A LETTER INTERCEPTED, FROM THE Popish-Printer in Fetter-Lane, TO His Friend Heraclitus.  
My Dear, Dear, Dear, R.  
MY Pangs thicken so fast upon me, that although I have Midwived myself of many little sham's, it's my fear I shall cry out for Madam Celier at last: but alas! She's incastrate, and St. Bridget knows when we shall have the benefit of her skill.  
Well! I was still afraid I should burst with Ignoramus's, and this last Bout in the Bailie has given me so strong a Fit, that I must beg the use of your Beads for me. Certes, that Heretic Care has Influenced them. But how unhappy are we! all the Jurors Coats are Drabdeberry, and Impenetrable; so close that we cannot pick one hole in 'um.  
And the misfortune is, that we are like to lose our poor Friend Whip-Cat, for since the good Wives Pusses have forsaken his House, a new Plague is come to him; the Rats and Mice have gathered on him in such Legions, that they have devoured the whole Stock of Parmisant he bought in Holland: so that 'tis feared he must take another Voyage to new store himself; or put Madam Joanna to the charge of getting him a Pot of Extremeunction, as she did for Capricorn.  
And the unlucky Whigs have enlarged their Dominions into the very Bowels of the Church, so that scarce a Divine of Sense or Honesty in the Church of England, but is as Incredulous of a Protestant Plot, as themselves.  
Our Evidence too are so bemired, and stuck in the Bog, that the very Boys hissed 'em, and they had been certainly thrown into Fleet-Ditch, had not the Proverb saved 'em, which says, He that's born to be Hanged shall never Drown.  
Booth they says in Pimlico, and for fear of Martial Discipline, is gone to his Colours in the King-Bench; though 'tis thought his Name was never on the Captains List.  
Narrative drew his Sword, and swore, Dam him, to the Rabble; upon which occasion, an unlucky Baggage brought me this Epigram by the Penny-Post.  

On Narrative's Drawing his Sword.  
Your Popish-Priests are Sons of War,  
Soldiers of Fortune Jesuits are;  
Justice Rewards 'em with a Rope, or Hatchet;  
But the Pope gives 'em Heaven, if they can catch it.   
Oh! the intolerable Charge we have been at to bury this Cursed Plot, for Masses, Pardons, Evidences and Perjuries! And still it stinks so damnably, that it nauseates every Passenger. Curl on all Romish-Bulls! I thought their Horns had been strong enough to have tossed all Protestant Princes out of their Thrones before now: but vae nobis! the Heretics stand their ground: and here's the Plague, the English Gentry can't be prevailed upon to truck away their Title to the Abby-Lands on so slender a security as the Pope's Broad-Seal. Well, Brother, What shall we do? we have had so many Con-stults already, that its certainly in vain to call another: and for those Consecrated Heads that are in Newgate, though when they were out they designed to give Laws to Kingdoms, yet now we see they are like Witches in Custody, their power forsakes them.  
But the great Plague of all is, our own Party begin to laugh at our Artifices, and more than that, some of 'em clapped at the Hieroglophicks wherein the Prentices exposed us on Queen Bess' Night: and have not stuck to say, We were no better than so many Apes, Baboons, and Mimmicks.  
And it vexes me consoundedly to think how I shall answer for all the transposing of my Wit and Raillery upon Tap-skin, etc. with which my Weekly Labels do so Crawl, that there's Littera Scripta in the Case; and I fear the Salamancha Sermon will be turned upon us, and an Epitaph upon the Tridentine be Inscribed to our Memories.  
And is this at last the Reward we are to meet with after the expense of our slender Wits, and Fortunes in the Service of Holy Cause? Ungrateful World! must we after all our Merits be made Pendulums to tell the Rabble what time of day ' 'tis? How glad would we be if we might but commute for the Discipline of having our Noses grubd against the Grate, and Skins sound Clawed, and curried? Alas! there were some Relief in this, and we might come off, as some of our Dear Sisters do, from the Dancing School behind St. Brides, with sore Backs, and brazen Faces. But Fate alas! has another Game to play with us: This is evident by the Omens that have of late befallen us. For, as for thee, Heraclitus, thy risible Faculty hath quite lest thee, and instead of laughing, thou dost Grin the most wretchedly, thou dost already look like one of our Fathers that hath been strung up by the Left Ear a day or two in the Sun. And poor Roger's Fiddle is cursedly out of tune, all the small Catlings are broken, nothing but the two bigger strings left, that make the lamentable sound of O hone! O hone!  
What think'st thou can be the meaning of these dismal Prodromes? I fear the cursed presage of 'em, for already I have so perfectly received the very form of Hanging into my consideration, that sometimes I am feeling in my Pocket for a piece of Silver to give Catch at the dead lift. But prithee, if thou art yet able to set Pen to Paper, let me have thy Opinion of the most effectual means (if there be any) to prevent these direful Catastrophes. But anon I intent to meet thee at the Constult at the Wonder. Vale ✚ Vale ✚ Vale ✚.  
✚ TONY TOMP— N ✚  
FINIS.   

London, Printed for Jonathan Low. 1681.