AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE PLOT.  
ALas! what thing can hope Death's Hand to 'scape,  
When Mother-Plot herself 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 hatched, as fast as Hens do Eggs.)  
But they no sooner peeped into the Light,  
Than they kicked up, and bid the World good night.  
The Bantlings died always in their Cradle,  
And th' Eggs, tho' kept in Meal-Tubs, still proved addle.  
She lived 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 lived 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 Senses have, do more than think  
Thee dead, when it is plain thou now dost stink.  
Well far thee Dead; for living thou mad'st work,  
For Heathen, Jew, for Christian, and for Turk,  
For Honest Men, and Knaves, for Wise and Fool,  
And eke for many a witless, scribbling 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 vexed,  
To lose the Uses of a gainful Text.  
These swear she's in an Epileptic 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 hatched, brought forth, and then eat up herself;  
Who's dead, and stinks, yet whole, and will not rot,  
Was, is not now, yet ne'er shall be forgot.  
An uncouth Mystery of a Medley Fame,  
A Plot, a Mother-Plot without a Name.   

LONDON, Printed for E. P. in the Year, 1681.