BABEL and BETHEL: or, The POPE in his Colours.  
WITH The Church of England's Supplication to his Majesty, our gracious Sovereign, the true Defender of the Faith; To protect her from all the Machinations of Rome, and its bloody Emissaries.  


Rome's Scarlet whore doth here in Triumph Ride,  
And Spurns off Sovereign Crowns in Height of Pride  
Poor Christians and brave Cities too she Burns:  
And Stabs and Poisons daily serve her Turns.    


Behold our Church (like Esther here doth tender  
Her Supplications to the Faith's Defender:  
In vain Rome Plots, whilst Charles the Sceptre Sways  
May Sled and Gibbet end all Traitors Days.    

SCarce had bright Truth, with an enlivening Ray,  
Chased the black Mists of Ignorance away,  
Restored the Gospel, and our Souls set free  
From slavish Chains of New Idolatry;  
But all the Powers of Darkness did unite,  
And club their hellish Mists t' Eclipse that Light.  
As when from Egypt's Thraldom Israel came,  
Led by a Cloud by day, by night a Flame,  
Strait cruel Pharaoh did God's Flock pursue,  
Till the Seas Billows all his Host o'erthrew:  
So, in the early Reformations down,  
When England's Church had seas'nably withdrawn  
Herself from Spiritual Egypt's dangerous yoke,  
endeavouring Truths long Banished to revoke;  
Winnowed the Chaff from Corn, the Dross from Gold,  
And would no more Rome's Superstitions hold:  
That haughty Pharaoh with the Triple Crown  
(Through all the World for Pride and Rapine known)  
Bestirred himself, and from each gloomy Cell  
Summoned up all the Troops of raging Hell,  
At once to ruin both our Church and State,  
By close Intrigues of Spite, and open Hate.  
A thousand Plots, a thousand Snares were laid;  
With Craft they undermine, with Force invade.  
Pregnant with Mischiefs, every Age they show  
Some recent Cruelties, some Treasons new.  
Singly at first began their Butcher's Trade;  
Smithfield was then their flaming Shambles made.  
Next, the whole Kingdom at one Blow they hope  
To sacrifice unto their Moloch-Pope.  
But still encircled with Heavens mighty Arm,  
Blessed Isle! thou standest secure, and free from harm.  
Th' Invincible Armade of haughty Spain  
Attempts our Angel-guarded Coasts in vain.  
Fauxes dark Lanthorns brought to Light; and Thames  
Triumphs o'er baffled tybur's bitter streams,  
Seeing its LONDON more illustrious grown  
By all those Firebrands that on her were thrown.  

Those Modern Bloodhounds, who so curstly sought  
Our Sovereign's Life, and Ruin to have brought  
Upon us All, in their own Traps are caught.   

For these repeated Mercies let us pay  
Kind Heaven our Thanks in some uncommon way;  
And ne'er turn back in Popish paths to stray.    

Mean time this Figure courts your welcome Eye,  
Where first you may that Man of Sin descry,  
Rome's mighty Mufti, who in Pomp doth sit,  
And owns no Rule (but's Lust) of Just, or fit.  
Two Swords are Brandished in his bloody hand,  
Boasting both Souls and Bodies to Command;  
The double Engines of his fatal Ills;  
First he Excommunicates, and then he Kills.  
Two Keys, the one locks Truth up from men's eyes,  
Th'other sets open the Shop of Heresies,  
Errors, and Superstitions, which are hurled  
By's busy Imps o'er all the hoodwinked world.  
From his vile Mouth proceeds a reaking steam  
Of Pride, which doth both Kings and God Blaspheme;  
Usurps the Powers Divine; makes void God's Laws;  
Pardons All Sin for Gold; and over-aws  
Poor Mortals with his full-mouthed Curses, till  
They truckle to his haughty boundless Will.  
Treads on the 
(*) Pope Alexander set his foot on the neck of the Emperor Frederick the first, saying, Thou shalt tread on the Asp, and walk on the Basilisk: And afterwards Crowning his Son, placed the Crown between his feet, and so put it on his head, and then spurned it off again; to show he had Power to Depose him.  Necks of Emperors, and owns  
A Power at pleasure to Kick off their Crowns.  
This is that Holy-monstrous-three-crowned Head,  
Whereby Rome's cruel Synagogue is led.  
How long! how long, Lord! Holy, Just and True!  
Shall thy Revenging Arm cease to pursue  
This earthly Lucifer? Why sleeps thy Thunder  
To crush such Pride, and break these bands asunder?  
Hasten thy thickest Plagues t'avenge their Cause  
Whom he has Martyred for thy Sacred Laws.  
Make all true Christian Kings to hate that Whore, 
Rev. 17.16.   
And Burn the Strumpet they did once Adore.  
Allow this Transport, Reader; if thou art  
A Protestant, like Zeal must warm thy heart.   

But next, Behold! a nobler Scene is shown,  
Our Gracious Sovereign on his well-fixt Throne.  
To whom, Our Church, beset on every side  
With Popish haman's fierce and cruel Pride,  
Like good Queen Esther bows her Reverend Knee,  
And thus implores his known Benignity;  
" Great Prince! preserved by Miracle! I sue  
" First to my Head in Heaven, and next to You.  
" For me Your Glorious Father lost his Crown,  
" And long Yourself were Banished from Your own.  
" In those black Days how oft did You maintain  
" My Holy Truths, whilst Jesuits barked in vain!  
" That Constancy Heaven now rewards with Power,  
" To yoke those Savage Boars, that would devour  
" My tender Plants, and with fresh Plots pursue  
" To strike me dead, by Murdering of You.  
" Let not Zerviah's brood too strong become,  
" But scatter all th'Intrigues of bloody ROME.  
This said—  
See! how the King (ever the Church's Friend)  
Doth strait his gracious Sceptre forth extend;  
Professing 't shall to all the World be known,  
Her Safety's precious to Him, as His Own.  
This Justice must secure: To spare sometimes  
Is Cruelty, and doth encourage Crimes.  
To Execution let the Guilty go,  
And the next Age a needful Warning show.  
Of Catholic Religion prate no further,  
Your Crimes are Treasons, Blood, and horrid Murder.  
O Rome! Lives yet that Wolf which was thy Nurse,  
When growing Great, thou grew'st the whole World's Curse?  
May none yet leap thy Walls, or leave thy See  
Unslain, though he a King and Brother be?  
Retain'st thou yet that Savage kind, to Prey  
On the distressed Flock which shuns thy way?  
Do all that suck thy breasts, for Milk suck Blood?  
Dare none that spring from thee Die well? do good?  
Must Gibbets only Rock them to their Rest?  
Do they desire that Death, become theyed best?  
Must Traitorous Villains only be thy Saints?  
Wear none white Robes but such as Scarlet Paints?  
Why else do all Ill men so fast drink up  
The deadly Lees of thy Enchanted Cup?  
Or why do Fools so Credit what Rome saith,  
But 'cause they soon can learn Implicit Faith?  
If the Pope's Girdle keep heavens Keys, sans doubt  
he'll never Bar his own dear Martyrs out.  
Nor need they fear where Jesuits have to do,  
Garnet shall be a Saint, and Coleman too.  
Their Writings and Examples Murder teach;  
They'll not Condemn the Doctrine which they Preach.  
This makes our Desperate Ruffians, Romans die.  
And our Cracked Madams seek a Nunnery.   

From Popish Faith, and Popish Tyranny,  
Lord, ever keep our British Nations free.  
Blast all the Counsels of Achitophel,  
Unveil th' Intrigues of every Treacherous Cell.  
Preserve the King, and his Great Council too:  
Guide with thy Grace and Blessing, all they do.  
That we secure, each under his own Vine,  
May all in joyful Acclamations join:  
And never in our Hallelujahs cease  
To magnify the Author of our Peace. Amen.   
FINIS.