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         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         
           1678
        
      
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         A67654
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         ESTC R26479
         09479585
         ocm 09479585
         43237
         
           
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             An exclamation against popery, or, A broad-side against Rome occasioned by His Majesties last gracious speech, when he was pleas'd to express his willingness to maintain the truly antient Protestant religion / by R.W.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 broadside.
           
             Printed for T.G.,
             London :
             1678.
          
           
             In verse.
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Charles -- II, -- King of England, 1630-1685.
           Popish Plot, 1678.
        
      
    
     
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           AN
           EXCLAMATION
           AGAINST
           POPERY
           :
           OR
           ,
           A
           Broad-Side
           against
           ROME
           .
        
         
           Occasioned
           by
           his
           MAIESTIE'S
           Last
           Gracious
           Speech
           ,
           when
           he
           was
           pleas'd
           to
           Express
           His
           Willingness
           to
           Maintain
           the
           Truly
           Antient
           Protestant
           Religion
           .
        
         
           By
           
             R.
             W.
          
           D.
           D.
           
        
         
           
             
               
                 
                   LICENSED
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     
                       November
                       the
                       14
                       th
                       .
                       1678.
                       
                    
                  
                
              
            
          
        
         
           
             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
             wand'ring
             Iesuites
             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
             BULLS
             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
             Subtle
             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
             ,
             Dangers
             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't
             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
             Whet-stones
             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
             )
          
           
             Cryes
             out
             ,
             Dear
             Protestants
             ,
             
               no
               more
               pursue
            
          
           
             Their
             Guilty
             Blood
             ,
             my
             Manes
             have
             had
             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
             ,
             e'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't
             to
             try
          
           
             The
             Dire
             Effects
             of
             their
             own
             Treachery
             .
          
        
         
           
             Poor
             Scarlet
             Harlot
             ,
             could'st
             Thou
             stand
             in
             want
          
           
             Of
             a
             Genteel
             ,
             and
             Generous
             Gallant
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Noble
             Soul
             to
             Baseness
             could
             not
             yield
             ;
          
           
             But
             wou'd
             have
             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
             'lt
             find
             ,
          
           
             VVere
             alwayes
             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
             dost
             appear
             ;
          
           
             Sland'rest
             a
             Pope
             ,
             and
             spoyl'st
             an
             Emperor
             .
          
        
         
           
             VVhat
             !
             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
             imploy
             ?
          
           
             And
             suborn
             
               Felons
               MONARCHS
            
             to
             Destroy
             ?
          
           
             Bribe
             Men
             (
             thro
             VVant
             made
             boldly
             desperate
             )
          
           
             To
             Fire-ball
             Cities
             ,
             to
             their
             Grov'ling
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             VVhil'st
             Hellish
             Iesu'ts
             Porters
             Garbs
             profane
             ;
          
           
             Assist
             the
             Fire
             ,
             and
             Bless
             the
             growing
             Flame
             !
          
        
         
           
             Must
             Romes
             Great
             Pope
             ,
             whose
             Piety
             should
             run
          
           
             As
             an
             Example
             ,
             thro
             all
             Christendome
             ;
          
           
             VVhose
             Signal
             Vertues
             ,
             Arguments
             should
             be
          
           
             Of
             his
             Admir'd
             Infallability
             ?
          
           
             Does
             he
             hire
             Ruffains
             ,
             Iustices
             to
             Kill
             ;
          
           
             And
             send
             the
             Murd'rers
             Pardons
             at
             his
             VVill
             ?
          
           
             Bids
             them
             in
             Hereticks
             Blood
             their
             Hands
             embrue
             ;
          
           
             Tells
             them
             withal
             ,
             'T
             is
             Meritorious
             too
             !
             —
          
        
         
           
             If
             this
             thy
             Practice
             be
             ,
             false
             Rome
             Fare-wel
             !
             —
          
           
             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
             else
             ,
             Esteem
             ,
          
           
             They
             're
             fitter
             to
             Converse
             with
             Beasts
             ,
             than
             Men.
             
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             T.
             G.
          
           1678.
           
        
      
    
  

