A DIALOGUE BETWEEN Father Petre's, and the Devil.  Father Petre's to the Devil. 

OH are you come 'tis more than time,  
Your Tardiness is no Small Crime,  
All our Proceeding's at a Stand,  
've got again the upper hand,  
Yet like true Jesuit I have wrought,  
My charge up to the height I sought,  
Both Sense and Reason quite o'er thrown  
For those we deal with must have None.   The Devil's Answer. 

Is this a Conquest to relate  
Worthy a Jesuitick Pate;  
I have more trouble with you had  
Then all the Orders I have made,  
Besides I Joined in the design,  
One whose Fell Malice Equals mine,  
One so ambitiously Inclined,  
Of such an uncontrolled mind,  
That Let the Gulf be ne'er so deep,  
Or Pyramid Prodigious Steep,  
If in th' Extremes thou canst disclose,  
Any that does their will oppose,  
(Though on just grounds) they meet their Fate,  
In violent and unbounded hate.   Father Petres. 

I did not call you to discourse,  
We must do something now by force,  
Our whole Society is Shamed,  
And we in our first Founder damned,  
Did I though to my Soul's Perdition,  
Act things more black than my Commission,  
Gaining belief amongst the Great,  
Who forced upon themselves the Cheat,  
While the Good man I kept at th' Oar,  
No Galley slave e'er laboured more,  
Nor durst I let him Pause upon't,  
Lest if he thought, he should recant:  
With Puzzling Notions still posest him,  
At once Tormented and Carresed him,  
Hood winked the Pilot, that should steer us,  
With our Infallible Chimeras,   The Devil. 

Boast not as if you'd Conquest won,  
've started much, but nothing done,  
Your Order wheresoever they come,  
Have set whole Kingdoms in a Flame,  
Nor Hell nor Rome can give you thanks,  
For acting thus a Madmans' Pranks;  
Did I not always to you Preach,  
The English would you over reach,  
They'll be convinced  they believe,  
Not Pin their Faith upon your Slieve:  
Your Public Chapels, have o'er thrown us,  
Our very Proselytes disowne us,  
And Face about to th' other side,  
Exclaiming 'Gainst the Roman Pride.   Father Petres. 

What do you now Complain on me,  
For over acting Villainy?  
I still consulted you in all,  
Did daily for your conduct call,  
And though 'tis true I named the Saints,  
Yet 'Twas to you I made my plaints:  
I own about the French we failed,  
But in the Irish we prevailed;  
Propose once More, and I'll obeyed,  
It shall be done if you but say't,  
You know in such a Holy Juggle,  
My seared Conscience never did Boggle,  
We must not Flag, not sit down here,  
That would declare Remorse or Fear,  
Which Jesuits do more decline,  
Then  the Rechabites did Wine,  
But I have something to Impart,  
Which does oppress my Tender Heart,  
And made me now Invoke you hither,  
Though 'gainst your Principles to gather.  
The truth of these Important Queries,  
Most needful in this dubious Seris.   

First if it in your Power does lie,  
Tell me what death I●m doomed to Die,  
I dare not hope it must be in Bed,  
That suits not with the Life I've led;  
But if I must be Hanged and Quartered,  
Let me be Cannonized and Martyred  
With holy Harcourt and his Fellows,  
Like them be Sainted are the Gallows.  
And next I do this favour Crave,  
Since I have ever been your Slave,  
Unfold the Mistick Book of Fate,  
And Read me England's future State,  
Who next shall to the Throne Succeed,  
The English or Italian Breed.   

The Devil answering, Laughed out right,   

Would I these Secrets bring to Light,  
I should not half that Harvest gain,  
For which I've taken all this pain,  
Nor would I if I could reveal,  
That which my Interest bids Conceal;  
Yet I will Answer the in Part,  
Since I've a Title in thy Heart.  

The first Peculiar is to thee,  
For which thou needest not touble me,  
'Tis what thyself did Long fore see,   
Nor is it Reason to believe,  
Thou shouldst the Mobile deceive,  
But whether Martyr, or as Traitor,  
Thy Ballad will be truth's Relator.   

The Consequence o'th' other draw,  
By the success of Great Nassaw.   

This said the Devil left the Father,  
The Meaning of his Words to gather,  
And Vanished from him down the stayrs,  
While he Proceeded in his Prayers.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1688.