FATHER Whitebreads Walking GHOST Which lately appeared to a CABAL OF JESUITS IN DRURY-LANE.  

BE quick, dull Souls, pray hard, new Altars raise,  
Fresh Tapers light, till Night outshine the Days;  
Let Masses numberless performed be,  
That I from Purgatory may be free:  

What! do you startle, you ungrateful Crew?  
Know you not him so late was one of you?  
What, in the Name o'th' Devil, do you do?   
Must I, who once your best Adviser stood,  
Whose Vote you never missed for Fire and Blood;  
Must I, who did myself your Martyr give,  
Be tortured here, and Heretics still live?  
Did you not tell me once these Burn should  
Be quenched with Floods of Heretics fresh Blood?  

And that those Fires, I once advised to,  
Should lessen those were to be felt below?  
What hinders then, that these things are not so?   
I hope you're not at length Religious grown,  
And so through fear your Mother's Cause disown;  
No, no, I know our Orders too far in  
Ever to make a boggle at a sin,  
And so well practised, that they may defy  
All the whole World beside at Villainy.  

What is it then that makes our Project stay?  
While you as dull as my disserted Clay,  
Your inmischievous heads together lay:   
You can't want Stratagems while Hell's your 〈◊〉  
Nor Money whensoe'er to Rome you send;  
You can't want Precedents of daring Sin,  
Who also have of our own Order been.  
Think on that matchless Assassin, whose name  
We with just Pride and so much Envy claim.  

He who at killing of an Emperor,  
To give his Poison stronger force and power,  
Mixed a God with it to make it work more sure.   
Blessed memory! which shall, the age to come,  
Stand sacred in the List of Hell and Rome.  
Let our great Clement, Raviliac's Name,  
Your Spirits to like heights of sin inflame:  
Those mighty Souls who each durst bravely die,  
To have a Royal Ghost their Company;  
Heroic Act, and worth their Tortures well,  
Well worth the sufferings of a double Hell;  
And if these cannot move ye as they should,  
Let Garnet's bold Example fire your blood  
Think what he durst attempt, a glorious deed,  
Which durst the Fates have suffered to succeed,  
Had Rivalled Hell's most proud exploit and boast,  
Even that which would the King of Fates deposed  
Who justly feared lest he who struck so high,  
In guilt should next blow up his Realm and Sky:  
Or if you think these Patterns fetched too far,  
Let our success with Godfrey be your Spur.  
Are ye not Jesuits? are you so for naught?  
In all the Catholic Depths of Treason taught;  
In Orthodox and solid poisoning red,  
And each profounder Art of Killing bred.  
And can you fail and bungle in your Trade,  
Shall one poor Life your Cowardice upbraid;  
Lives yet that hated Enemy of our Cause,  
Lives he our mighty Projects to oppose;  
Were I now man, and the great Act to do,  
He'ad died by this, and been what I am now.  
'Twere true ingenious malice could one do't,  
To make men die, and make them damned to boot:  
Try then whate'er your Art and Heart can do,  
Outfly old Precedents and enter new,  

Hasten and let your Deeds forestall intent,  
Forestall even Wishes ere they can take vent,  
Nor give the Fates the leisure to prevent.   
Let the fired City to your Plot give light,  
You razed it half before, now raze it quite;  
Do't more effectually, I'd see it glow  
In Flames unquenchable as those below.  
I'd see the Miscreants with the Houses burn,  
And both together into Ashes turn.  
What never Saxons Rage could here inflict,  
Nor Danes more Savage, nor the barbarous Pict;  
What Spain nor 88 could ne'er devise,  
With all its Fleet and Freight of Cruelties;  
What Heavens Judgements, nor the angry Stars,  
Foreign Invasion, nor Domestic Wars,  
Plague, Fire and Famine, could effect or do,  
All this and more be dared and done by you.   

If I may waste a Prayer for your success,  
Hell be your aid, and your high Projects bless.  
And may that Wretch if any here there be,  
That meanly shrinks from brave iniquity,  
If any dare feel pity or remorse,  
May he feel all I bid you act, or worse.   
Do Ill, Farewell.  
FINIS.