1
                 ]
              
               
                 SInce
                 Popish
                 Plotters
                 ,
              
               
                 Join'd
                 with
                 Bog-Trotters
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Sham
                   Plots
                
                 are
                 made
                 as
                 fast
                 ,
                 as
                 Pots
                 are
                 form'd
                 by
                 Potters
                 ,
              
               
                 Against
                 these
                 Furies
              
               
                 There
                 no
                 such
                 Cure
                 is
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 what
                 our
                 Law
                 provides
                 ,
                 our
                 True
                 and
                 Loyal
                 Iuries
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Action
                 and
                 Paction
              
               
                 Thar
                 breeds
                 our
                 Distraction
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 secretly
                 contrived
                 by
                 the
                 Popish
                 Faction
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 Trepan
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 damn
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 grow
                 enraged
                 when
                 they
                 hear
                 Ignoramus
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 2
                 ]
              
               
                 Traytors
                 are
                 rotten
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 not
                 forgotten
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 
                   Meal
                   Tub
                
                 Devices
                 ,
                 which
                 never
                 well
                 did
                 cotten
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 evr'y
                 Season
              
               
                 Inventing
                 Treason
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Shams
                 that
                 none
                 believed
                 that
                 had
                 or
                 Sense
                 or
                 Reason
              
               
               
                 With
                 fetches
                 and
                 stretches
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 notorious
                 Wretches
              
               
                 Would
                 get
                 loyal
                 Subjects
                 into
                 their
                 bloody
                 clutches
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 3
                 ]
              
               
                 If
                 wicked
                 Tories
              
               
                 Could
                 pack
                 their
                 Iuries
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 would
                 believe
                 black
                 ,
                 white
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 their
                 lying
                 Stories
              
               
                 Then
                 by
                 Art
                 Stygian
              
               
                 
                 Whig's
                 prov'd
                 a
                 Widgeon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 should
                 be
                 hang'd
                 for
                 plotting
                 against
                 the
                 Popes
                 Religion
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 'd
                 hear
                 a
                 ,
                 and
                 swear
                 a
              
               
                 Thing
                 that
                 was
                 a
                 meer
                 a
              
               
                 Gross
                 Lie
                 as
                 e'r
                 was
                 told
                 ,
                 and
                 find
                 it
                 
                   Bella
                   vera
                
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 4
                 ]
              
               
                 This
                 IGNORAMUS
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 they
                 blame
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 pit
                 of
                 Hell
                 ,
                 so
                 often
                 curse
                 and
                 damn
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 Men
                 by
                 Tryal
                 .
              
               
                 Honest
                 and
                 Loyal
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 their
                 King
                 and
                 Country
                 ready
                 are
                 to
                 dieall
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 show
                 it
                 and
                 vow
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 Honest
                 Men
                 to
                 know
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Loyalty
                 they
                 hold
                 ,
                 and
                 never
                 will
                 forgo
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 5
                 ]
              
               
                 At
                 the
                 Old-Baily
              
               
                 Where
                 men
                 don't
                 dally
              
               
                 And
                 Traytors
                 oft
                 are
                 try'd
                 ,
                 as
                 
                   Coleman
                   ,
                   Whitebread
                   ,
                   Staley
                
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Was
                 late
                 Indicted
                 ,
              
               
                 Witnesses
                 cited
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 loyal
                 Protestant
                 ,
                 who
                 spight
                 of
                 Rogues
                 was
                 righted
                 ,
              
               
                 Offences
                 commences
              
               
                 'Gainst
                 all
                 Mens
                 Senses
                 ,
              
               
                 'Cause
                 the
                 honest
                 Jury
                 believed
                 not
                 Evidences
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 6
                 ]
              
               
                 For
                 which
                 a
                 Villain
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 ten
                 Shilling
              
               
                 To
                 hang
                 a
                 Protestant
                 shall
                 be
                 found
                 very
                 willing
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 at
                 this
                 season
              
               
                 And
                 without
                 reason
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 call
                 the
                 Jury
                 Traytors
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Law
                 make
                 Treason
              
               
                 In
                 fashion
                 is
                 passion
                 ,
              
               
                 Curses
                 and
                 Damnation
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 quiet
                 should
                 we
                 be
                 ,
                 were
                 Rogues
                 sent
                 to
                 their
                 station
                 ▪
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 7
                 ]
              
               
                 'Las
                 what
                 is
                 Conscience
              
               
                 i
                 th'
                 Iesuits
                 own
                 Sence
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 Church
                 one
                 may
                 lie
                 ,
                 and
                 forswear
                 without
                 offence
                 ▪
              
               
                 Now
                 what
                 a
                 Lurry
                 ,
              
               
                 Keeps
                 barking
                 Tory
                 ,
              
               
                 'Cause
                 he
                 is
                 not
                 able
                 the
                 Innocent
                 to
                 whorry
                 !
              
               
                 Doth
                 wrangle
                 and
                 brangle
                 ,
              
               
                 'Cause
                 he
                 cannot
                 intangle
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 bring
                 honest
                 Tony
                 to
                 the
                 Block
                 or
                 Triangle
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 8
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 tell
                 you
                 what
                 ,
                 Sir
              
               
                 You
                 must
                 go
                 Plot
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 get
                 better
                 Witness
                 e'r
                 wise
                 men
                 go
                 to
                 pot
                 Sir
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 such
                 abettors
                 ,
              
               
                 Protestant
                 haters
              
               
                 Would
                 damn
                 their
                 souls
                 to
                 hell
                 to
                 make
                 them
                 wicked
                 Traytors
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 mind
                 it
                 and
                 wind
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 not
                 now
                 blinded
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 we
                 now
                 reject
                 ,
                 no
                 honest
                 Iury
                 '
                 le
                 find
                 it
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 sham
                 us
                 and
                 flam
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 ram
                 us
                 and
                 dam
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 according
                 to
                 the
                 Law
                 ,
                 we
                 find
                 Ignoramus
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 [
                 1
                 ]
              
               
                 A
                 Pox
                 on
                 Whigs
                 we
                 'l
                 now
                 grow
                 wise
              
               
                 let
                 's
                 cry
                 out
                 guard
                 the
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 that
                 we
                 'l
                 damn
                 the
                 
                   Good
                   Old
                   Cause
                
                 ,
              
               
                 and
                 make
                 the
                 Game
                 our
                 own
                 :
              
               
                 Religion
                 ,
                 that
                 shall
                 stoop
                 to
                 us
                 ,
              
               
                 and
                 so
                 shall
                 Liberty
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 make
                 their
                 Laws
                 as
                 thin
                 as
                 Lawn
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Tory
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 2
                 ]
              
               
                 When
                 once
                 that
                 Preaching
                 Whineing
                 Crew
              
               
                 are
                 crush'd
                 and
                 quite
                 undone
                 ,
              
               
               
                 The
                 Poor
                 we
                 'l
                 banish
                 by
                 our
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 we
                 'l
                 burn
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Abbey-Lands
                 shall
                 be
                 possest
              
               
                 by
                 those
                 whose
                 right
                 they
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 cry
                 up
                 Laws
                 ,
                 but
                 none
                 we
                 'l
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Tory
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 3
                 ]
              
               
                 The
                 Name
                 of
                 Protestant
                 we
                 hate
                 ,
              
               
                 the
                 Whigs
                 they
                 know
                 it
                 well
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 since
                 we
                 can't
                 it
                 longer
                 hide
              
               
                 let
                 's
                 Truth
                 genteely
                 tell
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 Dam
                 me
                 is
                 good
                 Manners
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 and
                 tends
                 to
                 Gallantry
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 S
                 —
                 the
                 Nation
                 out
                 of
                 Doors
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Cursed
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 4
                 ]
              
               
                 What
                 care
                 We
                 for
                 a
                 Parliament
                 ,
              
               
                 no
                 Mony
                 comes
                 from
                 thence
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 they
                 but
                 give
                 us
                 Coyn
                 enough
                 ,
              
               
                 we
                 'l
                 spend
                 the
                 Nations
                 pence
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 Two-penny
                 States-men
                 all
                 shall
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 a
                 goodly
                 sight
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 finish
                 all
                 ,
                 we
                 'l
                 plunder
                 'um
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Sons
                   of
                   Whores
                   are
                   We.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 5
                 ]
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 build
                 more
                 Universities
                 ,
              
               
                 for
                 there
                 lies
                 all
                 our
                 hope
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 th'
                 Crape
                 Gown
                 we
                 'l
                 cringe
                 and
                 creep
              
               
                 supposing
                 't
                 were
                 a
                 Pope
                 ;
              
               
               
                 ●y
                 what
                 he
                 will
                 we
                 'l
                 him
                 believe
                 ,
              
               
                 if
                 true
                 or
                 false
                 it
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 ●nd
                 while
                 he
                 prays
                 we
                 'l
                 Drink
                 his
                 Health
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Tory
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We
                
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 6
                 ]
              
               
                 What
                 Pimping
                 Whig
                 shall
                 dare
                 controule
                 ,
              
               
                 or
                 check
                 the
                 Lawful
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 take
                 the
                 Rascal
                 by
                 the
                 Pole
                 ,
              
               
                 and
                 Pox
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Hair.
              
               
                 Then
                 here
                 goes
                 honest
                 
                 Iame's
                 Health
                 ,
              
               
                 come
                 drink
                 it
                 on
                 your
                 Knee
                 ,
              
               
                 ●zowns
                 we
                 'l
                 have
                 none
                 but
                 honest
                 So●ls
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Tory
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 7
                 ]
              
               
                 These
                 Crafty
                 Whigs
                 are
                 subtle
                 Knaves
              
               
                 to
                 give
                 them
                 all
                 their
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 we
                 bauk'd
                 the
                 Popish
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 though
                 they
                 had
                 sworn
                 it
                 true
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 you
                 know
                 who
                 we
                 may
                 thank
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Mum
                 for
                 that
                 ,
                 yet
                 we
              
               
                 Are
                 bound
                 to
                 pray
                 and
                 praise
                 him
                 for
                 't
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   Tory
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
             
               
                 [
                 8
                 ]
              
               
                 When
                 all
                 these
                 Zealous
                 Whigs
                 are
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 we
                 'l
                 drink
                 and
                 fall
                 a
                 roaring
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 set
                 up
                 the
                 
                   Tripple
                   Crown
                
                 ,
              
               
                 't
                 will
                 Saint
                 us
                 all
                 for
                 Whoreing
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 we
                 have
                 quite
                 inslav'd
                 'um
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 our selves
                 cannot
                 be
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 prithee
                 Devil
                 claim
                 thy
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 〈…〉
              
            
             
               
               
                 9
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 chuse
                 their
                 Sheriffs
                 and
                 Juries
                 too
              
               
                 and
                 then
                 pretend
                 't
                 is
                 Law
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 bring
                 more
                 Irish
                 o're
                 to
                 swear
              
               
                 'gainst
                 those
                 they
                 never
                 saw
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 'l
                 seize
                 their
                 Charters
                 then
                 they
                 must
              
               
                 come
                 beg
                 'um
                 on
                 their
                 Knee
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 this
                 won't
                 do
                 we
                 'l
                 call
                 the
                 French
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   such
                   cursed
                   Rogues
                   are
                   We.
                
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               Death
               of
               the
               PLOT
               .
            
             
               ALas
               !
               what
               thing
               can
               hope
               Death's
               Hand
               to
               'scape
               ,
            
             
               When
               Mother-Plot
               her self
               is
               brought
               to
               Crape
               ?
            
             
               The
               teeming
               Matron
               at
               the
               last
               is
               Dead
               ;
            
             
               But
               of
               a
               numerous
               Spawn
               first
               brought
               to
               Bed
               :
            
             
               The
               little
               Shamms
               ,
               Abortives
               ,
               without
               Legs
               ,
            
             
               (
               She
               laid
               ,
               and
               hatch'd
               ,
               as
               fast
               as
               Hens
               do
               Eggs.
               )
            
             
               But
               they
               no
               sooner
               peep'd
               into
               the
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Than
               they
               kick'd
               up
               ,
               and
               bid
               the
               World
               good
               night
               .
            
             
               The
               Bantlings
               dyed
               always
               in
               their
               Cradle
               ,
            
             
               And
               th'
               Eggs
               ,
               tho'
               kept
               in
               Meal-Tubs
               ,
               still
               prov'd
               addle
               .
            
             
               She
               liv'd
               to
               see
               her
               Issue
               go
               before
               her
               ;
            
             
               And
               some
               made
               (
               Tyburn-Saints
               )
               who
               did
               adore
               her
               .
            
             
               But
               what
               is
               strange
               ,
               and
               not
               to
               be
               forgot
               ,
            
             
               The
               Plotters
               liv'd
               to
               see
               the
               Death
               of
               Plot
               :
            
             
               And
               O
               —
               if
               now
               he
               will
               his
               Credit
               save
               ,
            
             
               Must
               raise
               thee
               up
               like
               Lazarus
               from
               the
               Grave
               .
            
             
             
               Men
               ,
               who
               their
               Sences
               have
               ,
               do
               more
               than
               think
            
             
               Thee
               dead
               ,
               when
               it
               is
               plain
               thou
               now
               do'st
               stink
               .
            
             
               Well
               fare
               thee
               Dead
               ;
               for
               living
               thou
               mad'st
               work
               ,
            
             
               For
               
                 Heathen
                 ,
                 Iew
              
               ,
               for
               Christian
               ,
               and
               for
               Turk
               ,
            
             
               For
               Honest
               Men
               ,
               and
               Knaves
               ,
               for
               Wise
               ,
               and
               Fool
               ,
            
             
               And
               eke
               for
               many
               a
               witless
               ,
               scribling
               Tool
               ;
            
             
               Who
               now
               sit
               mute
               ,
               pick
               Teeth
               ,
               and
               scratch
               the
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Now
               th'
               Idol-Mother-Plot
               of
               Plots
               is
               dead
               .
            
             
               But
               loath
               these
               are
               to
               believe
               News
               so
               sad
               ,
            
             
               And
               swear
               they
               think
               that
               all
               the
               World
               are
               mad
               :
            
             
               But
               blame
               them
               not
               for
               being
               so
               much
               vext
               ,
            
             
               To
               lose
               the
               Uses
               of
               a
               gainful
               Text.
            
             
               These
               swear
               she
               's
               in
               an
               Epileptick
               Fit
               ,
            
             
               And
               P
               —
               will
               bring
               her
               out
               of
               it
               .
            
             
               Let
               them
               think
               on
               ,
               and
               their
               dear
               selves
               deceive
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               shall
               see
               her
               rise
               ,
               I
               will
               believe
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               before
               ?
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               from
               me
               ,
            
             
               Accept
               ,
               for
               her
               ,
               this
               slender
               Elegy
               .
            
             
               I
               do
               confess
               she
               does
               deserve
               the
               Rhimes
            
             
               Of
               all
               the
               ready
               Writers
               of
               the
               Times
               :
            
             
               But
               with
               wet
               Eyes
               they
               do
               in
               silence
               mourn
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               they
               'd
               drown
               the
               Ashes
               in
               her
               Urn.
            
             
               But
               here
               she
               lies
               whom
               none
               alive
               could
               paint
               ,
            
             
               Old
               Mother
               Plot
               ,
               the
               Devil
               and
               the
               Saint
               .
            
             
               A
               Popish-Protestant
               ,
               Hermophradite
               ,
            
             
               An
               hidden
               piece
               that
               none
               could
               bring
               to
               Light.
            
             
               A
               Mother
               ,
               and
               a
               Monster
               rare
               ,
               who
               had
            
             
               A
               numerous
               Issue
               ,
               and
               without
               a
               Dad
               ;
            
             
               A
               very
               strange
               ,
               and
               an
               unnatural
               Elf
               ,
            
             
               Who
               hatch'd
               ,
               brought
               forth
               ,
               and
               then
               eat
               up
               her self
               ;
            
             
             
               Who
               's
               Dead
               ,
               and
               stinks
               ,
               yet
               whole
               ,
               and
               will
               not
            
             
               Was
               ,
               is
               not
               now
               ,
               yet
               ne're
               shall
               be
               forgot
               .
            
             
               An
               uncouth
               Mystery
               of
               a
               Medley
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               A
               Plot
               ,
               a
               Mother-Plot
               without
               a
               Name
               .
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Books
               Printed
               for
               Iohn
               How
               ,
               at
               the
               Sign
               of
               the
               Seven
               Stars
               ,
               at
               the
               South-West
               corner
               of
               the
               Royal
               Exchange
               ,
               in
               Cornhil
               .
            
             
               THe
               
                 Present
                 State
              
               of
               London
               .
            
             
               The
               
                 Protestant
                 School-Master
              
               ,
               being
               plain
               and
               easiy
               Directions
               for
               Spelling
               and
               Reading
               English
               ,
               and
               an
               Account
               of
               all
               the
               Plots
               ,
               Treasons
               ,
               Murders
               and
               Massacres
               ,
               committed
               by
               the
               Papists
               ,
               on
               the
               Protestants
               in
               most
               Countrys
               in
               Europe
               ,
               for
               near
               600
               Years
               .
            
             
               Catastrophy
               Mundi
               ,
               or
               Merlin
               Reviv'd
               ,
               
                 with
                 Mr.
              
               Lilly
               's
               Hiroglyphicks
               .
            
             
               Romes
               Follies
               ,
               or
               the
               Amorous
               Fryars
               :
               a
               Play.
               〈…〉
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             
             
               POEMS
               ON
               Several
               Occasions
               .
               
                 Written
                 by
                 the
                 E.
              
               of
               R.
               Dr.
               Wild
               
                 and
                 others
                 of
                 the
                 Choicest
                 Modern
                 Wits
                 .
              
            
             
               THE
               SECOND
               PART
               .
            
             
               LONDON
               ,
               Printed
               for
               
                 Iohn
                 How
              
               ,
               at
               the
               Seven
               Stars
               at
               the
               South-West
               Corner
               of
               the
               Royal
               Exchange
               in
               Cornhill
               ,
               1683.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               Dr.
               WILD's
               Poem
               .
               In
               nova
               fert
               Animus
               ,
               &c.
               OR
               ,
               A
               New
               Song
               TO
               AN
               OLD
               FRIEND
               From
               An
               OLD
               POET
               ,
               Upon
               the
               Hopeful
               New
               Parliament
               .
            
             
               WE
               are
               All
               tainted
               with
               the
               Athenian
               Itch
               ,
            
             
               News
               ,
               and
               new
               Things
               do
               the
               whole
               World
               bewitch
               .
            
             
               Who
               would
               be
               Old
               ,
               or
               in
               Old
               fashions
               Trade
               ?
            
             
               Even
               an
               Old
               Whore
               would
               fain
               go
               for
               a
               Maid
               :
            
             
               The
               Modest
               of
               both
               Sexes
               ,
               buy
               new
               Graces
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Perriwigs
               for
               Pates
               ,
               and
               Paint
               for
               Faces
               .
            
             
               Some
               wear
               new
               Teeth
               in
               an
               old
               Mouth
               ;
               and
               some
            
             
               Carve
               a
               new
               Nose
               out
               of
               an
               aged
               Bum.
            
             
             
               Old
               
               Hesiod's
               gods
               Immortal
               Youth
               enjoy
               :
            
             
               Cupid
               ,
               though
               Blind
               ,
               yet
               still
               goes
               for
               a
               Boy
               ;
            
             
               Under
               one
               Hood
               Hypocrite
               Ianus
               too
               ,
            
             
               Carries
               two
               fa●es
               ,
               one
               Old
               ,
               th'
               other
               New.
            
             
               Apollo
               wears
               no
               Bea●d
               ,
               but
               still
               looks
               young
               ;
            
             
               
                 Diana
                 ,
                 Pallas
                 ,
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               all
               the
               throng
            
             
               Of
               Muses
               ,
               Graces
               ,
               Nymphs
               ,
               look
               Bri●k
               ▪
               and
               Gay
               ,
            
             
               Priding
               themselves
               in
               a
               perpetual
               May
               :
            
             
               Whiles
               doting
               
                 Saturn
                 ,
                 Pluto
                 ,
                 Priserpin●
              
               ,
            
             
               At
               their
               own
               ugly
               Wrinkles
               Rage
               and
               Grin
               ;
            
             
               The
               very
               Furies
               in
               their
               looks
               do
               twine
               .
            
             
               Snakes
               ,
               whose
               embro●dered
               skins
               〈◊〉
               their
               shine
               ;
            
             
               And
               nothing
               makes
               Great
               Iuno
               chafe
               an●●cold
               ,
            
             
               But
               Ioves
               new
               Misses
               slighting
               her
               as
               ●●ld
               .
            
             
               Poets
               ,
               who
               others
               can
               Immo●tal
               〈◊〉
               ,
            
             
               When
               they
               grow
               Gray
               ,
               their
               〈…〉
               ;
            
             
               And
               seek
               young
               Temples
               ,
               where
               they
               may
               ,
               〈◊〉
               Green
               ;
            
             
               No
               Palsie
               ●and
               ,
               may
               wash
               in
               Hypocrene
               ;
            
             
               'T
               was
               not
               Terse
               Clarret
               ,
               Eggs
               ,
               and
               〈◊〉
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Gobbets
               Crown'd
               with
               Gre●k
               or
               Span●●
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               Could
               make
               new
               Flames
               in
               Old
               
                 Ben
                 Iohnsons
              
               V●ins
               ,
            
             
               But
               his
               Atto●ps
               prov'd
               l●nk
               and
               languid
               strain
               :
            
             
               His
               
                 New
                 Inn
              
               (
               so
               he
               nam'd
               his
               youngest
               Pla●
               ,
            
             
               Prov'd
               a
               blind
               Ale-house
               ,
               cry'd
               down
               the
               first
               Day
               :
            
             
               His
               own
               dull
               Epitaph
               —
               
                 Here
                 lies
                 Ben
                 Iohnson
              
               ,
            
             
               (
               Half
               drunken
               too
               )
               He
               Hick●upt
               —
               
                 who
                 was
                 once
                 one
                 ▪
              
            
             
               Ah!
               this
               sad
               
                 once
                 one
                 !
                 once
              
               we
               Trojans
               were
               ;
            
             
               Oh
               ,
               better
               never
               ,
               if
               not
               still
               we
               are
               .
            
             
               Rhymes
               of
               Old
               Men
               ,
               Iliack
               passions
               be
               ,
            
             
               When
               that
               should
               downward
               go
               ,
               comes
               up
               we
               see
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               are
               like
               
               Iews-Ears
               in
               an
               Elder-Tree
               ;
            
             
               When
               Spectacles
               do
               once
               bestride
               the
               Nose
               ,
            
             
               The
               Poet's
               Gallop
               turns
               to
               stumbling
               Prose
               .
            
             
               Sir
               ,
               I
               am
               Old
               ,
               Cold
               ,
               Mould
               ;
               and
               you
               might
               hope
            
             
               To
               see
               an
               Alderman
               dance
               on
               a
               Rope
               ,
            
             
               A
               Iudge
               to
               act
               a
               Gallant
               in
               a
               Play
               ,
            
             
               O●
               an
               Old
               ●luralist
               Preach
               twice
               a
               day
               ▪
            
             
               Of
               〈…〉
               Taylor
               make
               a
               Valiant
               Knight
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               of
               a
               Iesuite
               ;
            
             
               As
               a●
               Old
               ●ald-pate
               (
               such
               as
               mine
               you
               know
               )
            
             
               Sh●●ld
               make
               his
               Hair
               ,
               or
               Wit
               and
               Fancy
               grow
               ;
            
             
               〈◊〉
               is
               there
               need
               that
               such
               a
               Block
               as
               I
            
             
               S●ould
               now
               be
               hew'd
               into
               a
               Mercury
               .
            
             
               When
               Winter
               's
               gone
               ,
               the
               O●d
               his
               foot
               may
               spare
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Nightingales
               resign
               the
               Air.
            
             
               Such
               is
               the
               beautiful
               new
               face
               of
               things
               :
            
             
               By
               Heavens
               kind
               Influences
               ,
               and
               the
               Kings
               ,
            
             
               Joy
               should
               inspire
               ;
               and
               all
               in
               measures
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Citizen
               a
               Virgil
               prove
               .
            
             
               Each
               Protestant
               turn
               Poet
               ;
               and
               who
               not
            
             
               Should
               be
               suspected
               guilty
               of
               the
               Plot
            
             
               If
               now
               the
               day
               doth
               dawn
               ,
               our
               Cocks
               forbear
            
             
               To
               clap
               their
               Wings
               and
               Crow
               ,
               you
               well
               may
               swear
               ,
            
             
               It
               is
               their
               want
               of
               Loyalty
               ,
               not
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               That
               makes
               them
               sullen
               ,
               and
               so
               silent
               sit
               .
            
             
               Galli
               of
               Gallick
               kind
               —
               I
               'le
               say
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               But
               that
               their
               Combs
               are
               Cut
               ,
               and
               they
               are
               sore
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               to
               provoke
               them
               ,
               my
               Old
               Cock
               shall
               Crow
               ,
            
             
               That
               so
               his
               Eccho
               round
               the
               Town
               may
               go
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Upon
               the
               new
               Parliament
               .
            
             
               MY
               Landlord
               underprop't
               his
               House
               some
               years
               ,
            
             
               Was
               often
               warn'd
               —
               'T
               would
               fall
               about
               his
               Ears
               ;
            
             
               For
               the
               main
               Timber
               ,
               That
               above
               ,
               and
               under
               ,
            
             
               By
               every
               Bla●t
               was
               apt
               to
               rend
               asunder
               .
            
             
               This
               year
               He
               gently
               took
               all
               down
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               What
               of
               the
               Old
               prov'd
               sound
               ,
               did
               serve
               agen
               .
            
             
               May
               all
               the
               New
               be
               Heart
               of
               English
               Oak
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               whole
               House
               stand
               firm
               from
               fatal
               stroke
               ,
            
             
               And
               nothing
               in
               't
               ,
               the
               Founder
               e're
               provoke
               .
            
             
               My
               Grandam
               ,
               when
               her
               Bees
               were
               old
               and
               done
               ,
            
             
               Burnt
               the
               old
               Stock
               ,
               and
               a
               new
               Hive
               begun
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               one
               year
               she
               found
               a
               greater
               store
            
             
               Of
               Wax
               and
               Honey
               than
               in
               all
               before
               .
            
             
               Variety
               and
               Novelty
               delights
               ;
            
             
               Old
               Shooes
               and
               Mouldy
               Bread
               are
               Gibeonites
               .
            
             
               When
               Cloaths
               grow
               thread
               bare
               ,
               &
               breeds
               Vermin
               too
               ,
            
             
               To
               Long-Lane
               with
               them
               ,
               and
               put
               on
               some
               new
               :
            
             
               When
               Wine
               turns
               Vinegar
               —
               All
               Art
               is
               vain
               ,
            
             
               The
               World
               can
               never
               make
               it
               Wine
               again
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               time
               to
               wean
               that
               Child
               ,
               who
               bites
               the
               Breast
               ;
            
             
               And
               Chase
               those
               fowls
               ,
               that
               do
               befowl
               the
               Nest.
            
             
               When
               Nolls
               Nose
               found
               the
               Rump
               began
               to
               smell
               ;
            
             
               He
               dock't
               it
               ,
               and
               the
               Nation
               lik'd
               it
               well
               .
            
             
               Cast
               the
               old-mark't
               and
               greazy
               Cards
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               's
               a
               new
               Pack
               ,
               else
               we
               will
               not
               Play
               ;
            
             
               Nothing
               but
               Pork
               ,
               and
               Pork
               ,
               and
               Pork
               to
               eat
               !
            
             
               Good
               Landlord
               give
               's
               fresh
               COMMONS
               for
               our
               Meat
               .
            
             
             
               Trent
               Council
               Thirty
               years
               lay
               sows'd
               in
               pickle
               ,
            
             
               Until
               it
               prov'd
               a
               stinking
               Conventicle
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               Old
               Rome
               plays
               over
               her
               old
               Tricks
               ,
            
             
               This
               Seventy-nine
               ,
               shall
               pay
               for
               Sixty-six
               :
            
             
               Out
               of
               the
               Fire
               ,
               like
               new
               refined
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               How
               bright
               new
               London
               looks
               above
               the
               Old
               !
            
             
               All
               Creatures
               under
               Old
               Corruptions
               groan
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               a
               New
               Creation
               make
               their
               moan
               :
            
             
               The
               Phoenix
               (
               of
               her self
               grown
               weary
               )
               dyes
            
             
               Unto
               succession
               a
               burnt-Sacrifice
               :
            
             
               Old
               Eagles
               breed
               bad
               Hawks
               ,
               and
               they
               worse
               Kites
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               blind
               Buzzards
               (
               as
               Old
               Pliny
               Writes
               )
               ,
            
             
               Deans
               ,
               Prebends
               ,
               Chaplins
               think
               themselves
               have
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               When
               Bishops
               live
               unmercifully
               long
               ;
            
             
               And
               poor
               Dissenters
               beg
               they
               may
               ascend
            
             
               Into
               a
               Pulpit
               from
               the
               Tables
               end
               .
            
             
               And
               who
               hath
               not
               by
               good
               experience
               found
            
             
               Best
               Crops
               are
               gained
               by
               new-broken
               ground
               .
            
             
               And
               the
               first
               feed
               —
               OATS
               sifted
               clean
               and
               sound
               ?
            
             
               But
               yet
               Old
               Friends
               ,
               Old
               Gold
               ,
               Old
               King
               ,
               I
               prise
               :
            
             
               Old
               Tyburn
               take
               them
               who
               do
               otherwise
               :
            
             
               Heaven
               Chase
               the
               Vulture
               from
               our
               Eagles
               Nest
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               no
               Ravens
               this
               
               March-Brood
               molest
               ;
            
          
           
             
             
               Another
               .
            
             
               BReak
               ,
               Sacred
               Morn
               ,
               on
               our
               expecting
               Isle
               ,
            
             
               An●
               make
               our
               
               Albion's
               sullen
               Genius
               Smile
               ;
            
             
               His
               Brightest
               Glories
               let
               the
               Sun
               Display
               ,
            
             
               He
               Rose
               not
               with
               a
               more
               important
               Day
            
             
               Since
               CHARLES
               Return'd
               on
               his
               Triumphant
               way
               :
            
             
               Gay
               as
               a
               Bridegroom
               then
               our
               Eves
               he
               drew
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               seems
               Wedded
               to
               his
               Realms
               anew
               .
            
             
               Great
               Senate
               ,
               hast
               ,
               to
               joyn
               your
               Royal
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Best
               Council
               by
               the
               best
               of
               Monarchs
               sway'd
               :
            
             
               Methinks
               our
               Fears
               already
               are
               o're
               blown
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               our
               
                 En'mies
                 Coast
              
               their
               Terrour
               thrown
               .
            
             
               Darlings
               of
               Fame
               ,
               you
               
                 Brittish
                 Bards
              
               that
               wrote
            
             
               Of
               Old
               ,
               
                 as
                 warmly
              
               as
               our
               Heroes
               fought
               ,
            
             
               Aid
               me
               a
               bold
               Advent'rer
               for
               the
               Fame
            
             
               O'
               th'
               
                 British
                 State
              
               ,
               and
               Touch
               me
               with
               your
               Flame
               ;
            
             
               Steep
               my
               rude
               Quill
               in
               your
               diviner
               Stream
               ,
            
             
               And
               raise
               my
               daring
               Fancy
               to
               my
               Theam
               .
            
             
               Give
               me
               th'
               Heroick
               Wings
               —
               to
               Soar
               as
               High
            
             
               As
               Icarus
               did
               ,
               I
               would
               like
               Icarus
               Die
               !
            
             
               Now
               I
               behold
               the
               bright
               Assembly
               Met
               ,
            
             
               And
               'bove
               the
               Rest
               our
               Sacred
               Monarch
               Set
               ,
            
             
               Charm'd
               with
               the
               dazling
               Scene
               ,
               without
               a
               Crime
               ,
            
             
               My
               Thoughts
               reflect
               on
               th'
               Infancy
               of
               Time
               ,
            
             
               And
               wrap
               me
               in
               
               Idea's
               most
               Sublime
               .
            
             
               I
               think
               how
               at
               the
               new
               Creation
               ,
               Sate
            
             
               Th'
               Eternal
               Monarch
               in
               his
               Heaven
               's
               fresh
               State
               ;
            
             
               The
               Stars
               yet
               wondring
               at
               each
               others
               Fires
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Sons
               of
               Glory
               Rankt
               in
               Quires
               .
            
             
             
               Hail
               ,
               awful
               Patriots
               ,
               
                 Peers
                 by
                 Birth
              
               ,
               and
               you
            
             
               The
               Commons
               ,
               for
               high
               Vertues
               ,
               Noble
               too
               !
            
             
               The
               First
               by
               Heav'n
               ,
               in
               this
               Assembly
               plac'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               
                 Heav'ns
                 Voice
              
               ,
               the
               Peoples
               Votes
               ,
               the
               Last
               .
            
             
               As
               Various
               Streams
               from
               distant
               Regions
               fall
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Deep
               their
               general
               Council
               call
               ;
            
             
               Conveying
               thence
               Supplies
               to
               their
               first
               Source
               ,
            
             
               And
               fail
               not
               to
               maintain
               their
               rowling
               Course
               :
            
             
               Our
               Senate
               thus
               ,
               from
               every
               Quarter
               call'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               compleat
               Assembly
               here
               Install'd
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               deal
               their
               Influence
               to
               each
               Province
               round
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               our
               Isle
               no
               〈◊〉
               Spot
               be
               found
               .
            
             
               Iustice
               as
               plenteous
               as
               our
               Thames
               shall
               Flow
               ,
            
             
               In
               Peace
               the
               Sailer
               Steer
               ,
               and
               Peasant
               Plow
               .
            
             
               From
               Forreign
               wrongs
               safe
               shall
               our
               Publick
               be
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Private
                 Rights
              
               from
               Home
               Oppressors
               free
               :
            
             
               Degrees
               observ'd
               ,
               Customs
               and
               Laws
               obey'd
               ,
            
             
               Dues
               ,
               less
               through
               Force
               ,
               than
               Fear
               of
               Scandal
               paid
               .
            
             
               Proceed
               ,
               brave
               Worthies
               then
               to
               your
               Debates
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               to
               Decree
               alone
               our
               Private
               Fates
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               Judge
               Kingdoms
               and
               dispose
               of
               States
               .
            
             
               From
               You
               their
               Rise
               ,
               or
               Downfall
               ,
               they
               assume
               ,
            
             
               Expecting
               from
               our
               Capitol
               their
               Doom
               ▪
            
             
               You
               Form
               their
               Peace
               and
               War
               ,
               as
               You
               approve
            
             
               They
               close
               in
               Leagues
               ,
               or
               to
               fierce
               Battel
               move
               .
            
             
               And
               though
               the
               Pride
               of
               France
               has
               swell'd
               so
               high
            
             
               A
               Warlike
               Empire's
               Forces
               to
               D●fie
               ,
            
             
               To
               crush
               th'
               United
               Lands
               Confed'rate
               Pow'r
               ,
            
             
               And
               silence
               the
               loud
               Belgian
               Lion's
               Roar
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               let
               their
               Troops
               in
               
                 Silent
                 Triumph
              
               come
            
             
               From
               Vanquisht
               Fields
               ,
               and
               Steal
               their
               Trophies
               home
               ,
            
             
             
               Take
               care
               their
               Cannon
               at
               
                 Iust
                 Distance
              
               Roar
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               with
               too
               near
               a
               Volley
               rouze
               our
               Shore
               ;
            
             
               Left
               our
               disdaining
               Islanders
               Advance
            
             
               With
               Courage
               taught
               
                 long
                 since
              
               to
               Conquer
               France
               ,
            
             
               Seizing
               at
               Once
               their
               Spoils
               of
               many
               a
               Year
               ,
            
             
               And
               Cheaply
               Win
               what
               they
               oft
               bought
               
                 too
                 Dear
              
               :
            
             
               Their
               late
               Success
               but
               juster
               Fear
               affords
               ,
            
             
               For
               they
               are
               now
               grown
               Worthy
               of
               our
               Swords
               .
            
             
               Howe're
               't
               must
               be
               confest
               ,
               the
               
                 Gallick
                 Pow'rs
              
            
             
               Can
               ne're
               Engage
               on
               
                 Equal
                 Terms
              
               with
               Ours
               .
            
             
               In
               Nature
               we
               have
               th'
               Odds
               ,
               they
               Dread
               ,
               we
               Scorn
               ,
            
             
               The
               English
               o're
               the
               French
               are
               Conqu'rers
               Born.
            
             
               The
               Terrour
               still
               of
               our
               Third
               Edwards
               Name
            
             
               Rebukes
               their
               Pride
               ,
               and
               Damps
               their
               tow'ring
               Fame
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               can
               the
               Tide
               of
               many
               rouling
               Years
            
             
               Wash
               the
               stain'd
               Fields
               of
               Cressey
               and
               Po●ctiers
               .
            
             
               A
               pointed
               Horrour
               strikes
               their
               Bosoms
               still
               ,
            
             
               When
               they
               Survey
               that
               famous
               ,
               fatal
               Hill
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Edward
               with
               his
               Host
               Spectator
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               the
               Prince
               to
               make
               the
               ●onquest
               good
               .
            
             
               The
               Eagle
               thus
               from
               her
               fledg'd
               Young
               withdraws
               ,
            
             
               Trusts
               'em
               t'
               engage
               whole
               Troops
               of
               Kites
               and
               Daw●
               .
            
             
               Nor
               has
               the
               black
               Remembrance
               left
               their
               Brest
               ,
            
             
               How
               our
               Fifth
               Harry
               to
               their
               Paris
               prest
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               France
               wept
               blood
               for
               their
               hot
               Dauphins
               Jest
               ,
            
             
               We
               fore't
               their
               Cavalry
               their
               Foot
               t'ore-run
               ,
            
             
               As
               Tides
               withstood
               ,
               bear
               their
               own
               Billows
               down
               :
            
             
               Such
               was
               the
               Virtue
               of
               our
               Ancestours
               ,
            
             
               And
               such
               ,
               on
               just
               Resentment
               ,
               shall
               be
               Ours
               ;
            
             
               Our
               temper'd
               Valour
               just
               Pretence
               requires
               ,
            
             
               As
               Flints
               are
               Struck
               ,
               before
               they
               shew
               their
               Fires
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Vpon
               the
               Prentices-Feast
               at
               Merchant-Taylors-Hall
               .
            
             
               THe
               busie
               Town
               grew
               still
               ,
               and
               City
               Fops
            
             
               Had
               bid
               adieu
               to
               melancholly
               Shops
               ,
            
             
               Had
               left
               their
               lonesome
               Cell●
               ,
               and
               did
               repair
            
             
               To
               Drink
               ,
               to
               Whore
               ,
               to
               Feast
               ,
               or
               take
               the
               air
               ,
            
             
               I
               knew
               not
               which
               ;
               but
               being
               Young
               I
               follow'd
            
             
               The
               shouting
               croud
               ,
               and
               most
               devoutly
               hollow'd
               .
            
             
               At
               length
               arrived
               at
               a
               place
               they
               call
            
             
               The
               Cockscombs-Court
               or
               Merchant-Taylors-Hall
               ,
            
             
               Where
               the
               starv'd
               Prentices
               kept
               Carnival
               ,
            
             
               I
               enter'd
               ;
               where
               in
               most
               prodigious
               sort
            
             
               Tables
               were
               placed
               al-a-mode
               at
               Court
               ,
            
             
               I
               saw
               a
               Monster
               as
               I
               entered
               in
            
             
               (
               At
               first
               I
               took
               him
               for
               a
               rowling
               Pin
               )
            
             
               'Till
               bowing
               with
               a
               grave
               Majestick
               grace
            
             
               Drew
               up
               his
               chaps
               ;
               and
               said
               ,
               Sir
               take
               your
               place
               ;
            
             
               And
               so
               I
               did
               ,
               for
               at
               a
               Loyal
               Dinner
            
             
               There
               is
               no
               difference
               'twixt
               Saint
               and
               Sinner
               :
            
             
               In
               one
               place
               sat
               an
               hungry
               Irish
               Teague
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               another
               a
               fly
               cunning
               Whigg
               ;
            
             
               In
               drouzy
               murmurs
               eccho'd
               round
               the
               Hall
            
             
               The
               different
               voices
               of
               the
               Festival
               :
            
             
               At
               length
               the
               young
               shop
               Beagles
               enter'd
               in
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               a
               most
               confused
               hideous
               din
               ;
            
             
               They
               yelp
               and
               bawl
               upon
               the
               hunting
               strain
            
             
               As
               if
               they
               meant
               to
               kill
               the
               Bucks
               again
               ,
            
             
             
               Till
               monumental
               Pasty
               did
               arise
               ,
            
             
               Which
               stopt
               their
               Tongues
               and
               feasted
               all
               their
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               The
               sharp
               set
               Prentices
               could
               scarce
               forbear
            
             
               While
               Dr.
               Crape
               did
               say
               a
               Puny
               Prayer
               ,
            
             
               Which
               he
               made
               hast
               to
               do
               ;
               but
               kept
               his
               Eye
            
             
               Divinely
               fixt
               upon
               a
               Pudding
               pye
               ,
            
             
               Least
               some
               base
               sneaking
               Rascal
               should
               convey
            
             
               The
               Schollars
               well
               beloved
               bit
               away
               .
            
             
               He
               having
               said
               ,
               they
               all
               did
               cease
               from
               prating
               ,
            
             
               Left
               speaking
               nonsence
               ,
               and
               all
               fell
               to
               eating
               .
            
             
               One
               crys
               God
               save
               the
               King
               !
               Rips
               up
               a
               Pye
               ,
            
             
               But
               trayterous
               steam
               did
               put
               out
               every
               Eye
               .
            
             
               And
               then
               he
               damns
               the
               Cook
               ,
               and
               calls
               him
               So●
            
             
               To
               serve
               a
               Pasty
               up
               that
               was
               so
               hot
               ;
            
             
               Another
               gently
               tastes
               ,
               and
               then
               he
               swore
            
             
               In
               all
               his
               Life
               he
               ne're
               eat
               Buck
               before
               ;
            
             
               Another
               his
               long
               silence
               'gan
               to
               break
               ,
            
             
               But
               's
               mouth
               was
               fill'd
               so
               full
               he
               could
               not
               speak
               ;
            
             
               A
               fourth
               (
               whom
               they
               deem'd
               to
               be
               i'
               th
               right
               )
            
             
               Declar'd
               't
               was
               better
               for
               to
               eat
               then
               fight
               .
            
             
               At
               length
               their
               hungry
               paunches
               being
               full
               ,
            
             
               With
               fill'd
               up
               Glasses
               ,
               and
               with
               empty
               Scull
               ,
            
             
               Bending
               their
               Marrow-bones
               unto
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               With
               hoarse
               huzza's
               the
               Loyal
               Health
               went
               round
               .
            
             
               How
               many
               converts
               Wine
               and
               Age
               do
               make
               ?
            
             
               When
               forc'd
               the
               earthly
               Region
               to
               forsake
               ,
            
             
               The
               aged
               Sinners
               whine
               in
               pious
               tone
               ;
            
             
               So
               every
               Drunkard
               is
               a
               Loyal
               Drone
               .
            
             
               I
               (
               who
               as
               Loyal
               am
               ,
               as
               tite
               ,
               as
               true
            
             
               As
               any
               of
               the
               Drunken
               Tory
               crew
               )
            
             
             
               Of
               all
               the
               modern
               Healths
               ne're
               drank
               but
               this
            
             
               The
               best
               ,
               the
               Loyallest
               ,
               his
               Majesties
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               was
               forc'd
               to
               drink
               all
               Healths
               of
               Fame
            
             
               A
               Catalogue
               ,
               alas
               !
               too
               hard
               to
               name
               ;
            
             
               For
               which
               base
               fact
               ,
               I
               'm
               markt
               a
               fallen
               star
            
             
               In
               every
               Presbiterian
               Callender
               ;
            
             
               But
               if
               they
               call
               me
               sot
               and
               fool
               ,
               and
               say
            
             
               I
               was
               a
               Rogue
               ;
               it
               was
               but
               for
               a
               day
               ;
            
             
               I
               drank
               a
               Papist
               Health
               ,
               and
               since
               't
               was
               so
            
             
               I
               had
               a
               mental
               reservation
               too
               ;
            
             
               I
               in
               deceit
               to
               some
               a
               fool
               did
               show
               ,
            
             
               Tories
               to
               all
               are
               naturally
               so
               ;
            
             
               Free
               from
               the
               Peoples
               censure
               and
               disdain
            
             
               I
               've
               cast
               my
               Tories
               skin
               ,
               and
               now
               am
               Whigg
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               Rejoynder
               to
               the
               Whiggish
               Poem
               upon
               the
               Tory-Prentices-Feast
               at
               Marchant-Taylors-Hall
               .
            
             
               WELL
               !
               Tory
               Poets
               answers
               come
               at
               last
               ,
            
             
               The
               Tory
               Sots
               never
               write
               Verse
               in
               hast
               ;
            
             
               Or
               else
               the
               Cur
               got
               drunk
               like
               snoaring
               Sow
               ,
            
             
               Lay
               under
               Board
               ,
               and
               never
               wak't
               'till
               now
               ;
            
             
               But
               if
               the
               noise
               the
               yelping
               Beagles
               keep
            
             
               Did
               waken
               him
               ,
               his
               Verse
               I
               'm
               sure
               's
               asleep
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               swear
               ,
               I
               thought
               (
               when
               first
               I
               looked
               on
            
             
               His
               Poem
               )
               he
               had
               sent
               me
               back
               mine
               own
               :
            
             
               It
               began
               alike
               ;
               alike
               almost
               throughout
               ,
            
             
               'T
               was
               only
               mine
               was
               turn'd
               the
               inside
               out
               :
            
             
             
               'T
               is
               a
               damn●d
               ●rick
               the
               Tory
               Tools
               have
               got
               ,
            
             
               To
               kill
               an
               Enemy
               with
               his
               own
               Shot
               :
            
             
               Had
               he
               not
               imped
               me
               ,
               he
               'd
               been
               to
               seek
            
             
               For
               an
               Exordium
               another
               week
               ;
            
             
               For
               of
               the
               To●y
               Poets
               I
               must
               say
            
             
               It
               's
               a
               witty
               Rogue
               can
               write
               a
               Verse
               a
               day
            
             
               But
               Gaffer-Goose-Cap
               ,
               who
               tould
               you
               such
               stories
               ,
            
             
               
                 His
                 Majesty
              
               sent
               Bucks
               to
               feast
               the
               Tories
               ?
            
             
               You
               might
               as
               well
               have
               said
               the
               
                 King
                 was
                 drest
              
            
             
               
                 In
                 Royal
                 Robes
              
               ,
               and
               came
               to
               be
               your
               guest
               .
            
             
               But
               you
               may
               speak
               amiss
               ,
               amiss
               may
               do
               ,
            
             
               It
               had
               been
               Treason
               if
               I
               had
               said
               so
               ;
            
             
               Tories
               may
               murder
               Fame
               ,
               may
               Honour
               kill
               ,
            
             
               May
               slander
               Kings
               ,
               and
               yet
               be
               Loyal
               still
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Loyalty
               consist
               in
               doing
               ill
               ,
            
             
               You
               may
               't
               is
               like
               by
               these
               your
               Verses
               lewd
               ,
            
             
               Make
               the
               mistaken
               To●y
               multitude
            
             
               Believe
               I
               Treason
               spake
               ,
               and
               that
               I
               swore
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               may
               safely
               say
               ,
               you
               'l
               Drink
               and
               Whore
               ,
            
             
               But
               this
               for
               truth
               they
               all
               do
               know
               before
               .
            
             
               That
               Noble-men
               were
               Priests
               ,
               I
               ne're
               said
               so
               ;
            
             
               But
               Doctor
               
               Crape-Gown's
               may
               ,
               for
               ought
               I
               know
               ;
            
             
               'T
               was
               
                 Scandalum
                 magnatum
              
               ,
               if
               I
               do
               in
               jest
            
             
               But
               speak
               one
               word
               'gainst
               Stewards
               of
               the
               Feast
               ;
            
             
               Though
               Lords
               be
               high
               ,
               yet
               Prentices
               are
               low
               ,
            
             
               And
               lowsie
               Taylors
               still
               were
               counted
               so
               :
            
             
               You
               may
               say
               what
               you
               please
               ,
               but
               without
               doubt
            
             
               I
               may
               speak
               Treason
               against
               the
               Rugged-Rout
               ;
            
             
               And
               Silly
               Fops
               'cause
               they
               've
               all
               Whiggs
               abhorr'd
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               have
               as
               good
               a
               title
               as
               a
               Lord
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               prosecute
               for
               scandal
               whom
               they
               please
               :
            
             
               Such
               Lordly
               things
               are
               lordly
               Prentices
               .
            
             
               No
               ,
               silly
               Citts
               !
               for
               ever
               doom'd
               to
               Shops
               ,
            
             
               Keep
               still
               your
               antient
               titles
               ,
               Fools
               and
               Fops
               .
            
             
               This
               Sham
               won't
               take
               ;
               I
               'm
               Loyal
               still
               and
               true
               ,
            
             
               Although
               I
               'm
               scandaliz'd
               by
               traiterous
               you
               ;
            
             
               Disloyal
               Tories
               !
               you
               the
               Traytors
               are
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               Loyal
               
                 Baxter
                 ,
                 Curtis
              
               ,
               Loyal
               Care.
            
             
               Bravely
               maintain
               their
               Soveraigns
               right
               in
               truth
               ,
            
             
               Without
               e're
               feasting
               of
               the
               snotty
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               True
               Whiggs
               ne're
               stoopt
               to
               such
               mean
               tricks
               as
               these
               ,
            
             
               To
               feast
               the
               hungry
               sniveling
               Prentices
               .
            
             
               Illustrious
               Charles
               !
               by
               all
               that
               's
               great
               and
               high
               !
            
             
               (
               Tho
               I
               am
               branded
               with
               Disloyalty
               )
            
             
               No
               fawning
               Courtier
               e're
               shall
               so
               much
               glose
            
             
               As
               I
               'le
               detest
               thine
               and
               thy
               Nations
               Foes
               ;
            
             
               No
               
                 Charles
                 the
                 third
              
               ,
               nor
               budding
               Embryo-King
            
             
               Shall
               be
               the
               Subject
               for
               my
               Muse
               to
               sing
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               thou
               do
               live
               ;
               let
               
                 Traiterous
                 Tories
              
               sooth
               ,
            
             
               And
               raise
               Sedition
               in
               the
               Factious
               Youth
               ;
            
             
               Long
               may'st
               thou
               live
               and
               flourish
               in
               thy
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               all
               these
               
                 little
                 Kings
              
               shall
               basely
               tumble
               down
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Answer
               to
               the
               Tories
               Pamphlet
               called
               ,
               The
               Loyal
               Feast
               :
            
             
               To
               the
               Tune
               of
               Sauney
               will
               never
               be
               my
               Love
               again
               .
            
             
               
                 TOries
                 are
                 Tools
                 of
                 Irish
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 well
                 belov'd
                 by
                 Blades
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 They
                 've
                 Irish
                 Hearts
                 ,
                 but
                 an
                 English
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Dammee
                 and
                 Huzza
                 is
                 all
                 their
                 tone
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 Abhorring
                 and
                 Addressing
                 their
                 time
                 is
                 spent
                 ,
              
               
                 Quaffing
                 and
                 Cursing
                 ,
                 though
                 all
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 main
                 thing
                 they
                 fear
                 is
                 an
                 honest
                 Parliament
              
               
                 For
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Tories
                 are
                 made
                 like
                 Bristol
                 Cans
                 ,
              
               
                 Round
                 and
                 hollow
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 'le
                 tell
                 you
                 more
                 anon
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Word
                 is
                 ,
                 
                   Dammee
                   Iack
                
                 !
                 meet
                 me
                 at
                 Sams
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 's
                 honest
                 Roger
                 ,
                 and
                 Flat-footed
                 Tom
                 ,
              
               
                 Huffing
                 and
                 swearing
                 in
                 Silk
                 so
                 fine
                 ,
              
               
                 Black-Coats
                 ,
                 Red-Coats
                 ,
                 Lord
                 and
                 Swain
                 ;
              
               
                 E're
                 long
                 they
                 'l
                 Petition
                 Caesar
                 to
                 resign
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 Lads
                 that
                 fight
                 the
                 Pope's
                 Cause
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 resolved
                 ,
                 like
                 pious
                 good
                 men
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hang
                 by
                 nothing
                 but
                 the
                 Right
                 Line
                 and
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 the
                 Pope
                 and
                 his
                 Crew
                 return
                 not
                 again
                 ;
              
               
                 
                 Bristol's
                 Tears
                 and
                 
                 England's
                 Woes
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 
                 Scotland's
                 Groans
                 ,
                 do
                 tell
                 us
                 plain
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 will
                 not
                 take
                 the
                 Oaths
                 they
                 impose
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 Babes
                 that
                 wou'd
                 shirk
                 off
                 the
                 Plot
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 under
                 the
                 Name
                 of
                 the
                 Churches
                 true
                 Sons
                 ,
              
               
                 Swear
                 ,
                 Lye
                 ,
                 and
                 Sham
                 ,
                 to
                 have
                 it
                 forgot
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 a
                 Pox
                 take
                 the
                 Fops
                 they
                 talk
                 not
                 to
                 Nuns
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 'll
                 swear
                 (
                 but
                 who'll
                 be
                 thus
                 deceiv'd
                 )
              
               
                 That
                 Godfrey
                 murder'd
                 himself
                 't
                 is
                 plain
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 Devil
                 on
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 they
                 can't
                 be
                 believ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Because
                 the
                 
                 Tory's
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 hark
                 !
                 sure
                 I
                 hear
                 the
                 noise
                 of
                 a
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 Mars
                 and
                 his
                 Sons
                 with
                 a
                 glorious
                 Show
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 thing
                 's
                 very
                 true
                 ,
                 though
                 I
                 took
                 it
                 for
                 a
                 Jeast
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 here
                 pray
                 observe
                 how
                 they
                 march'd
                 from
                 Bow
                 ,
              
               
                 O!
                 the
                 vast
                 number
                 ,
                 and
                 well
                 accourt'd
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 Bonny-boys
                 ,
                 with
                 their
                 glistering
                 Train
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 yet
                 the
                 hir'd
                 Feathers
                 ,
                 and
                 Fagot
                 Merchants
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 board
                 being
                 spread
                 with
                 store
                 of
                 Flesh
                 and
                 Fish
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Fat
                 Kid
                 ,
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 things
                 besides
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 French
                 Mode
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 to
                 garnish
                 every
                 Dish
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 course
                 serv'd
                 up
                 with
                 Crucifix
                 and
                 Bread
                 :
              
               
                 Oaths
                 Rot
                 the
                 Whiggs
                 ,
                 with
                 
                 Huzza's
                 flew
                 about
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Slavery
                 and
                 Oppressions
                 ,
                 there
                 lay
                 the
                 main
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 to
                 please
                 the
                 Image
                 of
                 the
                 Rout
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Many
                 fine
                 Shows
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 pleasant
                 Games
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 offer'd
                 after
                 all
                 ,
                 to
                 please
                 Spectators
                 Eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 chiefest
                 of
                 which
                 was
                 Londons
                 fatal
                 Flames
                 ;
              
               
                 May
                 curses
                 still
                 attend
                 those
                 that
                 mischief
                 devise
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 are
                 the
                 Saints
                 that
                 plead
                 Common-Good
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Persons
                 to
                 secure
                 ,
                 but
                 their
                 Intent
                 is
                 plain
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Crown
                 us
                 with
                 Slavery
                 ,
                 and
                 Christen
                 us
                 in
                 blood
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Tory
                 will
                 still
                 be
                 a
                 Rogue
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 God
                 save
                 the
                 KING
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 true
                 Royal
                 Iames
                 ,
              
               
                 Monmouths
                 Duke
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   Tony
                   ,
                   Englands
                
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 honest
                 Souls
                 tho'
                 I
                 omit
                 their
                 Names
                 ;
              
               
                 May
                 Mischief
                 in
                 earnest
                 their
                 Enemies
                 attend
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 for
                 those
                 Rogues
                 ,
                 that
                 truths
                 do
                 oppose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 Romes
                 Cause
                 ,
                 have
                 play'd
                 their
                 Shams
                 in
                 vain
                 ▪
              
               
                 Let
                 Shame
                 and
                 Confusion
                 be
                 Plagues
                 to
                 all
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 are
                 such
                 Tories
                 and
                 Rogues
                 in
                 Grain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               The
               INFORMERS
               LECTURE
               To
               His
               Sons
               ,
               Instructing
               them
               in
               the
               Mysteries
               of
               that
               Religion
               .
            
             
               COme
               children
               ,
               come
               ,
               and
               learn
               your
               Fathers
               trade
               ▪
            
             
               Though
               all
               else
               fail
               ,
               here
               's
               good
               advantage
               made
               ▪
            
             
               Come
               ,
               come
               away
               ,
               and
               learn
               my
               precepts
               all
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               make
               you
               rich
               ,
               you
               'l
               get
               the
               Devil
               and
               all
               ▪
            
             
               Your
               very
               breath
               shall
               do
               't
               ,
               my
               art
               is
               such
               ,
            
             
               No
               Lawyer
               with
               his
               Tongue
               gets
               half
               so
               much
               :
            
             
               Time
               ●'re
               till
               now
               did
               open
               such
               a
               door
            
             
               To
               wealth
               ,
               to
               those
               who
               had
               spent
               all
               before
               .
            
             
               No
               trade
               like
               this
               ,
               no
               gains
               can
               clearer
               be
               ;
            
             
               There
               's
               none
               have
               to
               glory
               more
               then
               we
               :
            
             
               The
               gainfull'st
               trade
               comes
               short
               ,
               the
               richest
               ●ails
               ,
            
             
               Merchants
               themselves
               may
               here
               to
               us
               strike
               Sails
               .
            
             
               The
               nimble
               Cut-purse
               always
               works
               in
               fears
               ,
            
             
               He
               ventures
               Neck
               and
               all
               ,
               we
               but
               our
               Ears
               :
            
             
               The
               Souldier
               ventures
               hard
               for
               Spoils
               ,
               and
               so
            
             
               Gets
               them
               by
               force
               ,
               we
               don't
               strike
               a
               blow
               :
            
             
               The
               High
               way
               men
               oft
               meet
               with
               many
               a
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               we
               drive
               a
               richer
               trade
               then
               they
               :
            
             
             
               For
               Jugler-like
               we
               need
               not
               bid
               them
               stand
               ,
            
             
               Blow
               but
               a
               blast
               ,
               our
               Money
               's
               in
               our
               hand
               :
            
             
               The
               Paritor
               ,
               though
               he
               be
               near
               of
               kin
               ,
            
             
               In
               such
               a
               way
               of
               trading
               ne're
               has
               bin
               :
            
             
               The
               pilfering
               Thief
               's
               in
               danger
               of
               the
               Stocks
               ,
            
             
               And
               Curtizans
               and
               Whores
               may
               fear
               the
               Pox
               ;
            
             
               This
               marres
               their
               Markets
               ,
               makes
               them
               work
               in
               fear
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               our
               Calling
               no
               such
               dangers
               are
               .
            
             
               We
               need
               not
               fear
               ,
               no
               dangers
               in
               our
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               At
               least
               if
               we
               can
               scape
               the
               Pillory
               :
            
             
               And
               truly
               this
               we
               need
               not
               fear
               a
               jot
               ,
            
             
               Hundreds
               that
               have
               deserv'd
               it
               ,
               have
               it
               not
               ,
            
             
               And
               if
               we
               had
               ,
               for
               all
               their
               Mocks
               and
               Jears
               ,
            
             
               For
               twenty
               pound
               who
               would
               not
               loose
               his
               Ears
               ?
            
             
               We
               neither
               Preach
               nor
               Pray
               ,
               we
               take
               no
               pains
               ,
            
             
               Preaching
               and
               Praying
               bravely
               us
               maintains
               :
            
             
               They
               preach
               and
               pray
               ,
               we
               swear
               ,
               yet
               who
               gets
               more
               ?
            
             
               We
               thrive
               by
               swearing
               ,
               preaching
               makes
               them
               poor
               .
            
             
               We
               sail
               with
               tide
               ,
               against
               the
               stream
               they
               row
               ,
            
             
               Swearing's
               the
               All-a-mode
               in
               fashion
               now
               .
            
             
               Why
               should
               we
               labour
               ?
               will
               not
               Swearing
               do
               ?
            
             
               That
               gets
               both
               Money
               and
               preferment
               too
               .
            
             
               Some
               Swearers
               formerly
               did
               Money
               give
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               it
               is
               by
               Swearing
               that
               we
               Live.
            
             
               And
               Perjury's
               but
               a
               small
               fault
               ;
               what
               more
               ?
            
             
               And
               better
               too
               than
               we
               ,
               have
               been
               forswore
               :
            
             
               And
               what
               a
               Crime
               is
               this
               ?
               is
               this
               so
               bad
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               but
               turn
               Papist
               ,
               Pardons
               may
               be
               had
               .
            
             
               Whoever
               then
               is
               poor
               may
               thank
               himself
               ,
            
             
               Never
               did
               Mortals
               easier
               get
               their
               Wealth
               .
            
             
             
               Learn
               lustily
               to
               swear
               ,
               to
               damn
               and
               rant
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               my
               Life
               for
               yours
               ,
               you
               'l
               never
               want
               .
            
             
               Though
               swear
               you
               must
               ,
               all
               swearing
               will
               not
               serve
               ;
            
             
               Many
               that
               swear
               and
               curse
               ,
               yet
               want
               and
               starve
               .
            
             
               There
               is
               an
               Art
               in
               't
               all
               Men
               do
               not
               know
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               I
               'le
               now
               to
               you
               (
               my
               Children
               )
               show
               ,
            
             
               Take
               my
               directions
               and
               you
               need
               not
               fear
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               shew
               you
               how
               ,
               and
               when
               ,
               and
               what
               to
               swear
               .
            
             
               Mark
               when
               you
               swear
               ,
               be
               sure
               to
               swear
               for
               gain
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               those
               that
               swear
               for
               nought
               ,
               that
               swear
               in
               vain
               ▪
            
             
               Be
               sure
               Inform
               ,
               do
               this
               without
               dispute
               ,
            
             
               But
               yet
               don't
               meddle
               with
               forbidden
               Fruit
               :
            
             
               Observe
               your
               Friends
               ,
               strive
               not
               against
               the
               tide
               ,
            
             
               Oppose
               not
               those
               that
               are
               o'
               th
               rising
               side
               .
            
             
               Church
               men
               in
               pow'r
               ,
               what
               e're
               be
               their
               Offence
               ,
            
             
               Meddle
               not
               with
               ,
               we
               will
               with
               them
               dispence
               .
            
             
               For
               this
               should
               be
               the
               greatest
               of
               your
               care
               ,
            
             
               To
               know
               for
               whom
               and
               against
               whom
               you
               swear
               .
            
             
               For
               if
               you
               should
               reform
               all
               things
               amiss
               ,
            
             
               It
               would
               undo
               you
               ,
               meddle
               not
               with
               this
               .
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Oaths
               you
               hear
               ,
               and
               many
               a
               Lye
               ,
            
             
               Meddle
               not
               yet
               ,
               you
               've
               better
               Fish
               to
               frye
               ;
            
             
               For
               swearing
               ,
               whoring
               ,
               drinking
               overmuch
               ,
            
             
               Are
               genteel
               sins
               ,
               and
               these
               you
               must
               not
               touch
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               the
               Mark
               at
               which
               you
               ought
               to
               aim
               ,
            
             
               You
               're
               Hunts-men
               ,
               mind
               not
               then
               so
               low
               a
               Game
               .
            
             
               Though
               Papists
               ,
               Atheists
               ,
               God
               and
               Christ
               blaspheme
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               Inform
               ,
               you
               'l
               sail
               against
               the
               stream
               :
            
             
               The
               Pocky-nose
               ,
               and
               the
               red-pimpled
               Face
               ,
            
             
               Are
               not
               the
               Persons
               that
               you
               have
               in
               chase
               .
            
             
             
               These
               little
               Sins
               are
               not
               worth
               reforming
               ,
            
             
               Will
               never
               bring
               a
               penny
               for
               Informing
               .
            
             
               Fanaticks
               faults
               are
               of
               a
               deeper
               dye
               ,
            
             
               And
               therefore
               mind
               these
               well
               ,
               for
               so
               do
               I
               ;
            
             
               Mind
               therefore
               their
               Offences
               ,
               yet
               not
               all
               ,
            
             
               But
               chiefly
               that
               they
               do
               their
               Duty
               call
               .
            
             
               Praying
               and
               Preaching
               ,
               these
               are
               worse
               by
               far
               ,
            
             
               Than
               swearing
               ,
               whoring
               ,
               or
               blaspheming
               are
               :
            
             
               For
               men
               may
               swear
               unto
               their
               dying
               day
               ,
            
             
               Before
               they
               be
               compell'd
               a
               Groat
               to
               pay
               :
            
             
               Fanatick
               Preaching
               though
               ne're
               so
               precise
               ,
            
             
               Is
               more
               infectious
               far
               than
               Swearing
               is
               .
            
             
               Adultery
               !
               no
               doubt
               Fanaticks
               love
               it
               ,
            
             
               And
               are
               as
               bad
               as
               we
               ,
               if
               we
               co●ld
               prove
               it
               .
            
             
               The
               mischief
               is
               ,
               they
               sin
               as
               bad
               no
               doubt
            
             
               In
               secret
               ,
               but
               the
               Devil
               brings
               ours
               out
               .
            
             
               If
               you
               should
               find
               them
               guilty
               ,
               for
               your
               pains
            
             
               Shame
               them
               enough
               ,
               but
               this
               is
               all
               your
               gains
               .
            
             
               But
               meddle
               not
               too
               much
               ,
               such
               is
               our
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Press
               them
               too
               hard
               ,
               they
               will
               retalliate
               .
            
             
               Be
               sure
               with
               Whores
               and
               Harlots
               you
               dispence
               ,
            
             
               For
               fear
               you
               give
               the
               worshipful
               offence
               .
            
             
               The
               Sabbath-breakers
               Sins
               are
               less
               by
               far
               ,
            
             
               Than
               the
               offences
               of
               Tub-preachers
               are
               .
            
             
               The
               Sodomites
               did
               many
               things
               amiss
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               ne're
               were
               guilty
               of
               such
               a
               sin
               as
               this
               .
            
             
               These
               Meetings
               are
               more
               dangerous
               by
               far
               ,
            
             
               Than
               Bull-baits
               ,
               Bear-baits
               or
               Cock-fightings
               are
               :
            
             
               Stage-plays
               and
               Morrice-dances
               ,
               Masks
               and
               Shows
               ,
            
             
               Wakes
               ,
               May-games
               ,
               Puppet-plays
               ,
               and
               such
               as
               those
            
             
             
               More
               harmless
               are
               ;
               for
               all
               their
               Mocks
               and
               Jears
            
             
               Are
               innocent
               ,
               if
               but
               compar'd
               with
               theirs
               :
            
             
               You
               need
               not
               such-like
               numerous
               meetings
               fear
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               none
               but
               Loyal
               Subjects
               will
               be
               here
               .
            
             
               Whore-house
               and
               Stews
               which
               Gallants
               do
               frequent
               ,
            
             
               Compar'd
               with
               these
               are
               far
               more
               innocent
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               five
               or
               six
               crept
               in
               some
               hole
               to
               pray
               ,
            
             
               That
               Plot
               the
               ruine
               of
               the
               Monarchy
               ;
            
             
               Women
               and
               Children
               have
               been
               prov'd
               of
               late
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               supplanters
               of
               the
               Church
               and
               State.
            
             
               Some
               Country
               People
               ,
               though
               yet
               out
               of
               sight
               ,
            
             
               Do
               put
               the
               King
               and
               Kingdome
               in
               a
               fright
               :
            
             
               And
               those
               that
               neither
               Sword
               nor
               staff
               did
               bear
               ,
            
             
               Have
               made
               a
               Riot
               ,
               put
               the
               World
               in
               fear
               .
            
             
               Though
               France
               ,
               and
               Spain
               ,
               and
               Rome
               ,
               and
               all
               conspire
            
             
               Against
               our
               Land
               ,
               our
               City
               set
               on
               Fire
               :
            
             
               Threaten
               a
               Massacre
               ,
               to
               spill
               our
               blood
               ,
            
             
               To
               bring
               in
               Popery
               on
               us
               like
               a
               Flood
               :
            
             
               If
               half
               a
               score
               Fanaticks
               come
               to
               hear
               ,
            
             
               They
               'l
               put
               the
               Nation
               in
               a
               greater
               fear
               .
            
             
               If
               silly
               Women
               ,
               and
               some
               simple
               men
            
             
               Get
               God
               but
               on
               their
               side
               ,
               where
               are
               we
               then
               ?
            
             
               Keep
               them
               asunder
               ,
               that
               they
               might
               not
               pray
               ,
            
             
               Or
               do
               your
               best
               to
               keep
               their
               God
               away
               ;
            
             
               For
               fear
               lest
               he
               should
               hear
               when
               they
               do
               cry
               ,
            
             
               And
               should
               Conventicle
               as
               well
               as
               they
               .
            
             
               If
               they
               storm
               Heaven
               before
               us
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               venture
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               they
               'l
               leave
               us
               any
               room
               to
               enter
               .
            
             
               What
               though
               for
               King
               and
               Kingdom
               they
               do
               pray
               ,
            
             
               If
               we
               will
               Swear
               they
               mind
               it
               to
               destroy
               ?
            
             
             
               They
               Plot
               in
               secret
               ,
               though
               we
               do
               not
               hear
               it
               ,
            
             
               We
               know
               it
               well
               enough
               ,
               and
               we
               dare
               swear
               it
               .
            
             
               The
               Papists
               are
               by
               far
               more
               innocent
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               their
               Plots
               ,
               have
               far
               less
               mischief
               meant
               .
            
             
               What
               those
               call
               pity
               ,
               we
               must
               confess
            
             
               They
               prosecute
               but
               in
               a
               sowler
               dress
               .
            
             
               Call
               it
               Rebellion
               ,
               Schism
               ,
               or
               what
               is
               bad
               ,
            
             
               Those
               that
               will
               kill
               a
               dog
               must
               say
               he
               's
               mad
               .
            
             
               Say
               they
               are
               plotting
               and
               conspiring
               too
               ,
            
             
               And
               boldly
               Swear
               it
               ,
               if
               that
               will
               not
               do
               ,
            
             
               What
               though
               your
               conscience
               give
               your
               tongue
               the
               lie
               ,
            
             
               Heed
               not
               your
               conscience
               for
               to
               lose
               thereby
               .
            
             
               Praying
               and
               Preaching
               !
               this
               is
               worse
               by
               far
               ,
            
             
               Than
               all
               the
               crying
               Sins
               of
               Sodom
               are
               ,
            
             
               These
               sins
               are
               Acted
               o're
               and
               o're
               each
               day
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               no
               one
               yet
               his
               forty
               pound
               did
               pay
               :
            
             
               The
               fault
               is
               greater
               ,
               and
               the
               danger
               's
               more
               ,
            
             
               To
               teach
               five
               Sisters
               then
               to
               bed
               a
               score
               .
            
             
               These
               are
               but
               tricks
               of
               Youth
               ,
               yea
               harmless
               toyes
               ,
            
             
               Whatever
               God
               and
               Man
               and
               Conscience
               says
               .
            
             
               Gods
               Laws
               condemn
               these
               sins
               say
               they
               :
               what
               then
               ▪
            
             
               We
               know
               not
               those
               ,
               we
               know
               the
               Laws
               of
               Men.
            
             
               Preaching
               and
               Praying
               ,
               say
               men
               what
               they
               will
               ,
            
             
               You
               must
               regard
               ,
               this
               water
               drives
               your
               Mill.
            
             
               One
               Sermon
               brings
               more
               profit
               ten
               times
               over
               ,
            
             
               Than
               if
               you
               should
               a
               thousand
               Whores
               discover
               .
            
             
               Fanatick-preachers
               bring
               more
               gain
               no
               doubt
               ,
            
             
               Than
               if
               you
               found
               so
               many
               Jesuits
               out
               .
            
             
               Swearing
               and
               Whoring
               now
               is
               all
               in
               Fashion
               ,
            
             
               Preaching
               and
               Praying
               are
               the
               sins
               of
               th'
               Nation
               .
            
             
             
               A
               Jesuit's
               a
               mild
               and
               Gentle
               man.
            
             
               If
               we
               compare
               him
               with
               the
               Puritan
               :
            
             
               Who
               say
               in
               Doctrine
               they
               with
               us
               agree
               ,
            
             
               And
               they
               are
               Protestants
               as
               well
               as
               we
               ,
            
             
               'Gainst
               Ceremonies
               only
               they
               contend
               ,
            
             
               Which
               do
               their
               queasy
               Stomacks
               so
               offend
               .
            
             
               Well
               ,
               be
               it
               so
               :
               e're
               they
               and
               we
               agree
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               make
               them
               swallow
               Knives
               as
               well
               as
               we
               ▪
            
             
               And
               though
               in
               secret
               corners
               now
               they
               sneak
               ,
            
             
               E're
               long
               we
               'll
               make
               them
               either
               bend
               or
               break
               .
            
             
               We
               'll
               teach
               them
               shortly
               without
               much
               a
               do
               ,
            
             
               To
               bow
               to
               th'
               Altar
               and
               the
               Image
               too
               :
            
             
               Who
               e're
               commands
               ,
               we
               'll
               make
               them
               to
               obey
               ,
            
             
               The
               Bishops
               do
               't
               ,
               and
               therefore
               why
               not
               they
               ?
            
             
               We
               'll
               bring
               them
               down
               betime
               ,
               for
               there
               's
               no
               doubt
            
             
               If
               times
               should
               change
               ,
               they
               'l
               be
               the
               first
               stand
               out
               .
            
             
               Those
               that
               the
               Bishops
               Laws
               do
               now
               withstand
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               not
               obey
               ,
               no
               though
               the
               Pope
               command
               .
            
             
               'Gainst
               Kings
               and
               Kingdoms
               sins
               they
               rage
               and
               roar
               ,
            
             
               When
               in
               their
               Tubs
               they
               care
               not
               who
               they
               goar
               .
            
             
               In
               a
               right
               course
               therefore
               that
               you
               may
               sail
               ,
            
             
               Take
               these
               directions
               and
               you
               cannot
               fail
               .
            
             
               Those
               men
               that
               will
               not
               pray
               and
               preach
               in
               jest
               ,
            
             
               Mark
               these
               ,
               they
               are
               more
               dongerous
               then
               the
               Rest.
            
             
               Those
               that
               act
               Sermons
               as
               a
               Stage-players
               part
               ,
            
             
               You
               need
               not
               fear
               them
               ,
               they
               are
               sound
               at
               heart
               .
            
             
               Those
               that
               against
               the
               Nations
               sins
               exclaim
               ,
            
             
               Are
               like
               to
               bring
               you
               the
               greatest
               gain
               .
            
             
               He
               that
               doth
               rather
               chuse
               i'
               th'
               fire
               to
               burn
               ,
            
             
               Before
               he
               'll
               Atheist
               or
               a
               Papist
               turn
               ;
            
             
             
               This
               is
               a
               stubborn
               Rogue
               ,
               and
               like
               to
               be
            
             
               A
               Grand
               affronter
               of
               Authority
               .
            
             
               He
               that
               doth
               bow
               ,
               and
               bend
               ,
               and
               stand
               ,
               and
               sit
               ,
            
             
               And
               shift
               his
               sails
               still
               as
               the
               Wind
               doth
               flit
               ,
            
             
               Observe
               his
               Leaders
               ,
               and
               his
               right
               hand-man
               ,
            
             
               Ne're
               fear
               ,
               he
               'll
               never
               turn
               a
               Puritan
               .
            
             
               But
               he
               that
               Serveth
               God
               for
               love
               ,
               not
               mony
               ,
            
             
               Without
               Tradition
               or
               a
               Ceremony
               ;
            
             
               As
               the
               Apostles
               did
               in
               the
               days
               of
               yore
               ,
            
             
               Who
               never
               Cross
               did
               use
               or
               Surplice
               wore
               :
            
             
               And
               those
               that
               in
               their
               Family
               would
               pray
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               the
               Sabbath
               spend
               in
               sports
               and
               play
               :
            
             
               Beware
               of
               those
               ,
               for
               it
               is
               ten
               to
               one
               ,
            
             
               They
               're
               foully
               tainted
               ,
               if
               not
               wholly
               gone
               :
            
             
               As
               also
               those
               that
               unto
               Sermons
               gad
               ,
            
             
               Papists
               and
               Atheists
               are
               not
               half
               so
               bad
               :
            
             
               Watch
               those
               ,
               and
               they
               will
               fall
               into
               your
               trap
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               they
               once
               are
               in
               ,
               let
               none
               escape
               ,
            
             
               With
               Sermon
               ,
               Prayer
               ,
               and
               Fasting
               bait
               the
               Net
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               full
               draught
               you
               will
               be
               sure
               to
               get
               .
            
             
               But
               venture
               Swearers
               ,
               Drunkards
               ,
               never
               fear
               ,
            
             
               You
               need
               not
               watch
               them
               ,
               they
               will
               ne're
               come
               there
               :
            
             
               Taverns
               and
               Whore
               houses
               they
               haunt
               't
               is
               plain
               ,
            
             
               You
               'l
               meet
               them
               there
               ,
               but
               nothing
               to
               your
               gain
               .
            
             
               Having
               your
               prey
               before
               you
               ,
               spare
               ye
               none
               ,
            
             
               And
               whensoe're
               you
               Swear
               ,
               be
               sure
               Swear
               home
               .
            
             
               I
               hate
               these
               Quaking-fellows
               ,
               that
               are
               loath
            
             
               To
               swear
               to
               purpose
               ,
               these
               but
               spoil
               an
               Oath
               .
            
             
               E're
               I
               'de
               loose
               twenty
               pound
               for
               want
               of
               reaching
               ,
            
             
               I
               would
               swear
               home
               ,
               and
               swear
               that
               praying's
               preaching
               .
            
             
             
               In
               doubtful
               cases
               you
               may
               safely
               Swear
               ,
            
             
               For
               twenty
               pound
               who
               would
               not
               loose
               an
               Ear
               ?
            
             
               And
               sometimes
               when
               you
               cannot
               come
               to
               see
               ,
            
             
               Swear
               those
               are
               present
               that
               are
               us'd
               to
               be
               .
            
             
               March
               on
               brave
               Lads
               ,
               fear
               not
               to
               drink
               and
               roar
               ,
            
             
               While
               the
               Fanatick's
               rich
               we
               'll
               ne're
               be
               poor
               .
            
             
               We
               shall
               get
               mony
               from
               these
               rustick
               Boars
               ,
            
             
               To
               pay
               our
               debts
               ,
               and
               to
               maintain
               our
               Whores
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Furies
               haunt
               Fanaticks
               to
               the
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               not
               while
               they
               have
               mony
               ,
               life
               ,
               or
               breath
               .
            
             
               To
               drink
               ,
               to
               drab
               ,
               to
               whore
               ,
               to
               lye
               ,
               to
               swear
               ,
            
             
               It
               is
               the
               Garb
               that
               all
               our
               Tradesmen
               wear
               .
            
             
               Hap'ly
               they
               'l
               call
               us
               Knaves
               ,
               but
               't
               is
               no
               shame
               ,
            
             
               For
               any
               honest
               man
               to
               own
               his
               name
               .
            
             
               O
               but
               our
               Names
               will
               rot
               they
               say
               !
               what
               then
               ?
            
             
               Let
               's
               dye
               like
               Beasts
               ,
               so
               we
               may
               live
               like
               Men.
            
             
               But
               God
               will
               plague
               us
               in
               a
               darksome
               Den
               ,
            
             
               I
               would
               we
               could
               be
               sure
               to
               'scape
               till
               then
               .
            
             
               They
               do
               their
               duty
               :
               Well
               ,
               and
               so
               do
               we
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Wives
               and
               Children
               must
               maintained
               be
               .
            
             
               But
               of
               all
               men
               ,
               they
               say
               ,
               we
               are
               the
               worst
               ,
            
             
               The
               Fox
               thrives
               best
               (
               they
               say
               )
               when
               he
               's
               most
               curst
               :
            
             
               Many
               Informers
               beggars
               prove
               to
               be
               ;
            
             
               And
               many
               Tradesmen
               break
               ,
               what
               's
               that
               to
               me
               ?
            
             
               With
               Stocks
               and
               Pillory
               they
               would
               us
               fear
               ,
            
             
               Many
               for
               Mony
               loose
               more
               than
               an
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               But
               ill
               got
               Goods
               third
               Heirs
               do
               seldom
               see
               !
            
             
               We
               mean
               our
               own
               Executors
               to
               be
               .
            
             
               Sons
               ply
               your
               work
               while
               you
               have
               ought
               to
               do
               ,
            
             
               For
               fear
               the
               Parliament
               prove
               Round-heads
               too
               :
            
             
             
               ●nd
               pray
               no
               Law
               in
               England
               may
               be
               made
            
             
               ●o
               help
               Fanaticks
               ,
               or
               to
               spoil
               our
               trade
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               once
               the
               Papists
               get
               the
               upper
               hand
               ,
            
             
               ●ur
               trade
               will
               mend
               ,
               though
               other
               trades
               should
               stand
               ,
            
             
               〈◊〉
               this
               succeed
               (
               my
               Sons
               )
               let
               's
               never
               fear
               ,
            
             
               ●hey
               shall
               to
               Mass
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Common-prayer
               .
            
             
               ●●an-while
               we
               'll
               let
               them
               can●
               ,
               we
               'll
               sing
               and
               roar
               ,
            
             
               ●nd
               with
               their
               Money
               drink
               ,
               and
               drab
               ,
               and
               whore
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               ELEGY
               upon
               Marsh
               ,
               A
               Publick
               Sworn
               INFORMER
               against
               Protestant
               Religious
               Meetings
               in
               the
               City
               of
               LONDON
               ,
               who
               Dyed
               very
               miserably
               in
               the
               Prison
               of
               the
               Compter
               .
               Ulter
               a
               Tergo
               Deus
               .
            
             
               GO
               set
               Scotch
               Bag-Pipes
               to
               the
               briskest
               Notes
               ,
            
             
               But
               let
               the
               Singing-men
               rend
               all
               their
               Throats
               ,
            
             
               Hang
               Tyburn
               round
               with
               Blacks
               ,
               and
               let
               Ketch
               squeeze
            
             
               His
               Eyes
               to
               Tears
               having
               thus
               lost
               his
               Fees
               ;
            
             
               My self
               (
               like
               a
               young
               Widdow
               )
               fain
               would
               cry
               ,
            
             
               But
               like
               her
               too
               ,
               I
               know
               not
               how
               ,
               nor
               why
               ;
            
             
               Muse
               !
               get
               an
               Onion
               quickly
               ,
               or
               else
               Woo
            
             
               Some
               Irish
               Poet
               for
               a
               Ha-la-loo
               ;
            
             
               Oh
               Hone
               !
               Oh
               Hone
               !
               tell
               us
               what
               didst
               thou
               ail
            
             
               Thus
               to
               trappan
               thy self
               into
               a
               Goal
               ?
            
             
             
               Thou
               hadst
               a
               stout
               protection
               ,
               and
               't
               is
               said
            
             
               A
               lumping
               Pension
               for
               good
               service
               paid
               :
            
             
               Some
               bribes
               thou
               got'st
               ,
               and
               many
               a
               Penalty
            
             
               Was
               due
               we
               trow
               ,
               and
               why
               then
               wouldst
               thou
               dye
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Cloven-footed
               Masters
               works
               not
               done
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               shouldst
               have
               Ruin'd
               thousands
               ere
               thou
               d'st
               gone
               ▪
            
             
               Thou
               shouldst
               have
               made
               each
               Nonconformist
               bow
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               them
               all
               as
               poor
               as
               thou
               wert
               now
               ;
            
             
               Then
               mounted
               on
               State
               with
               solemn
               pride
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               might'st
               to
               Hell
               in
               guilded
               Chariot
               ride
               :
            
             
               Been
               
               Pluto's
               Vice-Roy
               ,
               and
               preferred
               more
            
             
               Than
               Iudas
               ,
               or
               thy
               brethren
               all
               before
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               alass
               !
               thou
               scarce
               can
               get
               i'
               th
               end
            
             
               To
               be
               the
               Groom
               o'
               th
               Close-stool
               Chamber
               to
               the
               
                 Fiend
                 ▪
              
            
             
               But
               't
               is
               in
               vain
               thus
               to
               Expostulate
               ,
            
             
               For
               poor
               Informers
               warrant
               's
               out
               of
               date
               ;
            
             
               The
               Man
               of
               Gath
               is
               fal'n
               that
               did
               so
               stickle
               ,
            
             
               And
               swore
               to
               confound
               each
               Conventicle
               ;
            
             
               Grim
               Death
               hath
               by
               a
               seizure
               snatcht
               him
               hence
               ,
            
             
               For
               to
               receive
               his
               dear-earn'd
               Recompence
               :
            
             
               Follow
               the
               scent
               ,
               and
               from
               the
               Stygian
               Lake
               ,
            
             
               Fit
               Junk
               for
               such
               a
               wretched
               Subject
               take
               ;
            
             
               Black
               as
               his
               Trade
               let
               every
               Line
               appear
               ,
            
             
               And
               each
               Ear
               tingle
               his
               sad
               Fate
               shall
               hear
               ,
            
             
               Not
               that
               I
               am
               of
               that
               Presumptious
               fry
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               sawcy
               Fingers
               pick-lock
               Destiny
               ,
            
             
               Who
               snatcht
               Fates-book
               ,
               and
               furiously
               transpose
               ,
            
             
               To
               Judgments
               all
               misfortunes
               of
               their
               Foes
               ;
            
             
               Vertue
               may
               be
               unhappy
               ,
               and
               sometimes
            
             
               Success
               here
               waits
               upon
               the
               worst
               of
               crimes
               ,
            
             
             
               ●t
               is
               another
               day
               ,
               a
               clearer
               Light
            
             
               ●ust
               set
               all
               these
               seeming
               disorders
               right
               ;
            
             
               ●et
               must
               we
               grant
               that
               Heaven
               does
               now
               and
               then
            
             
               ●isibly
               punish
               Irreligious
               Men
               ,
            
             
               ●nd
               against
               none
               its
               Arrows
               oftner
               fly
            
             
               ●han
               these
               sworn
               Enemies
               to
               Piety
               ,
            
             
               ●
               Per●ecuting
               Spirit
               never
               yet
            
             
               ●ut
               in
               a
               Cloud
               of
               shame
               and
               sorrow
               set
               ,
            
             
               ●ust
               God!
               how
               equal
               are
               thy
               punishments
            
             
               ●hus
               blasting
               base
               designs
               with
               sad
               events
               ;
            
             
               ●hough
               Crafty
               in
               self
               woven
               Nets
               is
               wrapt
            
             
               ●nd
               in
               the
               Pit
               he
               digg'd
               for
               others
               ,
               trapt
               ,
            
             
               ●ark
               how
               the
               Ravens
               and
               the
               Scre●ch-Owls
               cries
            
             
               ●ith
               frightful
               Ecchoes
               chaunt
               his
               obsequies
               .
            
             
               Whether
               he
               's
               gone
               now
               Dead
               ,
               I
               shall
               not
               say
               ,
            
             
               ●ut
               whilst
               alive
               ,
               he
               took
               the
               broader
               way
               ;
            
             
               〈◊〉
               Pythegorean
               Tenets
               are
               not
               flams
               ,
            
             
               ●e's
               grown
               a
               Woolf
               by
               this
               ,
               and
               worries
               Lambs
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Epitaph
               .
            
             
               Stay
               Reader
               !
               and
               Piss
               here
               ,
               for
               it
               is
               said
            
             
               ●nder
               this
               Dirt
               there
               's
               an
               Informer
               laid
               ,
            
             
               ●f
               Heaven
               be
               pleas'd
               when
               Mortals
               cease
               from
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               ●nd
               Hell
               be
               pleas'd
               when
               Villains
               enter
               in
               ,
            
             
               ●f
               Earth
               be
               pleas'd
               when
               it
               entombs
               a
               Knave
               ,
            
             
               ●ure
               all
               are
               pleas'd
               ,
               for
               
               Marsh's
               in
               his
               Grave
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               Liberty
               of
               Conscience
            
             
               By
               Dr.
               WILD
               .
            
             
               NO
               ,
               not
               one
               word
               ,
               can
               I
               of
               this
               great
               Deed
               ,
            
             
               In
               Merlin
               ,
               or
               Old
               Mother
               Shipton
               read
               !
            
             
               Old
               Tuburn
               take
               those
               Tychobrahe
               Imp●
               ,
            
             
               Astrologers
               ,
               who
               would
               be
               counted
               Pimps
            
             
               To
               the
               Amorous
               Planets
               ;
               they
               the
               Minuit
               know
               ,
            
             
               When
               Iove
               did
               Cuckhold
               poor
               Amphitryo
               ,
            
             
               Ken
               Mars
               ,
               and
               made
               Venus
               wink
               and
               glances
               ,
            
             
               Their
               close
               Conjunctions
               ,
               and
               mid-night
               Dances
               ,
            
             
               When
               costive
               Saturn
               goes
               to
               Stool
               ,
               and
               vile
            
             
               Thief
               Mercury
               doth
               pick
               his
               Fob
               the
               while
               :
            
             
               When
               Lady
               Luna
               leaks
               ,
               and
               makes
               her
               man
            
             
               Throw
               't
               out
               of
               Window
               into
               th'
               Ocean
               .
            
             
               More
               subtle
               than
               the
               Excise-men
               here
               below
               ,
            
             
               What
               's
               spent
               in
               every
               Sign
               in
               Heaven
               they
               know
               ;
            
             
               Cunning
               Intelligencers
               ,
               they
               will
               not
               miss
            
             
               To
               tell
               us
               next
               year
               the
               success
               of
               this
               ;
            
             
               They
               correspond
               with
               Dutch
               and
               English
               Star
               ,
            
             
               As
               one
               once
               did
               with
               CHARLES
               and
               Oliver
               .
            
             
               The
               Bankers
               might
               have
               ,
               had
               they
               to
               them
               gone
               ,
            
             
               What
               Planet
               Govern'd
               the
               Exchequer
               ,
               known
               .
            
             
               Old
               Lilly
               ,
               though
               he
               did
               not
               love
               to
               make
            
             
               Any
               words
               on
               't
               ,
               saw
               the
               English
               take
            
             
               Five
               of
               the
               Smyrna
               Fleet
               ,
               and
               if
               the
               Sign
            
             
               Had
               been
               Aquarius
               ,
               then
               they
               had
               made
               them
               Nine
            
             
             
               When
               Sagitarus
               took
               his
               aim
               to
               shoot
            
             
               At
               Bishop
               Cosin
               ,
               he
               spyed
               him
               no
               doubt
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               such
               force
               the
               winged
               Arrow
               flew
               ,
            
             
               Instead
               of
               one
               Church
               Stagg
               he
               killed
               two
               ,
            
             
               Gloucester
               and
               Durham
               when
               he
               espy'd
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Lean
               and
               Fat
               go
               together
               he
               cry'd
               .
            
             
               Well
               
                 Wille
                 Lille
              
               ,
               thou
               knew'st
               all
               this
               as
               well
            
             
               As
               I
               ,
               and
               yet
               would'st
               not
               their
               Lordships
               tell
               .
            
             
               I
               know
               thy
               Plea
               too
               ,
               and
               must
               it
               allow
               ,
            
             
               PRELATES
               should
               know
               as
               much
               of
               Heaven
               as
               thou
               :
            
             
               But
               now
               Friend
               William
               since
               it
               's
               done
               and
               past
               ,
            
             
               Pray
               thee
               ,
               give
               us
               Phanaticks
               but
               one
               cast
               ,
            
             
               What
               thou
               foresaw'st
               of
               March
               the
               Fifteenth
               Last
               ;
            
             
               When
               swift
               and
               suddain
               as
               the
               Angels
               flye
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               Declaration
               for
               Conscience
               Liberty
               ;
            
             
               When
               things
               of
               Heaven
               burst
               from
               the
               Royal-breast
               ,
            
             
               More
               fragrant
               than
               the
               spices
               of
               the
               East
               .
            
             
               I
               know
               in
               next
               years
               Almanack
               thou
               'st
               write
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               saw'●t
               the
               King
               and
               Council
               over-night
               ,
            
             
               Before
               that
               morn
               ,
               all
               sit
               in
               Heaven
               as
               plain
            
             
               To
               be
               discern'd
               ,
               as
               if
               't
               were
               
               Charles's
               Wain
               ,
            
             
               Great
               B.
               great
               L.
               and
               two
               great
               AA's
               were
               chief
            
             
               Under
               great
               CHARLES
               to
               give
               poor
               Fan's
               relief
               ▪
            
             
               Thou
               sawest
               Lord
               Arlington
               ordain
               the
               man
            
             
               To
               be
               the
               first
               Lay-Metropolitan
               .
            
             
               Thou
               saw'st
               him
               give
               induction
               to
               a
               Spittle
               ,
            
             
               And
               constitute
               our
               brother
               TOM-DOE-LITTLE
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               Bears
               paw
               ,
               and
               the
               Bulls
               right
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Some
               Detriment
               to
               Priests
               thou
               didst
               espye
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               though
               by
               Sol
               in
               Libra
               thou
               didst
               know
            
             
               Whi●h
               way
               the
               scale
               of
               policy
               would
               go
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               Mercury
               in
               Aries
               did
               decree
               ,
            
             
               That
               Wool
               and
               Lamb
               should
               still
               Conformists
               be
               .
            
             
               But
               hark-you
               Will
               ,
               Star-poching
               is
               not
               fair
               ;
            
             
               Had
               you
               amongst
               the
               Stars
               found
               this
               March-Hare
               ,
            
             
               Bred
               of
               that
               ●usty
               Puss
               the
               Good
               Old
               Cause
               ,
            
             
               Religion
               rescued
               from
               Informing
               Laws
               ;
            
             
               You
               should
               have
               yelpt
               aloud
               ,
               hanging's
               the
               end
               ,
            
             
               By
               Huntsmens
               Rule
               ,
               of
               Hounds
               that
               will
               not
               spend
               ,
            
             
               Be
               gone
               thou
               and
               thy
               canting
               Tribe
               ,
               be
               gone
               ;
            
             
               Go
               tell
               thy
               destiny
               to
               fools
               or
               none
               :
            
             
               Kings
               Hearts
               and
               Councils
               are
               to
               deep
               for
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               thy
               Stars
               and
               Doemons
               scrutinie
               .
            
             
               King
               CHARLES
               Return
               was
               much
               above
               thy
               skill●
            
             
               To
               fumble
               out
               ,
               as
               't
               was
               against
               thy
               will
               ,
            
             
               From
               him
               who
               can
               the
               hearts
               of
               Kings
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               Not
               from
               the
               Planets
               ,
               came
               that
               sacred
               Fire
            
             
               Of
               Soveraign
               Love
               ,
               which
               burst
               into
               a
               Flame
               ;
            
             
               From
               God
               and
               from
               the
               King
               alone
               it
               came
               .
            
          
           
             
               To
               the
               KING
               .
            
             
               SO
               great
               ,
               so
               universal
               ,
               and
               so
               free
               !
            
             
               This
               was
               too
               much
               great
               CHARLES
               ,
               except
               for
               Thee
               ,
            
             
               For
               any
               King
               to
               give
               a
               Subject
               hope
               :
            
             
               To
               do
               thus
               like
               Thee
               ,
               would
               undo
               the
               Pope
               .
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               tho
               his
               Vassals
               should
               their
               wealth
               combine
               ,
            
             
               To
               buy
               Indulg●nce
               half
               so
               large
               as
               Thine
               ;
            
             
             
               No
               ,
               if
               they
               should
               not
               only
               kiss
               his
               Toe
               ,
            
             
               But
               
               Clement's
               Podex
               ,
               he
               'd
               not
               let
               them
               goe
               .
            
             
               Whil'st
               Thou
               ,
               to
               's
               Shame
               ,
               Thy
               immortal
               Glory
               ,
            
             
               Hast
               freed
               All-Souls
               from
               reall
               Purgatory
               ;
            
             
               And
               given
               All-Saints
               in
               Heav'n
               new
               Joys
               ,
               to
               see
            
             
               Their
               Friends
               in
               England
               keep
               a
               〈◊〉
               .
            
             
               Suspect
               them
               not
               ,
               Great
               Sir
               ,
               nor
               think
               the
               worse
               ;
            
             
               For
               sudden
               Joys
               ,
               like
               Grief
               ,
               con●ound
               at
               fi●st
               ,
            
             
               The
               Splendor
               of
               Your
               Favour
               was
               so
               bright
               ,
            
             
               That
               yet
               it
               dazles
               ,
               and
               o'rewhelms
               our
               Sight
               .
            
             
               Drunk
               with
               her
               Cups
               ,
               my
               Muse
               did
               nothing
               find
               ▪
               .
            
             
               And
               until
               now
               ,
               her
               Feet
               she
               could
               not
               find
               .
            
             
               Greediness
               make
               ,
               Prophaness
               i'
               th'
               first
               place
               ;
            
             
               Hungry
               Men
               fill
               their
               Bellies
               ,
               then
               say
               Grace
               .
            
             
               We
               wou'd
               make
               Bone-fires
               ,
               but
               that
               we
               do
               fea●
            
             
               Name
               of
               Incendiaries
               we
               may
               hear
               .
            
             
               We
               wou'd
               have
               Musick
               too
               ,
               but
               't
               will
               not
               do
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               the
               Fidlers
               are
               Conformists
               too
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               can
               we
               ring
               ,
               the
               angry
               Churchman
               Swears
               ,
            
             
               (
               By
               the
               King's
               leave
               )
               the
               Bells
               and
               Ropes
               are
               theirs
               ▪
            
             
               And
               let
               'em
               take
               'em
               ,
               for
               our
               tongue
               ,
               shall
               sing
            
             
               Your
               Honour
               louder
               than
               their
               Clappers
               Ring
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               if
               they
               will
               not
               at
               this
               Grace
               repine
               ,
            
             
               We
               'l
               dress
               the
               Vineyard
               ,
               they
               shall
               drink
               the
               Wine
               ▪
            
             
               Their
               Church
               shall
               be
               the
               Mother
               ,
               ours
               the
               Nurse
               ▪
            
             
               Peter
               shall
               Preach
               ,
               Iudas
               shall
               bear
               the
               Purse
               ,
            
             
               No
               
                 Bishops
                 ,
                 Parsons
                 ,
                 Vicars
                 ,
                 Cur●tes
                 ,
              
               we
               ,
            
             
               But
               only
               Ministers
               desire
               to
               be
               .
            
             
               We●l
               preach
               in
               Sackcloth
               ,
               they
               shall
               Read
               in
               Silk
               .
            
             
               We
               'l
               Feed
               the
               Flock
               ,
               and
               let
               them
               take
               the
               Mil●ust
               :
            
             
             
               Let
               but
               the
               Black-birds
               sing
               in
               bushes
               cold
               ,
            
             
               And
               may
               the
               Iack-Daws
               still
               the
               Steeples
               hold
               .
            
             
               We
               'l
               be
               the
               Fee●
               ,
               the
               Back
               ,
               and
               ●ands
               ,
               and
               they
            
             
               Shall
               be
               the
               Belly
               ,
               and
               devour
               the
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               The
               Tythe-pigg
               shall
               be
               theirs
               ,
               we
               'l
               turn
               the
               Spit
               ,
            
             
               We
               'l
               bear
               the
               Cross
               ,
               they
               only
               Sign
               with
               it
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               the
               Patriarchs
               shall
               envy
               show
            
             
               To
               see
               their
               Younger-Brother
               Ioseph
               go
            
             
               In
               Coat
               of
               divers
               colours
               ,
               and
               shall
               fall
            
             
               To
               rend
               it
               ,
               'cause
               it
               's
               not
               Canonical
               :
            
             
               Then
               may
               they
               find
               him
               turn
               a
               Dreamer
               too
               ;
            
             
               And
               live
               themselves
               to
               see
               his
               D●eam
               come
               true
               .
            
             
               May
               rather
               they
               and
               we
               together
               joyn
            
             
               In
               all
               what
               each
               can
               ;
               but
               they
               have
               the
               Coyn
               ,
            
             
               With
               Prayers
               and
               Tears
               such
               Service
               much
               avail
               :
            
             
               With
               Tears
               to
               swell
               your
               Seas
               ,
               with
               Prayers
               your
               Sails
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               Men
               too
               ,
               from
               both
               our
               Parties
               ;
               such
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               we
               have
               ,
               can
               cheat
               ,
               or
               beat
               ,
               the
               Dutch.
            
             
               A
               Thousand
               Quakers
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               our
               side
               can
               spare
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               two
               or
               three
               ,
               for
               they
               great
               breeders
               are
               .
            
             
               The
               Church
               can
               match
               us
               too
               with
               Jovial
               Sirs
               ,
            
             
               Informers
               ,
               Singing-men
               and
               Paraters
               .
            
             
               Let
               the
               King
               try
               ,
               set
               these
               upon
               the
               Decks
            
             
               Together
               ,
               they
               will
               Dutch
               or
               Devil
               Vex.
            
             
               Their
               Breath
               will
               mischief
               far
               beyond
               a
               Gun
               ,
            
             
               And
               if
               you
               lose
               them
               ,
               you
               'l
               not
               be
               undone
               .
            
             
               Accept
               dread
               Sir
               ,
               and
               pardon
               this
               coarse
               Paper
               ,
            
             
               Your
               License
               't
               was
               made
               this
               poor
               Poet
               caper
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               CHARACTER
               OF
               A
               True
               English-Man
               .
            
             
               THe
               free-born
               English
               ,
               generous
               and
               wise
               ,
            
             
               Hate
               Chains
               ;
               but
               do
               not
               Government
               de●pise
               ;
            
             
               Rights
               of
               the
               Crown
               ,
               Tribute
               and
               Taxes
               ,
               they
            
             
               When
               lawfully
               exacted
               ,
               freely
               pay
               .
            
             
               Force
               they
               abhor
               ,
               and
               wrongs
               they
               scorn
               to
               bear
               ,
            
             
               More
               guided
               by
               their
               Judgment
               than
               their
               Fear
               ,
            
             
               Justice
               with
               them
               was
               never
               held
               severe
               .
            
             
               There
               ,
               Pow'r
               by
               Tyranny
               was
               never
               got
               ,
            
             
               Laws
               might
               perhaps
               enslave
               them
               ▪
               Force
               cannot
               .
            
             
               Kings
               are
               less
               safe
               in
               their
               unbounded
               Will
               ,
            
             
               Joyn'd
               with
               the
               wretched
               Pow'r
               of
               doing
               Ill.
            
             
               Forsaken
               most
               ,
               when
               they
               're
               most
               absolute
               ;
            
             
               Laws
               Guard
               the
               Man
               ,
               and
               only
               bind
               the
               brute
               .
            
             
               To
               force
               that
               Guard
               with
               its
               worst
               Foe
               to
               joyn
               ,
            
             
               Can
               never
               be
               a
               prudent
               Kings
               Design
               ,
            
             
               What
               Prince
               would
               change
               to
               be
               a
               Cataline
               ?
            
             
               Break
               his
               own
               Laws
               ,
               shake
               the
               unquestion'd
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Conspire
               with
               Vassals
               to
               usurp
               his
               own
               !
            
             
               Let
               France
               grow
               proud
               beneath
               the
               Tyrant's
               Lust
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               rackt
               People
               crawl
               ,
               and
               lick
               the
               Dust
               :
            
             
             
               The
               mighty
               Genius
               of
               this
               Isle
               disdains
            
             
               Both
               High-shoon
               Slavery
               ,
               and
               Golden
               Chains
               .
            
             
               England
               to
               ●ervile
               Yoke
               could
               never
               bow
               ;
            
             
               What
               Conquerors
               ne're
               presum'd
               ,
               who
               dares
               do
               now
               ?
            
             
               In
               vain
               your
               Holiness
               does
               rack
               your
               Brain
               ,
            
             
               No
               Son
               of
               yours
               that
               happy
               Isle
               can
               gain
               :
            
             
               Arm'd
               with
               blest
               Bibles
               ,
               and
               undated
               Law
               ,
            
             
               They
               guard
               themselves
               ,
               and
               keep
               the
               World
               in
               awe
               :
            
             
               Whilst
               CHARLES
               Survives
               ,
               and
               Parliaments
               can
               Sit
               ,
            
             
               They
               scorn
               your
               Tories
               Swords
               ,
               and
               Iesuits
               Wit.
               
            
          
           
             
               ABHORRERS
               ABHOR'D
               .
            
             
               ABhorr'd
               Abhorrers
               ,
               horribly
               Abhorr'd
               !
            
             
               Monsters
               more
               base
               than
               Africk
               can
               afford
               ?
            
             
               What
               ?
               Not
               Petition
               to
               our
               Sovereign
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               That
               Parliaments
               might
               sit
               ,
               and
               save
               the
               KING
            
             
               And
               Kingdom
               too
               ,
               from
               those
               that
               both
               would
               bring
            
             
               To
               Slavery
               ;
               first
               Lawless
               Chains
               at
               Home
               ,
            
             
               And
               next
               intollerable
               Yokes
               from
               Rome
               ?
            
             
               Be
               gone
               ye
               Fops
               to
               France
               ,
               and
               there
               enslave
            
             
               Your selves
               ,
               and
               Spurious
               off-spring
               ;
               for
               a
               Knave
            
             
               Is
               fit
               t'en●ender
               Vassals
               ;
               but
               too
               brave
            
             
               Is
               this
               
                 Rich
                 Isle
              
               ,
               which
               only
               owneth
               those
               ,
            
             
               That
               
                 Popish
                 Bondage
              
               do
               resolve
               t'
               oppose
               :
            
             
               Was
               't
               thou
               in
               England
               born
               ,
               and
               〈◊〉
               born
               Free
               ?
            
             
               Thou
               profane
               Esan●
               Nay
               more
               vile
               than
               He
               ;
            
             
             
               To
               sell
               thy
               Birthright
               to
               the
               French
               and
               Pope
               ,
            
             
               Where
               all
               the
               Acquisition
               thou
               could'st
               Hope
            
             
               Was
               wooden-shooes
               ;
               Fire
               ,
               Fagot
               ,
               and
               a
               Rope
               ?
            
             
               Let
               Tyburn
               take
               thee
               ,
               and
               thy
               fellow
               Slaves
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               detesting
               and
               Abhoring
               Knaves
               .
            
             
               Then
               CHARLES
               lives
               sa●e
               ,
               and
               quickly
               may
               become
            
             
               The
               Head
               of
               ●ll
               Reformed
               Christendome
               :
            
             
               S●●ure
               the
               ●elgick
               fears
               ,
               and
               ours
               at
               Home
               .
            
             
               Blast
               〈◊〉
               
                 -
                 de-Luces
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Keys
               of
               Rome
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               after
               God
               ,
               to
               him
               our
               thanks
               we
               pay
               ,
            
             
               For
               this
               (
               if
               but
               well-us'd
               )
               sure
               healing
               day
               ;
            
             
               That
               our
               gr●●t
               Senate
               sits
               ,
               whose
               joynt
               Accord
            
             
               Does
               Vote
               ABHORRERS
               all
               to
               be
               Abhorr'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               To
               the
               Parliament
               .
            
             
               HAil
               ,
               Glorious
               Senate
               ,
               welcom
               as
               the
               day
            
             
               To
               wearied
               Pilgrims
               that
               have
               lost
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               Night-Mare'd
               by
               Goblins
               ,
               and
               long
               led
               astray
               .
            
             
               Welcom
               !
               as
               Liberty
               to
               
               Al●ier-Slaves
               ;
            
             
               As
               Gold
               to
               Courtiers
               ,
               or
               Pardons
               to
               Knaves
               .
            
             
               The
               half-dead
               Genius
               of
               our
               trembling
               Isle
            
             
               At
               your
               Approach
               revives
               into
               a
               Smile
               :
            
             
               Each
               drooping
               Protestant
               begins
               look
               Gray
               ,
            
             
               And
               dull
               October
               Rivals
               sprightly
               May.
            
             
               By
               your
               Sage
               Councels
               we
               at
               once
               become
            
             
               A
               Match
               for
               haughty
               France
               and
               treacherous
               Rome
               :
            
             
               But
               first
               subdue
               the
               Monsters
               here
               at
               Home
               ▪
            
             
             
               Monsters
               !
               that
               would
               our
               Sacred
               Faith
               and
               Laws
            
             
               Or'e-turn
               ,
               and
               in
               their
               never
               sa●iate
               Maws
            
             
               Swallow
               (
               like
               
               Egypt's
               Vermin
               )
               each
               green
               thing
               ,
            
             
               Enslave
               our
               Persons
               ,
               and
               destroy
               our
               King
               ;
            
             
               That
               seek
               to
               strike
               out
               both
               our
               Eyes
               ,
               and
               still
            
             
               Confine
               (
               for
               sport
               )
               our
               Sampsons
               to
               their
               Mill.
            
             
               Prevent
               those
               dire
               designs
               ,
               Dispel
               our
               Fears
               ,
            
             
               Blast
               the
               Plot
               at
               the
               Root
               ,
               and
               by
               your
               Cares
            
             
               Secure
               both
               us
               ,
               and
               our
               yet
               unborn
               Heirs
               .
            
             
               May
               Heavens
               Blessing
               Crown
               all
               your
               Debates
            
             
               (
               On
               which
               depend
               more
               than
               three
               Kingdoms
               Fates
               .
               )
            
             
               May
               your
               blest
               Union
               calm
               out
               jarring
               Notes
               ,
            
             
               And
               Publick-Good
               give
               Birth
               to
               all
               the
               Votes
               ,
            
             
               From
               each
               true
               English
               Heart
               these
               Vows
               are
               sent
               ,
            
             
               Long
               live
               our
               King
               ,
               Long
               sit
               our
               Parliament
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               short
               Reply
               to
               Absalon
               and
               Achitophel
               .
            
             
               IN
               pious
               times
               when
               Poets
               were
               well
               bang'd
            
             
               For
               sawcy
               Satyr
               ,
               and
               for
               Sham-Plots
               hang'd
               ,
            
             
               A
               Learned
               Bard
               ,
               that
               long
               commanded
               had
            
             
               The
               trembling
               Stage
               in
               Chief
               ,
               at
               last
               run
               mad
               ,
            
             
               And
               Swore
               and
               tore
               and
               ranted
               at
               no
               rate
               .
            
             
               Apollo
               and
               his
               Muses
               in
               debate
            
             
               What
               to
               do
               with
               him
               ,
               one
               cry'd
               ,
               let
               him
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               That
               says
               another
               ,
               will
               do
               little
               good
               ;
            
             
               His
               brains
               infected
               sure
               ,
               under
               his
               Nose
            
             
               We
               'le
               burn
               some
               Feathers
               of
               Peru
               ,
               who
               knows
            
             
               But
               that
               may
               bring
               him
               to
               himself
               again
               ?
            
             
             
               Ay
               ,
               for
               some
               time
               says
               Clyo
               ;
               she
               was
               more
            
             
               For
               Opiates
               ,
               others
               for
               Hell●bore
               .
            
             
               Apollo
               having
               heard
               all
               they
               could
               say
               ,
            
             
               Rose
               up
               and
               thankt
               them
               said
               ,
               he
               'd
               try
               away
            
             
               He
               hop'd
               would
               do
               ,
               then
               call'd
               a
               Noble
               Friend
            
             
               Well
               verst
               in
               Men
               ,
               and
               beg'd
               of
               him
               to
               spend
            
             
               Some
               time
               and
               pains
               upon
               this
               wretch
               ,
               which
               he
               ,
            
             
               Agreeing
               to
               ,
               went
               presently
               to
               work
               ,
            
             
               Open'd
               his
               head
               ,
               saw
               where
               the
               Maggots
               lurk
               ,
            
             
               Took
               many
               of
               them
               out
               ,
               put
               them
               in
               Sut
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Added
               Mercury
               and
               Nitre
               to
               't
               ,
            
             
               Mixt
               and
               infus'd
               them
               well
               ,
               and
               after
               all
               ,
            
             
               Distil'd
               them
               in
               a
               Limbeck
               Comical
               ,
            
             
               And
               drew
               a
               Spirit
               very
               Soveraign
               ,
            
             
               For
               those
               are
               troubled
               with
               the
               fits
               o'
               th'
               Brain
               ,
            
             
               And
               gave
               our
               Poets
               some
               ,
               all
               he
               could
               make
            
             
               The
               peevish
               ,
               Squeamish
               ,
               self-wil'd
               Coxcomb
               take
               ,
            
             
               It
               did
               him
               good
               and
               cur'd
               him
               of
               those
               Fits
               :
            
             
               But
               't
               was
               too
               little
               to
               restore
               his
               Wits
               :
            
             
               For
               since
               he
               has
               gin
               o're
               to
               Plague
               the
               Stage
            
             
               With
               the
               effects
               of
               his
               Poetick
               rage
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               mad
               Dog
               he
               runs
               about
               the
               Streets
               ,
            
             
               Snarling
               and
               Biting
               every
               one
               he
               meets
               .
            
             
               The
               other
               day
               he
               met
               our
               Royal
               CHARLES
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               two
               Mistresses
               ,
               and
               at
               them
               Snarles
               .
            
             
               Then
               falls
               upon
               the
               Ministers
               of
               State
            
             
               Treats
               them
               all
               A-la-mode
               
                 de
                 Billingsga●e
              
               :
            
             
               But
               most
               of
               all
               ,
               the
               glory
               of
               our
               gown
               ,
            
             
               He
               must
               be
               bark't
               at
               ,
               Drivil'd
               ,
               pist
               upon
               .
            
             
               He
               whose
               soft
               tongue
               had
               charmes
               enough
               t'
               asswage
            
             
               The
               Tygers
               fierceness
               ,
               could
               not
               scape
               the
               rage
            
             
             
               Of
               this
               same
               whif●ing
               Cur
               ;
               poor
               Cerberous
               ,
            
             
               That
               taught
               the
               Rogue
               to
               bark
               ,
               was
               serv'd
               just
               thus
               .
            
             
               This
               Vipers
               brood
               ,
               contrary
               to
               all
               Laws
               ,
            
             
               The
               torn
               out
               Entrails
               of
               his
               Parent
               knaws
               .
            
             
               He
               gives
               no
               quarter
               ,
               spairs
               no
               friend
               ,
               nor
               foe
               ,
            
             
               And
               where
               he
               once
               gets
               hold
               ,
               never
               lets
               go
            
             
               Until
               he
               breakes
               a
               Tooth
               ,
               which
               he
               hath
               done
            
             
               So
               oft
               of
               late
               that
               he
               hath
               few
               or
               none
            
             
               Left
               in
               his
               mouth
               .
               Nay
               which
               is
               worst
               of
               all
            
             
               On
               his
               Physitian
               he
               does
               always
               fall
               ,
            
             
               And
               find
               him
               out
               where
               e're
               he
               is
               ,
               and
               bawl
            
             
               Eternally
               ,
               taking
               in
               Evil
               part
            
             
               What
               he
               good
               man
               did
               by
               the
               rules
               of
               Art
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               his
               good
               ,
               assisted
               by
               a
               Set
            
             
               Of
               the
               most
               able
               Le●ches
               he
               could
               get
               ;
            
             
               Apo●lo
               vext
               to
               see
               there
               was
               no
               more
            
             
               E●fect
               of
               Medicine
               ,
               bid
               his
               Friend
               give
               o're
               ,
            
             
               And
               sent
               some
               Chirurgions
               to
               him
               to
               anoint
            
             
               The
               Carcase
               of
               the
               whelp
               in
               every
               Joynt
            
             
               With
               〈◊〉
               of
               Crab-tree
               ,
               than
               which
               nothing
               ●etches
            
             
               The
               itching
               Venome
               out
               of
               Scribling
               Wretches
            
             
               Better
               or
               sooner
               ,
               but
               I
               know
               not
               how
            
             
               It
               came
               to
               pa●●
               ,
               w●th
               him
               it
               would
               not
               do
               .
            
             
               For
               ●ince
               his
               being
               anointed
               ,
               he
               is
               ●un
            
             
               Y●lp●ng
               with
               Tow●er
               up
               and
               down
               the
               Town
               ,
            
             
               And
               crying
               out
               against
               an
               Absalon
            
             
               And
               an
               Achitop●el
               .
               The
               Currs
               had
               got
            
             
               Between
               them
               in
               their
               Mouths
               a
               new
               Sh●●-Plot
               ,
            
             
               The
               Twentieth
               of
               the
               Kings
               ,
               ●●me
               say
               indeed
            
             
               It
               is
               the
               same
               that
               Mother
               〈◊〉
               hid
               ,
            
             
             
               Deep
               in
               the
               Meal-tub
               ,
               only
               new
               lick't
               o're
            
             
               A●d
               brought
               to
               better
               shape
               by
               half
               a
               score
            
             
               Of
               ●rish
               Mongrels
               ,
               newly
               fetcht
               from
               thence
               ,
            
             
               The
               best
               in
               En●land
               at
               an
               Evidence
               .
            
             
               A
               little
               bribe
               will
               make
               them
               swear
               devoutly
               ,
            
             
               They
               're
               much
               more
               famous
               for
               their
               swearing
               stoutly
               ,
            
             
               Then
               for
               their
               fighting
               so
               ,
               this
               kind
               of
               Cattel
            
             
               Are
               better
               far
               at
               Roguery
               than
               Battel
               ,
            
             
               An
               Irish
               man's
               Antiwood-cock
               ,
               cares
            
             
               To
               venture
               nothing
               but
               his
               head
               and
               Ears
               .
            
             
               This
               Copper
               co●n
               will
               never
               with
               us
               pass
               ,
            
             
               It
               looks
               so
               scurvily
               ,
               nay
               it
               smells
               of
               Brass
               ;
            
             
               How
               could
               you
               think
               this
               would
               be
               currant
               here
               ,
            
             
               That
               is
               not
               so
               at
               home
               ?
               'T
               is
               cry'd
               down
               there
               :
            
             
               What
               then
               shall
               we
               do
               now
               ;
               saith
               you
               had
               best
            
             
               Try
               Scotland
               next
               ,
               now
               it
               hath
               past
               the
               Test
               ;
            
             
               Come
               hither
               my
               Dog
               Towser
               ,
               come
               ,
               for
               I
            
             
               A
               new
               Experiment
               intend
               to
               try
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               have
               thee
               worm'd
               ,
               hold
               out
               thy
               Venom'd
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               What
               a
               huge
               Worm
               is
               here
               ?
               'T
               is
               an
               Inch
               Long
               ,
            
             
               And
               of
               the
               Jebusite
               smells
               very
               strong
               ,
            
             
               If
               this
               won't
               do
               thou
               shalt
               be
               fairly
               hung
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Oliver
               Cromwels
               Ghost
               .
            
             
               By
               Doctor
               Wild.
               
            
             
               ROws'd
               from
               Infernal
               Caverns
               void
               of
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Traytors
               Souls
               keep
               an
               Eternal
               Night
               :
            
             
               Through
               the
               Earths
               friendly
               Pores
               at
               last
               I
               come
            
             
               To
               view
               the
               Fate
               of
               Mangled
               Christendome
               ,
            
             
               Treason
               and
               Blood
               ,
               Ruin
               and
               Usurpation
               ,
            
             
               Deceit
               ,
               Hypocrifie
               ,
               and
               Devastation
               ;
            
             
               Envy
               ,
               Ambition
               ,
               and
               untam'd
               desire
               ,
            
             
               Still
               to
               gain
               more
               ,
               still
               to
               be
               mounted
               higher
               :
            
             
               Wars
               ,
               Janglings
               ,
               Murders
               ,
               and
               a
               Thousand
               more
            
             
               Vices
               like
               these
               ,
               you
               know
               were
               heretofore
               .
            
             
               The
               only
               grateful
               Bantlings
               ,
               which
               could
               find
               ,
            
             
               A
               kind
               Reception
               in
               my
               gloomy
               mind
               —
            
             
               —
               But
               now
               alas
               I
               'm
               chang'd
               —
               the
               Pondrous
               guilt
            
             
               Of
               Treason
               ,
               and
               the
               Sacred
               blood
               I
               spilt
               ;
            
             
               Those
               crouds
               of
               Loyal-Subjects
               I
               made
               groan
               ,
            
             
               Under
               pretence
               of
               strict
               Religion
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               my self
               ,
               to
               speak
               the
               Truth
               ,
               had
               none
               :
            
             
               Too
               weighty
               for
               my
               strugling
               Soul
               did
               grow
               ,
            
             
               And
               prest
               it
               downwards
               to
               the
               shades
               below
               ,
            
             
             
               Where
               it
               these
               twenty
               years
               has
               Silent
               lain
               ,
            
             
               ●ormented
               with
               Variety
               of
               pain
               ,
            
             
               ●oo
               great
               for
               fleshly
               Mortals
               to
               sustain
               .
            
             
               No●
               h●d
               it
               bu●g'd
               as
               yet
               —
               but
               that
               the
               Fame
            
             
               Of
               〈◊〉
               ,
               Conspiracies
               ,
               and
               Murders
               came
            
             
               〈◊〉
               the
               Infernal
               Gates
               so
               fast
               ,
               that
               I
               ,
            
             
               〈◊〉
               others
               good
               ,
               forgot
               my
               misery
               :
            
             
               〈◊〉
               whilst
               the
               busie
               Daemons
               were
               Imploy'd
            
             
               ●n
               culling
               out
               a
               bloody
               Regicide
               ,
            
             
               ●●ilkt
               my
               Keeper
               ,
               and
               with
               wondrous
               pain
               ,
            
             
               Once
               more
               I
               mount
               my
               Native
               Soyl
               again
               ;
            
             
               Where
               to
               my
               Grief
               ,
               more
               Villan●es
               I
               view
               ,
            
             
               Than
               Heav'n
               e're
               Pardon'd
               ,
               or
               than
               Hell
               e're
               knew
               .
            
             
               Since
               
               Lucifer's
               like
               Romes
               Destructive
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               Both
               Damn'd
               himself
               ,
               and
               all
               his
               Imps
               beside
               :
            
             
               Though
               old
               in
               Artful
               Wickedness
               I
               be
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               Rome
               ,
               I
               now
               Resign
               the
               Wall
               to
               thee
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               in
               this
               single
               Plot
               ,
               hast
               now
               done
               more
            
             
               Than
               Mankind
               ,
               helpt
               by
               Hell
               ,
               could
               do
               before
               .
            
             
               What!
               was
               thy
               swell'd
               Ambition
               grown
               so
               wide
               ,
            
             
               That
               nought
               but
               Kings
               could
               satisfie
               thy
               Pride
               ?
            
             
               Must
               Monarchs
               ,
               whom
               the
               Heav'n
               it self
               do's
               prize
               ,
            
             
               Now
               become
               Morsels
               for
               thy
               gaping
               Vice.
            
             
               Methought
               ,
               though
               hot
               with
               Gluttony
               thou
               burn
               ,
            
             
               A
               Pious
               Justice
               might
               have
               serv'd
               thy
               turn
               ;
            
             
               Especially
               when
               ,
               (
               to
               con●ent
               you
               more
               )
            
             
               Spitted
               on
               's
               Sword
               ,
               and
               Pickled
               in
               his
               Gore
               ;
            
             
               But
               now
               your
               aim
               we
               better
               understand
               ,
            
             
               He
               was
               the
               Whet
               —
               you
               gap'd
               for
               all
               the
               Land.
            
             
             
               Strange
               Cormorant
               !
               that
               in
               her
               monstrous
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Could
               at
               one
               meal
               three
               butcher'd
               Lands
               digest
               .
            
             
               Ye
               Powers
               !
               I
               thought
               my
               Countries
               Innocence
               ,
            
             
               (
               When
               in
               fierce
               Whirlwind
               )
               you
               had
               born
               me
               hence
               )
            
             
               And
               by
               the
               Pow'r
               of
               your
               most
               just
               command
               ,
            
             
               Restor'd
               the
               Scepter
               to
               the
               owners
               hand
               )
            
             
               Would
               have
               sufficient
               bin
               to
               Wall
               you
               free
            
             
               From
               the
               Ass
               ●ults
               of
               su●h
               an
               Enemy
               .
            
             
               I
               little
               thought
               ,
               when
               last
               I
               took
               my
               leave
               ,
            
             
               And
               sadly
               entred
               my
               unwelcome
               Grave
               ,
            
             
               That
               e're
               the
               Porphry
               Idol
               could
               command
            
             
               So
               great
               a
               Friendship
               in
               our
               Native
               Land
               ;
            
             
               As
               by
               that
               means
               to
               hope
               to
               circumvent
               ,
            
             
               With
               black
               design
               both
               King
               and
               Government
               .
            
             
               But
               yet
               take
               heed
               ye
               Romish
               Idiots
               ,
            
             
               That
               have
               a
               hand
               in
               these
               most
               Hellish
               Plots
               ;
            
             
               Who
               by
               your
               base
               contrivance
               ,
               hope
               to
               bring
            
             
               Ruin
               to
               Nations
               ,
               Death
               unto
               a
               King.
            
             
               Beware
               ,
               I
               say
               ,
               by
               my
               Example
               do
               ,
            
             
               For
               there
               's
               a
               God
               above
               does
               all
               things
               view
               :
            
             
               Tho
               wrapt
               in
               Clouds
               amongst
               the
               Skies
               he
               dwells
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               he
               discerns
               you
               in
               your
               closest
               Cells
               ;
            
             
               See's
               your
               Contrivances
               ,
               and
               whilst
               you
               poor
            
             
               Concei●ed
               Traytors
               think
               your selves
               secure
               ,
            
             
               He
               your
               Clande●tine
               Plots
               does
               plainly
               view
               ,
            
             
               And
               will
               divulge
               them
               and
               their
               Actors
               too
               .
            
             
               Trust
               my
               Experience
               ,
               one
               who
               if
               you
               will
            
             
               Believe
               ,
               what
               all
               the
               World
               says
               of
               him
               still
               ,
            
             
               Had
               no
               small
               share
               of
               Pride
               ,
               Ambition
               ,
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               Courage
               and
               Conduct
               too
               to
               mannage
               it
               .
            
             
             
               By
               which
               I
               wrought
               my
               Curst
               designs
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               I
               could
               have
               match'd
               my
               Brewers
               Family
               .
            
             
               With
               the
               best
               Blood
               in
               Brittain
               .
               Right
               or
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Life
               or
               Death
               ,
               attend●d
               on
               my
               Tongue
               :
            
             
               All
               the
               three
               Kingdoms
               truckled
               to
               my
               Will
               —
            
             
               But
               what
               of
               this
               ?
               —
               I
               was
               a
               Traytor
               still
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               so
               intemperate
               was
               my
               folly
               grown
               ,
            
             
               I
               boldly
               offer'd
               at
               the
               Sacred
               Crown
               ;
            
             
               Which
               though
               I
               mist
               ,
               —
               yet
               by
               a
               holy
               Cheat
               ,
            
             
               At
               last
               I
               gain'd
               to
               fill
               the
               tott'ring
               Seat
               ;
            
             
               And
               made
               ten
               Thousand
               Souldiers
               Arm'd
               appear
            
             
               With
               Roaring
               Guns
               to
               plead
               my
               Title
               there
               .
            
             
               Not
               doubting
               but
               that
               happy
               Seat
               should
               be
            
             
               Transfer'd
               from
               me
               to
               my
               Posterity
               .
            
             
               But
               all
               was
               insignificant
               ,
               when
               Death
            
             
               Unkindly
               Robb'd
               me
               of
               beloved
               breath
               :
            
             
               My
               Titles
               all
               forsook
               me
               ,
               and
               my
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Instead
               of
               them
               ,
               Inherrit
               my
               disgrace
               .
            
             
               This
               is
               the
               Fate
               of
               Traytors
               here
               ;
               but
               know
               ,
            
             
               That
               could
               you
               think
               what
               they
               endure
               below
               ,
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               you
               would
               be
               Loyal
               ;
               but
               the
               Pope
            
             
               By
               prating
               Jesuits
               ,
               has
               so
               rais'd
               your
               hope
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               in
               vain
               those
               tortures
               now
               should
               tell
               ,
            
             
               You
               'l
               know
               them
               when
               I
               meet
               you
               there
               —
            
             
               Farewel
               .
               
                 R.
                 W.
                 D.
                 D.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Upon
               Nothing
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               E.
               of
               R.
               
            
             
               NOthing
               thou
               Elder
               Brother
               ,
               Eve
               to
               shade
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               had'st
               a
               being
               e're
               the
               World
               was
               mad●
            
             
               Well
               fixt
               alone
               ,
               of
               ending
               not
               afraid
               .
            
             
               E're
               Time
               and
               Place
               were
               ,
               Time
               and
               Place
               were
               no●
            
             
               When
               primitive
               Nothing
               ,
               Something
               strait
               begot
               ,
            
             
               Then
               all
               proceeded
               from
               the
               great
               united
               What!
            
             
               Something
               ,
               the
               General
               Attribute
               of
               all
               ,
            
             
               Sever'd
               from
               Thee
               its
               sole
               Original
               ,
            
             
               Into
               thy
               boundless
               Self
               must
               undistinguisht
               fall
               .
            
             
               Yet
               Something
               ,
               did
               thy
               Nothing
               Power
               comman●
            
             
               And
               from
               thy
               Fruitful
               Emptinesses
               Hand
            
             
               Snatch
               Men
               ,
               Beasts
               ,
               Birds
               ,
               Fire
               ,
               Water
               ,
               Air
               ,
               and
               La●●
            
             
               Matter
               ,
               the
               wicked'st
               Off
               spring
               of
               thy
               Race
               ,
            
             
               By
               Form
               assisted
               ,
               flew
               from
               thy
               Embrace
               ,
            
             
               And
               Rebel
               Life
               obscur'd
               thy
               Reverend
               Face
               .
            
             
               With
               Form
               and
               matter
               ,
               Time
               and
               Place
               did
               joy●
            
             
               Body
               ,
               thy
               Foe
               ,
               with
               these
               did
               Leagues
               combine
               ,
            
             
               To
               spoil
               thy
               Peaceful
               Reign
               ,
               and
               Ruin
               all
               they
               Lin●
            
             
               But
               Turn-Coat
               Time
               assists
               the
               Foe
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               And
               bribed
               by
               Thee
               ,
               destroys
               their
               short
               Lived
               Reig●
            
             
               And
               to
               thy
               hungry
               Womb
               drives
               back
               the
               Slaves
               aga●●
            
             
               Thy
               Mysteries
               are
               hid
               from
               Laick
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Divine
               alone
               by
               Warrant
               pries
            
             
               Into
               thy
               bosome
               ,
               where
               thy
               Truth
               in
               private
               lies
               .
            
             
             
               Yet
               this
               of
               Thee
               ,
               the
               Wife
               may
               truly
               say
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               from
               the
               Virtuous
               ,
               nothing
               takes
               away
               ;
            
             
               And
               to
               be
               part
               of
               Thee
               ,
               the
               Wicked
               wisely
               Pray
               .
            
             
               Great
               Negative
               !
               how
               vainly
               would
               the
               Wise
            
             
               Enquire
               ,
               Design
               ,
               Distinguish
               ,
               Teach
               ,
               Devise
               ,
            
             
               Did'st
               not
               thou
               stand
               to
               point
               their
               blind
               Philosophies
               .
            
             
               Is
               ,
               or
               is
               not
               ,
               the
               two
               great
               Ends
               of
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Of
               True
               or
               False
               ,
               the
               Subject
               of
               debate
               ,
            
             
               That
               perfects
               or
               destroys
               designs
               of
               State.
            
             
               When
               they
               have
               wrackt
               the
               Politicians
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Within
               thy
               bosome
               most
               securely
               Rest
               ,
            
             
               Reduc'd
               to
               Thee
               are
               least
               ,
               tho
               safe
               and
               best
               .
            
             
               But
               Nothing
               ,
               why
               doth
               Something
               still
               permit
               ,
            
             
               That
               sacred
               Monarchs
               should
               at
               Council
               set
            
             
               With
               Persons
               thought
               ,
               at
               best
               ,
               for
               Nothing
               sit
               ?
            
             
               Whilst
               weighty
               Something
               ,
               modestly
               abstains
            
             
               From
               Princes
               Courts
               ,
               and
               from
               the
               States-mans
               brains
               ,
            
             
               And
               nothing
               there
               like
               stately
               Nothing
               Reigns
               .
            
             
               Nothing
               ,
               that
               dwells
               with
               Fools
               ,
               in
               grave
               disguise
               ,
            
             
               For
               whom
               they
               Rever'd
               Forms
               and
               Shapes
               devise
               ,
            
             
               Lawn
               Sleeves
               ,
               and
               Furrs
               ,
               and
               Gowns
               ,
               when
               they
               look
               Wife
               .
            
             
               French
               Truth
               ,
               Dutch
               Prowess
               ,
               British
               Policy
               ,
            
             
               Hybernian
               Learning
               ,
               Scoth
               Civility
               ,
            
             
               Spaniards
               Dispatch
               ,
               Danes
               Wit
               are
               seen
               in
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               Bow-Church
               and
               Steeple
               .
               Or
               a
               Second
               Poem
               upon
               Nothing
               !
            
             
               LOok
               how
               the
               Country-Hobbs
               with
               wonder
               flock
            
             
               To
               see
               the
               City-crest
               ,
               turn'd
               Weather-cock
               !
            
             
               Which
               with
               ea●h
               shifting
               Gale
               ,
               veres
               too
               and
               ●ro
               ;
            
             
               London
               has
               now
               got
               twelve
               strings
               to
               her
               Bow
               !
            
             
               The
               Wind
               's
               South-East
               ,
               and
               strait
               the
               Dragon
               russels
            
             
               His
               brazen
               wings
               to
               court
               the
               breeze
               from
               Brussels
               !
            
             
               The
               Wind
               's
               at
               North
               !
               and
               now
               his
               hissing
               Fork
               ,
            
             
               Whirles
               round
               ,
               to
               meet
               a
               flattering
               gale
               from
               York
               !
            
             
               Boxing
               the
               Compass
               ,
               with
               each
               freshing
               Gale
               ,
            
             
               But
               still
               to
               London
               turns
               his
               threatning
               Tail.
            
             
               But
               stay
               what
               's
               there
               ;
               I
               spy
               a
               stranger
               thing
               ;
            
             
               Our
               Red-cross
               brooded
               by
               the
               Dragons
               wing
               !
            
             
               The
               wing
               is
               warm
               ,
               but
               O!
               beware
               the
               sting
               !
            
             
               Poor
               English-Cross
               ,
               expos'd
               to
               winds
               and
               weathers
               ,
            
             
               ●orc't
               to
               seek
               shelter
               in
               the
               Dragons
               feathers
               !
            
             
               Ne're
               had
               old
               Rome
               so
               rare
               a
               piece
               to
               brag
               on
               ,
            
             
               A
               Temple
               built
               to
               great
               Bell
               ,
               and
               the
               Dragon
               !
            
             
               Whilst
               yet
               undaunted
               Protestants
               ,
               dare
               hope
               ,
            
             
               They
               that
               will
               worship
               
                 Bell
                 ▪
              
               shall
               wear
               the
               Rope
               ,
            
             
               O
               how
               our
               English
               Chronicles
               will
               shine
               !
            
             
               Burnt
               ,
               sixty
               six
               ;
               Rebuilt
               ,
               in
               seventy
               nine
               ,
            
             
               When
               
                 Iacob
                 Hall
              
               on
               his
               High
               Rope
               shews
               tricks
               ,
            
             
               The
               Dragon
               flutters
               ;
               the
               Lord-Mayors
               Horse
               kicks
               ;
            
             
               The
               
               Cheapside-crowds
               ,
               and
               Pageants
               scarcely
               know
            
             
               Which
               most
               t'
               admire
               ,
               
                 Hall
                 ,
                 Hobby-Horse
              
               ,
               or
               Bow
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               what
               mad
               〈◊〉
               set
               your
               Zealo●
               fire
               ?
            
             
               (
               Grave
               Citizens
               !
               )
               to
               〈…〉
               Spire
            
             
               On
               
                 Sea-coal
                 Basis
              
               ?
               which
               will
               sooner
               yield
            
             
               Matter
               to
               Burn
               a
               Temple
               ,
               than
               to
               Build
               !
            
             
               What
               the
               Coals
               build
               ,
               the
               〈◊〉
               bury
               !
               no
               Men
            
             
               Of
               Wisdom
               ,
               but
               would
               dread
               the
               threatning
               Omen
               !
            
             
               But
               say
               (
               Proud
               Dragon
               !
               )
               now
               prefe●r'd
               so
               High
               ,
            
             
               What
               Marvels
               from
               that
               〈…〉
               ?
            
             
               〈…〉
            
             
               Of
               ,
               sometimes
               Rev'rend
               ,
               now
               Regenerate
               ,
               Fauls
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               envious
               Eyes
               ,
               such
               Glories
               cannot
               brook
               ,
            
             
               But
               as
               the
               Devil
               once
               over
               Lincoln
               ▪
               look
               :
            
             
               And
               envies
               Poyson
               ,
               will
               thy
               Bowels
               Tear
            
             
               Sooner
               than
               
               Daniel's
               Dose
               ,
               of
               〈◊〉
               ,
               and
               Hair
               !
            
             
               Then
               Eastward
               ,
               to
               avoid
               that
               wounding
               ●ight
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Glaring
               Eyes
               upon
               the
               〈◊〉
               ,
               light
               .
            
             
               Adorn'd
               with
               Monstrous
               forms
               to
               clear
               the
               scope
               ,
            
             
               How
               much
               thou
               art
               out-dragon'd
               by
               the
               Pope
               .
            
             
               Ah
               fools
               !
               to
               dress
               a
               Monument
               of
               woe
            
             
               In
               whistling
               Sil●s
               ,
               that
               should
               in
               Sac●loth
               ,
               go
               !
            
             
               Nay
               strangely
               wise
               ,
               our
               Senators
               appear
            
             
               To
               build
               That
               ,
               and
               a
               Bedlam
               in
               a
               year
               ,
            
             
               That
               if
               the
               Mum-glass
               crack
               ,
               they
               may
               inherit
            
             
               An
               Hospital
               becoming
               their
               great
               merit
               !
            
             
               To
               
                 Royal
                 Westminster
              
               ,
               next
               turn
               thine
               eye
               ;
            
             
               Perhaps
               a
               Parliament
               thou
               mayst
               es●y
               ,
            
             
               Dragons
               of
               old
               gave
               Oracles
               at
               Rome
               ;
            
             
               Then
               Prophesie
               ,
               their
               Day
               ,
               their
               Date
               ,
               and
               Doom
               !
            
             
               And
               if
               thy
               
                 Visual
                 Ray
              
               can
               reach
               the
               Main
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               's
               when
               the
               Duke
               ,
               new
               gone
               ,
               returns
               again
               !
            
             
               Facing
               abont
               ;
               next
               view
               our
               Guildhall
               well
               ,
            
             
               Where
               
                 Revere●
                 Fox-furrs
              
               charm'd
               by
               po●ent
               spell
            
             
               Of
               Elephants
               ,
               (
               turn'd
               wrong
               side
               outward
               )
               dare
            
             
               Applaud
               the
               Plays
               ;
               and
               yet
               hiss
               our
               the
               Player
               :
            
             
               Player
               !
               whose
               wise
               ●eal
               for
               City
               ,
               Country
               ,
               King
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               to
               all
               points
               of
               the
               wide
               Compa●s
               ring
            
             
               Whilst
               B●w
               has
               Bells
               ,
               or
               〈◊〉
               Thames
               a
               Spring
               !
            
             
             
               Thy
               Roving
               Eye
               perhaps
               from
               ●ague
               may
               send
               's
            
             
               How
               the
               
                 New
                 League
              
               ,
               has
               made
               Old
               Foes
               ,
               New
               Friends
               :
            
             
               But
               let
               substantial
               witness
               ,
               Credence
               give
               it
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Ne're
               believe
               me
               ,
               if
               the
               House
               believe
               it
               !
            
             
               If
               true
               ,
               I
               fear
               too
               late
               !
               France
               at
               one
               sup
               ,
            
             
               (
               Like
               Pearl●
               dissolv'd
               in
               
               Cloepatra's
               Cup
               )
            
             
               
                 Trade
                 ,
                 Empire
                 ,
                 Neitherlands
              
               has
               swallowed
               up
               !
            
             
               But
               heark
               !
               The
               Dragon
               speaks
               from
               Brazen
               Mouth
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               words
               ,
               though
               wind
               ,
               are
               spoken
               in
               
                 Good
                 south
              
               !
            
             
               To
               you
               of
               Ratling
               ●ame
               ,
               and
               great
               esteem
               ;
            
             
               The
               higher
               placed
               ,
               the
               less
               you
               ought
               to
               seem
               !
            
             
               To
               you
               of
               Noble
               Souls
               ,
               and
               Gallant
               Minds
               ,
            
             
               Learn
               to
               outface
               (
               with
               me
               )
               the
               Huffing
               winds
               !
            
             
               To
               tim'rous
               feeble
               Spirits
               ,
               that
               live
               beneath
               ;
            
             
               Learn
               not
               of
               me
               to
               turn
               with
               every
               breath
               !
            
             
               To
               those
               who
               like
               
                 (
                 Camelions
              
               )
               live
               on
               Air
               ;
            
             
               Popular
               Praise
               is
               thin
               Consumptive
               fare
               !
            
             
               To
               you
               who
               Steeple
               upon
               Steeple
               set
               ,
            
             
               Cut
               my
               Cocks-comb
               ,
               if
               e're
               to
               Heaven
               you
               get
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Conclusion
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 LEt
                 Gods
                 un-erring
                 Providence
                 protect
              
               
                 Great
                 CHARLES
                 in
                 's
                 Throne
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 his
                 ways
                 direct
                 ▪
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 His
                 Foes
                 be
                 scatter'd
                 like
                 the
                 Dust
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 that
                 Sacred
                 Trust
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Deriv'd
                 from
                 God
                 alone
                 )
              
               
                 Make
                 a
                 lasting
                 and
                 a
                 happy
                 Throne
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 all
                 State-Traytors
                 Plots
                 ,
                 be
                 left
                 i'
                 th'
                 Lurch
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 hate
                 our
                 Soveraign
                 ,
                 and
                 would
                 ruin
                 our
                 Church
                 .
              
               
                 May's
                 Royal
                 Temples
                 wear
                 the
                 Imperial
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Englands
                 Foes
                 come
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 vengeance
                 from
                 that
                 seat
              
               
                 Usurpt
                 to
                 ruin
                 us
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 them
                 great
                 .
              
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
             
          
        
      
    
     
  

