A BALLAD UPON THE POPISH PLOT  Written by a Lady of Quality. 
Whether you will like my song or like it not,  
It is the down-fall of the Popish Plot;  
With Characters of Plotters here I sing,  
Who would destroy our good and gracious King;  
Whom God preserve, and give us cause to hope  
His Foes will be rewarded with a Rope.  
To the TUNE of Packington's Pound.  

1.  
SInce Counterfeit Plots has affected this Age,  
Being acted by Fools, and contrived by the Sage:  
In City, nor Suburbs, no man can be found,  
But frighted with Fire-balls, their heads turned round.   

From Pulpit to Pot  
They talked of a Plot,   

Till their Brains were enslaved and each man turned Sot.  
But let us to Reason and Justice repair;  
And this Popish Bugbear will fly into Air.   

2  
A Politic Statesman, of body unsound,  
Who once in a Tree with the Rabble set round;  
Run Monarchy down with Fanatic Rage,  
And preached up Rebellion in'at credulous Age.   

He now is at work,  
With the Devil and Turk;   

Pretending a Plot, under which he doth Lurk,  
To humble the Mitre, while he squints at the Crown;  
Till fairly and squarely he pulls them both down.   

3  
He had found out an Instrument fit for the Devil;  
Whose mind had been trained up to all that was evil:  
His Fortune sunk low, and detested by many;  
Kicked out at St. Omers, not pitied by any.   

Some Wisperers fixed him  
Upon this design;   

And with promised Reward did him countermine;  
Though, his Tale was ill-told, it served to give fire;  
Despised by the Wise, whilst Fools did admire.   

4  
The next that appeared, was a Foolhardy Knave,  
Who had plied the Highways, and to Vice was a Slave;  
Being fed out of Basket in Prison forlorn;  
No wonder that money should make him forsworn.   

He boldly dares swear,  
What men tremble to hear;   

And learns a false Lesson without any fear.  
For when he is out, there's one that's in's place:  
Relieves his invention, and quickens his Pace.   

5  
In a Country Prison another was found,  
Who had cheated his Lord of One Thousand Pound;  
He was freed from's Fetters, to swear and inform,  
Which very courageously he did perform.   

To avoid future Strife,  
He take's away Life,   

To save poor Protestants from Popish Knife;  
Which only has Edge to cut a Rogues Ears,  
For abusing the People with needless fears   

6  
Another starts up and tells a false Tale,  
Which straight he revoked his Courage being frail;  
But to fortify one that needeth his Aid,  
Being tempted with money which much doth persuade   

He swore he knew all  
That contrived the fall,   

Of one, who that day was seen near to White-Hall▪  
Where he by the Treasurer's powerful Breath.  
More likely by far received his Death.   

7  
A Gown-man most grave with Fanatical form,  
With his scribbling wit doth blow up this storm;  
For Motheaten Records he worships the Devil,  
Being now lodged at Court he must become civil.   

He hunts all about,  
And makes a great Rout,   

To find some Old Prophecy to help him out;  
But his Friend that was housed with him at Fox-Hall,  
Being joined with his master still strengthens 'em all   

8  
Then comes a cracked Merchant with his shallow Brain,  
Who first did lead up this stigmatised train;  
He since is grown nuseless, his Skill being small,  
Yet at a dead lift, he's still at their call.   

He has pestered the Press,  
In ridiculous dress   

In this scribbling Age he could not do less;  
But to so little purpose as plainly appears  
With Pen he had as good sat picking his Ears.   

9  
To end with a Prayer as now 'tis my Lot,  
Counfounded be Plotters, with their Popish Plot:  
God bless and preserve our Gracious good King,  
That he may ne'er feel the PRESBYTERS sting;   

As they brought his Father  
With rage to the Block,   

So would they extirpate all the whole Stock:  
But with their false Plots I hope they will end,  
At Tyburn where th' Rabble will surely attend.   
FINIS.   

A BALLAD.  
The Third Part, To the same Tune.  Written by a Lady of Quality. 
The Plot is vanished like to a bashful Spirit,  
Which with false flashes, Fools could only fright.  
The wise, (whose clearer Souls can penetrate,)  
finds shadows drawn before Intrigues of State.  
God bless our King, the Church, and Nation too,  
Whilst perjured Villains have what is their due.  
To the TUNE of Packington's Pound.  

1.  
THe Presbyter has been so active of late,  
To twist himself into the Mysteries of State,  
Giving birth to a Plot to amuse the dark world  
'Til into Confusion three Kingdom's are hurled;   

It is so long since,  
He Murdered his Prince,   

That the unwary Rabble he hopes to convince,  
With Jingling words that bears little sense,  
Deluding them with Religious pretence.   

2.  
Their scribbling Poet is such a dull Sot,  
To blame the poor Devil for hatching the Plot;  
The Mutther o'th' King, with many things more,  
He falsely would put on the Jesuits score:   

When all that have Eyes,  
Be they foolish, or wise,   

May see the sly Presbyter through his disguise;  
Their brethren in Scotland has made it well known,  
By Murdering their Bishop, what sins are their own.   

3.  
The Poet, whose senses are somewhat decayed,  
Takes Joan for a Jesuit in Masquerade;  
His Muse ran so fast, she ne'er looked behind her,  
Or else to a Woman she would have proved kinder.   

His fury's so hot,  
To Hunt out the Plot,   

That fain he would find it where it is not,  
Although I've exposed it to all that are wise,  
He has stifled his Reason, and blinded his Eyes.   

4.  
An old Ignis fatuus, who leads men astray,  
And leaves them i'th' Ditch, but still keep's his way,  
In politic head first framed this Plot,  
From whence it descended to Presbyter Scot,   

Who quickly took Fire,  
And assoon did expire,   

Having grave factious fools their zeal to admire;  
Who for the same cause would freely fly out,  
But Plotting's more safer to bring it about.   

5.  
Here's one for Religion is ready to fight,  
That believes no● in Chr●st, yet swear's he's i'th' right:  
If our English Church (as he says,) be a Whore,  
We're sure 'twas Jack Presbyter did her deflower;   

He'd feign pull her down,  
As well as the Crown,   

And prostitute her to every dull Clown;  
To bring in Religion that's fit for the Rabble,  
Whilst Atheism serve, himself that's more able.   

6.  
A Pestilent Peer of a levelling Spirit,  
Who only the Sins of his Sire doth inherit;  
With an unsteady mind, and Chimerical brain,  
Which his broken Fortune doth weakly sustain,   

He Lodged i'th'City  
Like Alderman brave,   

Being fed up with faction to which he's a slave;  
He never durst fight, but once for his Whore,  
Which his feeble courage attempted no more.   

7.  
Another, with Preaching and Praying wore out,  
Inspired by th'Covenant is grown very stout;  
Th' old cause to revive it is his design,  
Though the fabric of Monarchy he undermine:   

He tortured his Pate,  
Both early and late,   

I' th' Tower, where this mischief he hope to create;  
But to Country dwelling he now doth re●ire,  
To Preach to Domestiques whilst they do admire.   

8.  
Another, with head both empty and light,  
For the good Old cause is willing to Fight;  
I'th'Choise of fit members for th'next Parliament,  
He spit out his zeal to the Rabbles content,   

Whilst his wife in great State  
Chose a Duke for her Mate,   

For whose sake a Combustion he needs would create  
For since his indulgence allows her a Friend,  
He'd make him as great as his wish can extend.   

9  
There's one, whose fierce courage is fallen to decay  
(At Geneva inspired,) he's much led away;  
He would set up a cipher instead of a King:  
From Presbyter zeal such folly doth spring.   

He once did betray,  
A whole Town in a day;   

And since did at Sea fly fairly away:  
He had better spin out the rest of his Thread,  
In making Potguns, which disturb not his Head.   

10.  
Some others, of Fortunes both dispersed and Low,  
With big-swelling Titles does make a great show  
A flexible Prince they would willingly have,  
That to Presbyter Subjects should be a mere slave;   

They'd set him on's Throne,  
To tumble him down,   

They scorn to submit to Sceptre and Crown;  
And into confusion, or Commonwealth turn,  
A People that hastens to be undone.   

11.  
If such busy heads that would us confound,  
Were all advanced high, or placed underground;  
We'd honour our King, and live at our ease,  
And make the dull Presbyter do what we please:   

Who has cheated our Eyes,  
With borrowed disguise,   

Till of all our Reason they'd taken Excise;  
But let's from their slavery strive to be free,  
And no People can ere be so happy as we.    
FINIS.