A Hue-and-Cry AFTER THE PLOT.  
HAlloo the Plot! where is't ith'name of Fate?  
Good People! what's become of Seventy Eight?  
'Twas so long since, for all this great ado.  
There's Hopes, as said th' old Crone, it mayn't be true.  
These Years Egyptian Snakes we well may call,  
The've eat the former Heads, and Tails, and all:  
Never before was such an Hydra found;  
Why't has in vain been Burnt, and Hanged, and Drowned;  
Yet still this Devil of a Plot revives;  
Cats have but Nine, but this has Nine Cats Lives.  
By great St. Coleman first it saw the light,  
But than' its ugly shape so much did fright  
The Holy Fathers, that without delay,  
Th' unlucky Bastard must be made away.  
And since to purpose they'd the Business do,  
In Godfrey's Breast they Choked, and Stabbed it too,  
Yet what for a Deaths-Wound they meant to give,  
Like an Imposthume pierced but made it Live,  
Then up it got, but yet unhappy still,  
'Twas fairly hanged with Bury, Green, and Hill,  
And then, as soon as his old Friends were Dead,  
By Transmigration into Langhorn fled.  
No wonder if it would not there abide,  
'Twas stripped and whipped, and sadly mortified;  
Huffy with that, it left the Ill-natured Elf  
E'en to be stringed, and gutted by himself.  
Then with the Jesuits at the Bar Harangued;  
Then made fine Speeches, and was finely Hanged.  
Treason as Dogs do Puddings, it did scorn,  
And Died as Innocent as Child unborn.  
Perkt up again it soon took up its Station,  
To comfort Wakeman in his Tribulation,  
Grown Saucy there it Guinnys did not grudge,  
Presto, 10000 li. blew up the Judge,  
Tho' 'twas the unconscionablest Dog alive,  
In Fifteen-Thousand but to leave him five.  
Well George rubs off to France, but Plots so stout  
'Twill play at small Games rather than stand out;  
Grown jolly then with Dr. banished fears,  
And took a rouch or two with brisk Celliers,  
But frighted leaps from Meal-Tubb something sadder,  
A Dow-baked Embryo like her BLOODY BLADDER,  
Hodge took the Lump, and dipped in Holy-Water,  
Wraps it up warm in Wool, and Observator,  
Brings it to sam's, where Crape with wine ecstatick,  
(Who would have thought it,) Christens it FANATIC  
Plots turned to Puss, will no kind Mortal house her?  
See how she's worried by that Dog-Rogue Towzer.  
A PLOT! the word's a spell, the Crown's undone,  
No Countercharm can save's but Forty one,  
And Forty eight, and Forty one, and then,  
Like Mill-Horse round to Forty eight again,  
A PLOT! hence with the , Srs. for shame,  
Sly callow Treasons lurk i'th' pregnant name,  
'Tis Sinon's Horse; as many Whigs are there  
As in the Dreadful Oxford Army were,  
Thus Roger yelps, as Children build a Town,  
Of Snow or Dirt only to beat it Down,  
No longer idleing here, poor Plot will stand,  
But means to venture for a kinder Land.  
Yet there hoping to find a little rest  
he's hanged because he will not take the TEST,  
And after all had made the Haddocks by't,  
But that the courteous Gallows claimed its right,  
'Twas Conventickler next, but loath to lose  
Its life by falls of Pulpits, Seats, and Rews,  
It Trimmer turned, and if you ask for Proof,  
Here's Rogers Ipse Dixit, that's enough.  
'Tis now Informer. If from thence it fall  
It can be nothing but— THE DEVIL AND ALL.   

LONDON, Printed for F. Smith, at the Elephant and Castle in Cornhill.