A POEM ON THE Burning of the Pope.  
Being SOLEMNLY Performed On Queen Elizabeth's Birthday: This Instant November the 17th. 1679.  
WHat Pageant's this that Marches thus in State?  
Three Images! the World's Triumphirate;  
Three Privy-Counsellors, Plotters of Evil,  
A POPE, a Jesuit-Cardinal, and a Devil.  
Has Father Time turned back his Hourglass,  
To show us present Mortals what once was?  

Is the Platonick-Year Rolled back again,  
And this our great Eighth Henry's Daughters Reign?  
Or is our London turned Madrid in Spain?   
'Tis some Procession sure! 'tis Holiness,  
Down on your Knees, quickly your Sins confess;  
Get an Indulgence, else the Jesuits Knife  
Will soon Dispatch and Godfery your Life:  
And when you're Dead, his Holiness will send  
Your Soul to Hell a present by some Friend.  
But if you'v useless Gold to grease the Fist  
Of some Debauched and old Gorbellied Priest,  
According as you give, you Years shall tarry  
In the Pope's Prison: I mean Purgatory.  
Hold Doting Fool, put on your Spectacles,  
See one of London Boys great Miracles;  
Who an whole Hundred Years brings back again,  
And shows you our Eighth Henry's Daughters Reign;  
Mistake me not, 'tis not as you did Guests,  
Not bloody mary's, but Triumphant BESS;  

Her Glorious, Happy, Golden Reign they show,  
And in her Memory, on her Birthday too  
Do over now again, what she did do.   
In Spite of Hell and all its Cursed Bigotts,  
She still Confounded all these Devilish Plots;  
(By Heaven assisted) she still overthrew,  
What ever Hell and all its Fiends could do.  
The Wicked Jesuits from her Realm she chased,  
Or if they stayed, with them she Tyburn graced.  
And for Example to the Age to come,  
In shining Fires Burnt all the Trash of Rome:  
Then howling Priests made a more hideous Mew,  
Then all the Squawling Pope-burnt- Cats do now:  
Their Copes, their Cowls, their Beads, their Crucifixes,  
Their Gods of Wood, and Wafers kept in Pixes.  
Their Mass-Books, Psalters, Rosaries, and all  
Their Trash and Trumpery, both great and small  
(That Holy Queen whose Memory we adore,  
And whose so happy Days we yet act o'er,)  
Sent to the Fire, as a most Sweet Oblation  
Of her then Glorious Happy Reformation:  
See there she comes, the Great ELIZABETH,  
Who the great Romish-Babylon with her Breath  
Threw to the Ground: Rome's Daubers ne'er were able  
Since her Blessed Reign yet to Rebuild their Babel.  
Her very Image makes the Jesuit Pale  
Tho' but of Wax: It hath as much avail  

To daunt the Jesuited Sons of Rome,  
And to provoke the Generous Zeal of some,  
As Zisea's Skin Converted to a Drum:   
Or Castriot's Bones against the Turks of Fame,  
Or with the French of old great Talbot's Name:  
So now ne'er Fourscore Years after her Death,  
Rome's Terror still is Great ELIZABETH:  
And in Effigies the Hierarchy of Evil.  
Confounds the Pope, the Jesuit, and the Devil.  
Away with them, and to the Fire in State,  
Remember now the Flames they did create,  
When Famous London with their Fires did Burn,  
Which did its Temples into Ashes turn:  
'Tis Punishment, although it be but small,  
By Fire should Incendiaries fall.  
Down from the Lofty Spire of Rebuilt BOW,  
The Dragon looks, and sees this Pompous Show;  
The Great QUEENS Crest, moved to the West, she Sings,  
And for mere Joy, claps both her Iron Wings:  
She Hopes no more to feel Cursed Jesuits Fire,  
But to Roost Ever, on that Lofty Spire.  
With a Blackguard of Links the Pageant comes,  
Attended by a Troop of Dirty Grooms,  
With Clubs and Staves to Guard it to the Fire,  
Where these Three Holy Martyrs must Expire:  
Bound all together in a Treble Rope,  
Saint JESUIT, Saint DEVIL, and Saint POPE;  
In that Place where the Fire made a Stand,  
Which was Enkindled by their Flaming Brand:  
Where all its Rage in Smoky Ashes fell,  
There in Effigies are They sent to Hell:  
Whilst Squalls of Burning Cats, their Requiem Sing,  
And Cracking Squibs, do Powder-Treason Ring.  
Well fare the Soul of STUBS the glad Boys cry,  
With Lusty Shouts, while the Images do Fry;  
Who this Way gave to's Holy Rage a scope,  
And First began the Burning of a POPE.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for J. C. in the Year, M.DC.LXXIX.