ROME RHYMED TO DEATH. Being a Collection OF CHOICE POEMS: In two parts.  
Written by the E. of R. Dr. Wild, and others of the best Modern Wits.  
LONDON, Printed for john How, at the Seven Stars, at the South-West corner of the Royal Exchange, in Cornhill. 1683.   


ROME RHYMED to DEATH    

ROME Rhymed to Death, etc.  
An Exclamation against POPERY:  By Dr. WILD. 
PLot on proud Rome! and lay thy damned Design  
As low as Hell, we'll find a Countermine:  
Wrack thy cursed Parts! and when thy utmost Skill  
Has proved unable to effect thy Will;  
Call thy black Emissaries, let 'em go  
To summon Traitors from the Shades below,  
Where Infant Treason dates its Monstrous Birth;  
Is nursed with Care, and after sent on Earth:  
To some cursed Monks, or wand'ring jesuits Cell;  
Where it thrives faster than it did in Hell!  
Call bloody Brutus up, Lean Cassius too;  
Let Faux and Catesby both, be of the Crew!—  
Nay, rather than want Help, let your BULLS run,  
And Damn the Devil, if he do not come!  
Yet after all your Plots, and Hatching, we  
(So long as CHARLES and's Senators agree)  
Will warm our Hands at Bonfires, Bells shall Ring;  
And traitor's Knells no longer Toll, but Sing.  
We doubt not Rome, but Maugre all thy Skill,  
The Glorious GOD of our Religion will,  
In spite of all thy Art, preserve It still!  
And his peculiar Care of It to show,  
Defend in Health, It's Great DEFENDER too!  
I'th' Interim, Do thou new Crimes invent,  
And we'll Contrive as subtle Punishment.  
'Tis Autumn now with us; and every Tree,  
Instead of Fruit, may bend with Popery.  
` 'twould be a Novel, though no hated Sight,  
If every Bough should bear a jesuit!  
We'll meet your Plots with Pikes, Daggers, with Swords;  
And stead of long Cravats, we'll lend you Cords.  
Each Stab in Private, we'll with Use return:  
And whilst one Hangs, the other he shall Burn;  
Till Tybourn's long-impoverished Squire appear,  
Gay as the Idol, fills the porphyry Chair.  
Yes, Mighty CHARLES at thy Command we'll run  
Through Seas of Rebels Blood, to save thy Crown.  
Our Wives, Estates, and Children too, shall be  
But Whetstones to our Swords, when drawn for thee.  
We'll Hack, and Slash, and Shoot, till Rome Condoles;  
And Hell itself is cloyed with Traitor's Souls:  
Till Godfrey's wronged Ghost (which still does call  
For Shoals of Rebels to attend his Fall;)  
Cries out, Dear Protestants, no more pursue  
Their Guilty Blood, my Manes have their Due!  
This, Mighty Monarch! at thy Beck or Nod,  
Shall be effected, as Thou were't a God;  
With so much Readiness, thy Royal Tongue  
Shall hardly Speak, c're we revenge the Wrong  
On thy cursed Enemies; who whilst they state  
Thy Death, shall feel themselves th' intended Fate;  
And by a quick Reverse, be forced to try  
The Dire Effects of their own Treachery.  
Poor Scarlet Harlot, couldst thou stand in want  
Of a Genteel, and Generous Gallant,  
Whose Noble Soul to Baseness could not yield;  
But would have tried thy Interest in the Field,  
We had not thus thy Policies condemned;  
But thought Thee worthy of a Foe, or Friend:  
Both which, with equal Estimate thou'lt find,  
Were always valued by an English Mind.  
But Thou of late, so Treacherous dost grow,  
That we should blush, to own thee either now.  
Base, and Perfidious too, thou dost appear;  
Sland'rest a Pope, and spoyl'st an Emperor.  
What! is the Eagle from the Mitre flown?  
Is there of Caesar nothing left in Rome?  
Must that Renowned City, heretofore  
Famed for her Virtues, well as for her Power;  
Instead of Consuls, Vagabonds employ?  
And suborn Felons, MONARCHES to destroy?  
Bribe Men (through Want made boldly Desperate)  
To Fireball Cities, to their groveling Fate;  
Whilst Hellish-Iesuits Porters Garbs profane;  
Assist the Fire, and Bless the growing Flame!  
Must Rome's Great Pope, whose Piety should run  
As an Example, through all Christendom;  
Whose Signal Virtues, Arguments should be  
Of his Admired infallibility?  
Does he hire Ruffains, justices to Kill;  
And send the Murd'res Pardons at his Will?  
Bids them in Heretics Blood their hands imbrue;  
Tells them withal 'tis Meritorious too!—  
If this thy Practice be, false Rome Farewell!—  
Go, Teach thy Doctrine to the Damned in Hell!  
Where, by Black Lucifer's Destructive Pride,  
Thou may'st in part thy future Fate decide:  
Whilst from our City we thy Imps remove,  
To shake their Heels in some cold Field or Grove.  
Since both by Ours, and all men's just Esteem.  
They're fitter to Converse with Beasts than Men.   

A New Song on the Hellish Popish Plot; Sung by BELZEBUB, at a Merry-meeting of the Devils.  

I.  
COme Brother Devils, with full Bowls  
Let us refresh our thirsty Souls.  
If there be joy in Heaven when men repent;  
Why should not we  
As merry be,  
When thousands to our Regions are sent.   

II.  
And first let's give unto Christ's Vicar  
The Supremacy o'th' Liquor.  
We'll drink his health, and may his Kingdoms grow;  
The farther he  
Extends his See,  
The larger our Dominions are below.   

III.  
Of Heaven and Hell Popes have the Keys,  
And damn or save whom e'er they please:  
'Tis sign they are our friends, if this be true;  
They send to th' Skies  
Their Enemy,  
And let in here only their Popish crew.   

IV.  
Next to our Friends the Priests of Mass,  
A Bumper round about shall pass.  
As many Proselytes to Hell they win,  
As we trepan  
In tempting Man.  
By helping to Indulgencies for sin.   

V.  
Before the day of doom, 'tis said,  
We Devils must be bound and laid:  
But if the Popish-Priests on earth may dwell,  
from tempting we  
May well be free;  
They'll do more harm than all the arts of Hell.   

VI  
Yet after death these Saints are made,  
And Divine honour to them's paid:  
To them for help the common people cry,  
Oramus vos,  
Servate nos,  
Whilst in these flames they here tormented lie.   

VII.  
But since the name of Saints they gain,  
Who for their Church have felt the pain  
Of transitory earthly fires; then sure  
Much more that name  
The Priests may claim,  
Who for their Church eternal flames endure.   

VIII.  
Oft have I tried the British-Land  
To re-inslave to Rome's command  
If in that lesser World I had my hopes  
I'd sing Old Rose,  
And fuddle my Nose;  
The Universe should quickly be the Pope's   

IX.  
Early and late what pains I take  
For th' Catholic Religion's sake,  
Did they but know, me too they'd Canonize:  
My Cloven-foot  
And Horns they'd put  
Among those Relics that they highest prize.   

X.  
First to conspire, Guy Faux I moved  
Though Fatal to himself it proved.  
After that upwards to the firmament  
It could not rend  
The Parliament,  
Him downwards to this place the Powder sent.   

XI.  
And at this time to kill the King,  
And Popery again to bring,  
Many I've tempted; if i'th' first they fail,  
A Counterplot  
Still they have got,  
I hope their next Attempt may yet prevail   

XII.  
The French are ready to send o'er  
Their Armies to the Brittish-shore.  
To set fresh forces on the English ground  
I have again  
Persuaded Spain,  
Although in eighty-eight their strength it found.   

XIII.  
The English Papists too I'll Arm,  
And they shall rise at the Alarm:  
One blow these forces shall together join,  
If Charles they kill,  
I have my will,  
Against the Protestants they shall combine.   

XIV.  
How do I long to see that day,  
When Bibles shall be took away,  
And Popish Legends in their places laid;  
When the Beads motion  
Shall be devotion  
And in an unknown tongue Prayers shall be said.   

XV.  
With joy I think upon the time,  
When Whoring shall be thought no crime;  
When Monks and Friars every place shall store.  
When Marriage all  
A sin shall call,  
And Images for God they shall adore.   

XVI.  
But by their own Accomplices  
I hear that all detected is.  
Th' impeached Traitors into Goal are thrown,  
Their Arms are found  
Hid under ground,  
And all their Letters to the King are known.   

XVII.  
Th' unwelcome news by Staley came,  
Who hanseled Tyburn for the same.  
With his own hand, had he been longer lived  
In open day  
The King to slay,  
Raviliae-like, he says he had contrived.   

XVIII.  
O that these puny Rogues I'd got.  
That did relent and spoil the Plot:  
If it were possible, more cruelty  
I would Invent  
Them to torment,  
Than e'er was exercised on Godfery.   

XIX.  
But since we can't come at these men;  
Let's swinge the rest for trusting them.  
Each of you take his torturing instrument;  
With Hangman's Noose  
When Life they lose,  
On the Conspirators our spleen we'll vent.   

XX.  
In the mean while 'tis best I think,  
To make an end of all our drink:  
That when they're come, and in the height of pain  
Their Teeth they gnash,  
And Throats would wash,  
Nothing to cool their Tongues may here remain.    

On the Burning of several Cart-loads of Popish Books, at the Royal Exchange.  
WElcome blessed day, that happily didst save  
Our Church and Nation from a threatened Grave:  
A day! must never Marks of Hononr want,  
Whilst there survives one grateful Protestant;  
But in our Calendar shall stand enrolled  
Through every Age, with Characters of Gold.  
As once proud Haman, with a cursed Decree,  
Had signed God's People's general Destiny,  
So cruel Factors now of Hell and Rome,  
Resovled on England's universal Doom:  
But Heaven's bright Eye Revea'ld the Hellish Plot,  
Which had it prospered boldly might have shot  
At the Celestial Throne, put out the Sun,  
And made the world back to its Chaos run,  
Though deep as Hell they laid the black Design,  
Fate blasts their Projects with a Countermine:  
And then the desperate Undertakers be  
Like Haman, sentenced to the fatal Tree:  
Thus Pharaoh perished, Israel scaped free.  
And shall such Mercies ever be forgot?  
No, no— Were we so thankless, they would not  
Permit it; whose new Treasons still we see  
Revive their Old ones to our Memory.  
The Cockatrice on the same Eggs doth brood;  
Rebellion's Venom is their natural food.  
Rome's Founder by a Wolf, ('tis said) was nursed,  
And with his Brother's blood her walls at first  
He cemented: whence ever since we find  
Her Offspring of a Ravenous, Bloody Kind.  
Long since with temporal arms and flags unfurled  
She Tyranny o'er Conquered Nations hurled  
And now with spiritual thraldom grasps the world.  
Sooner the Aethiop may blanche his skin,  
And Devils cease from tempting men to sin;  
Sooner shall darkness dwell in the Sun's beams  
And Tybur mix with our Thames Purer Streams,  
Than the sly jesuit his old arts will leave,  
Or cursed nets of Treasoncease to wove.  
But now behold! methinks a gallant Sight.  
Doctrines of Darkness yonder brought to Light:  
Boone-fires in Earnest! where Rome's Pamphlets fry,  
And Popish Authors pass their Purgat'ry.  
Unto the Fire their Books most justly came,  
Which first were wrote to set us in a Flame.  
As in the Air the burning Papers flew,  
We might in Emblem that Religion view,  
Which makes a while a glorious glittering Blaze,  
And with gay Pomp inviteth fools to gaze;  
Pretends directly towards heaven to fly  
On whings of flaming Love and Charity:  
But wait a while, approach a little nigher  
Its Glory fades, grows faint, and does Expire.  
What at first view appeared so warm and bright,  
Like painted Fires, yields niether Heat, nor Light,  
But Grose and Earthly down it comes again,  
And with its Blackness, where't doth touch doth slain.  
Was it for this the Monk in his dark Cell,  
With nitrous Earth, and Brimstone stolen from Hell,  
First composed Gunpowder, that it might be  
The future Engine of their Butchery?  
At one sad stroke to Massacre a Land,  
And make them fall, whom Heaven ordained to stand?  
Or could the bold, but silly Traitors hope,  
Great Britain e'er would Truckle to the Pope?  
Erect and Lofty still her Genius stands,  
And defies all their Heads, and all their Hands.  
Nor shall their Strength or Policy, ere reach  
Our ruin, if our Crimes op'e not the Breach:  
Still we are safe, till our Transgression merits  
The dreadful Reformation from such Spirits.  
They dig in vain, nor need our Nation fear  
Dark-Lanthorns, whilst God's Candlesticks are here.  
" The Purple-Whore may lay her Mantle by,  
" Until our Sins are of a Scarlet-dye.  
Lord! may they never to that Bulk proceed,  
Nor fester so within, that we should need  
Italian Horseleeches to make us bleed.  
May Revived London never more become  
The Priests Burnt-Offering to Insulting Rome.  
With Guarding Mercies still our Sovereign tender,  
And be thou His, as He's thy Faith's Defender.   

The Catholic Ballad: Or an Invitation to Popery.  
To the Tune of 88  
SInce popery of late is so much in debate,  
And great strive have been to restore it,  
I cannot forbear openly to declare,  
That the Ballad-makers are for it.  
We'll dispute no more then, these Heretical men  
Have exposed our Books unto laughter,  
So that many do say, 'twill be the best way  
To sing for the Cause hereafter.  
O the Catholic Cause! now assist me my Muse,  
How earnestly do I desire thee!  
Neither will I pray to St. Bridget to day,  
But only to thee to inspire me.  
Whence should Purity come, but from Catholic Rome?  
I wonder much at your folly?  
For Saint Peter was there, and left an old Chair,  
Enough to make all the World holy.  
For this Sacred old Wood is so excellent good,  
If our Doctors may be believed,  
That whoever sits there needs never more fear  
The danger of being deceived.  
If the Devil himself should (God bless us) get up  
Though his Nature we know to be evil,  
Yet whilst he sat there, as divers will swear,  
He would be an infallible Devil.  
Now who sits in this Seat, but our Father the Pope?  
Which is a plain demonstration,  
As clear as Noonday, we are in the right way,  
And all others are doomed to damnation.  
If this will not suffice, yet to open your eyes,  
Which are blinded with bad Education;  
We have Arguments plenty, and Miracles twenty,  
Enough to convince a whole Nation.  
If you give but good heed, you shall see the Host bleed,  
And if any thing can persuade ye,  
An Image shall speak, or at least it shall squeak  
In the Honour of our Lady.  
You shall see without doubt the Devil cast out,  
As of old by Erra Pater;  
He shall skip about and tear like a dancing Bear,  
When he feels the Holy Water.  
If yet doubtful you are, we have Relics most rare,  
We can show you the Sacred Manger;  
Several loads of the Cross as good as ere was  
To preserve your Souls from danger.  
Should I tell you of all, it would move a stone-wall,  
But I spare you a little for pity,  
That each one may prepare, and rub up his ear,  
For the second part of my Ditty.  
Now listen again to those things that remain,  
They are matters of weight, I assure you,  
And the first thing I say, throw your Bibles away,  
'Tis impossible else for to cure you.  
O that pestilent Book! never on it more look,  
I wish I could sing it out louder:  
It has done men more harm, I dare boldly affirm  
Than th' Invention of Guns & Powder.  
As for matters of Faith, believe what the Church saith,  
But for Scripture, leave that to the Learned;  
For these are edge-tools, & you Laymen are fools,  
If you touch them you are sure to be harmed.  
But pray what is it for, that you make all this stir?  
You must read, you must hear, and be learned:  
If you'll be on our part, we will teach you an Art,  
That you need not be so much concerned.  
Be the Churches good Son, and your work is half done,  
After that you may do your own pleasure:  
If your Beads you can tell, and say Ave Mary well,  
Never doubt of the Heavenly Treasure.  
For the Pope keeps the Keys, and can do what he please,  
And without all peradventure,  
If you cannot at the fore, yet at the backdoor  
Of Indulgence you may enter.  
But first by the way, you must make a short stay  
At a place called Purgatory,  
Which the Learned us tell, in the buildings of Hell,  
Is about the middlemost story.  
'Tis a monstrous hot place, and a mark of disgrace,  
In the torment on't long to endure:  
None are kept there but Fools & poor pitiful Souls,  
Who can no ready money procure.  
For a handsome round Sum you may quickly be gone,  
For the Church has wisely ordained,  
That they who build Crosses and pay well for Masses,  
Should not there be too long detained.  
So that's a plain case, as the Nose on ones Face,  
We are in the surest condition,  
And none but poor Fools and some niggardly Owls,  
Need fall into utter perdition.  
What aileth you then, O ye great and rich men,  
That you will not hearken to reason,  
Since as long as ye have Pence, ye need scruple no offence,  
Be it Murder, Adultery, Treason.  
And ye sweet-natured Women, who hold all things common,  
My addresses to you are most hearty,  
And to give you your due, you are to us most true,  
And we hope we shall gain the whole party.  
If you happen to fall, your Penance is small,  
And although you cannot forgo it,  
We have for you a cure, if of this you be sure  
To confess before you go to it.  
There is one reason yet, which I cannot omit,  
To those who affect the French Nation,  
Hereby we advance the Religion of France,  
The Religion that's only in fashion.  
If these reasons prevail, (as how can they fail?)  
To have Popery entertained,  
You cannot conceive, and will hardly believe,  
What benefits hence may be gained.  
For the Pope shall us bless (that's no small happiness)  
And again we shall see restored  
The Italian Trade, which formerly made  
This Land to be so much adored.  
O the Pictures and Rings, the Beads & fine things,  
The good words as sweet as Honey,  
All this and much more shall be brought to our door,  
For a little dull English-money.  
Then shall Justice and Love, & whatever can move  
Be restored again to our Britain.  
And Learning so common, that every old woman  
Shall say her Prayers in Latin.  
Then the Church shall bear sway, & the State shall obey,  
Which is now looked upon as a wonder,  
And the proudest of Kings, with all temporal things  
Shall submit and truckle under.  
And the Parliament too, who have taken us to do  
And have handled us with so much terror,  
May chance on that score ('tis no time to say more)  
They may chance to acknowledge their error.  
If any man yet shall have so little Wit  
As still to be refractory,  
I swear by the Mass, he is a mere Ass,  
And so there's an end of a Story.   

A Continuation of the Catholic Ballad inviting to Popery; Upon the best Grounds and Reasons, that could ever yet be produced. To an excellent Tune, called, The Powder-plot.  
FRom Infallible Rome, once more I am come,  
With a Budget of Catholic Ware,  
Shall dazzle your Eyes, and your Fancies surprise,  
To embrace a Religion so rare.  
Oh! the Love and good Will, of his Holiness still,  
What will he not do for to save ye:  
If such Pains and such Art, cannot you Convert,  
'Tis pity but Old Nick should have ye.  
Now our Priests are run down, and our jesuits aground  
And their Arguments all prove invalid:  
See here he hath got, an unheard of New-plot,  
To Proselyte you with a Ballad.  
Then lay by your Jeers, and prick up your Ears,  
Whilst I unto you do display,  
The advantage and worth, the Truth and so forth  
Of the Roman Catholic way.  
If you did but behold the Faith and the Gold,  
Of which Holy Church is possessed;  
You would never more stray, in the Heretical way,  
But fly to her Lap to be blest.  
The Pope is the Head, and doth Peter succeed,  
(Pray come away faster and faster)  
He succeeds him 'tis true, but would you know how,  
'tis only in denying his Master.  
He's Infallible too, what need more ado,  
And ever hath Truth in possession:  
For though once Mob joan, Ascended the Throne,  
The same was no breach of Succession.  
Our Church and no other, is the Reverend Mother  
Of Christians throughout the whole Earth;  
Though Older they be, perhaps far than she,  
Yet they must owe unto Her their Birth.  
Our Faith is so great, so sound and complete,  
It scorneth both Scripture and Reason;  
And builds on Tradition, sometimes Superstition,  
And ofttimes Rebellion and Treason.  
Our strict Purity, is plain to each eye,  
That Catholic Countries view;  
For there to suppress, the sins of the Flesh,  
Sodomy is in use; and the Stews.  
Our Zeal has been felt, wherever we dwelled,  
On all that our Doctrine deny:  
If we have a Suspicion, we make Inquisition,  
And strait the poor Heretics fry.  
In vain they may plead, or their Scriptures read,  
We value them all not a Pin:  
The best Argument, that we can invent,  
Is with Fire and Sword to begin.  
A most Godly way, whatever they say,  
Since it their Salvation obtains,  
Makes them Orthodox, with blows and with knocks,  
And hammers Faith into their Brains.  
A God we can make, of a thin Wafer-Cake,  
And eat him up when we have done:  
But a Drop of the Cup, Laymen must not sup,  
For the Priest guzles that all alone.  
We have terrible Bulls, and Pardons for Gulls,  
Holy Water to Scarecrow the Devil;  
With Consecrate Swords, take them on our words,  
They shall make the Great Turk be civil.  
We have Saints great store, and Miracles more,  
With Martyrs a great many from Tyburn;  
Pretty Nuns that dwell, mewed up in a Cell,  
As chaste as Nightwalkers of Holbourn.  
We have Holy Blood, we have Holy Wood,  
A Ship-load, or some such matter:  
We have Holy Bones, and some Holy Stones,  
Would make an old Lady's Chaps water.  
We have Holy Men, seen but now and then,  
Monks, Abbots, and Capuchin Friars,  
With Merits so great, they can buy one a Seat  
In Heaven, or else they are Liars.  
Then all you that would sure Salvation procure,  
And yet still live as you list;  
Do but mutter and pray, and say as we say,  
And your Catholics good as e'er P—.  
We are brisk and free, and always agree,  
Allowing ourselves to be jolly;  
And the Puritan Tricks, of dull Heretics.  
We count but Fanatical Folly.  
Swearing and Whoring, Drinking and Roaring,  
All those are but Venial Transgressions:  
The Murdering of Kings, and such petty things,  
Are easily Absolved in Confession.  
A little short Penance, doth wipe away Sin,  
And there's an end of all trouble;  
Which having dispatched, you may fall to't again,  
And safely your Wickedness double.  
Bring a good round Sum, Sins past and to come,  
Shall presently be forgiven;  
But this you must know, before you do go,  
The Excize runs high upon Heaven.  
For we have the Price, of every Vice,  
assessest at a certain Rate;  
So near at a word, we do them afford,  
Not a Penny thereof we can bate.  
But if you're content, a while to be penned,  
And in Purgatory purged;  
A smaller Spell, shall preserve you from Hell,  
And keep you from being scourged.  
Though you have lived a Devil, in all kind of Evil  
Bequeath but a Monastery,  
And Angels your Soul, without Control,  
To Abraham's Bosom shall Carry.  
Nor need you to fear, who have bought Lands dear  
That were Holy Churches before;  
We'll lend them for life, but for your Soul's health  
At your Death you must them restore.  
Thus Popery, you see, will kindly agree,  
If you will it but embrace.  
But if you delay, there's somany i'th' way,  
That you will hardly get a good place.  
The Critical Time, is now in the prime,  
See how Holy Mother does smile,  
And spreading her Arms, to preserve you from harms,  
So gladly would you Reconcile.  
To which purpose behold, do but tell out your Gold,  
And all things in readiness be;  
For the next Year, His Holiness (we hear)  
Doth intend a Jubilee.  
You that Pardons would have, or Indulgence crave,  
To ROME, to ROME be trudging,  
And do not contemn, good Advice from a Friend,  
Nor take his Ballad in dudgeon.   

On ROME's Pardons, By the E. of R.  
IF Rome can Pardon Sins, as Romans hold,  
And if those Pardons can be bought and sold,  
It were no Sin, to adore and worship Gold.  
If they can purchase Pardons with a Sum,  
For Sins they may commit in time to come,  
And for Sins past; 'tis very well for Rome.  
At this rate, they are happiest that have most,  
They'll purchase Heaven at their own proper cost:  
Alas, the Poor! all that are so, are lost.  
Whence came this Knack, or when did it begin?  
What Author have they, or who brought it in?  
Did Christ ere keep a Customhouse for Sin?  
Some subtle Devil, without more ado,  
Did certainly this sly Invention brew,  
To gull'em of their Souls and Money too.   

Written by Stephen College, the day before he died.  

Wrongful Imprisonment  
Hurts not the Innocent.   

WHat if I am into a Prison cast,  
By Hellish Combinations am betrayed,  
My Soul is free, although my Body's fast:  
Let them Repent that have this Evil laid,  
And of Eternal Vengeance be afraid;  
Come Racks and Gibbets, can my Body kill,  
My God is with me, and I fear no Ill  
What boots the Clamours of the Giddy Throng?  
What Antidotes against a poisonous Breath?  
What Fence is there against a lying Tongue,  
Sharpened by Hell, to wound a Man to Death?  
Snakes, Vipers, Adders do lurk underneath:  
Say what you will, or never speak at all,  
Our very Prayers (such Wretches) Treason call.  
But Walls and Bars, cannot a Prison make,  
The freeborn Soul enjoys its Liberty;  
These Clods of Earth it may incaptivate,  
Whilst Heavenly Minds are conversant on high,  
Ranging the Fields of Blessed Eternity:  
So let this Bird sing sweetly in my Breast,  
My Conscience clear; a Rush for all the rest.  
What I have done, I did with good Intent,  
To serve my King, my Country, and the Laws,  
Against the Bloody Papists I was bend,  
Cost what it will, I'll ne'er repent my Cause:  
Nor do I fear their Hell-devouring Jaws.  
A Protestant I am, and such I'll die,  
Maugre all Death, and Popish Cruelty.  
But what need I these Protestations make,  
Actions speak Men far better than their Words:  
What e'er I suffer for my Country's sake,  
Not 'Cause I had a Gun, or Horse, or Sword,  
Or that my Heart did Treason ere afford:  
No, 'tis not me (alone) they do intend,  
But Thousands more, to gain their cursed Ends.  
And sure (of this) the World's so well aware  
That here it's needless more for me to say,  
I must conclude; no time have I to spare,  
My winged hours fly too fast away,  
My work (Repentance) must I not delay.  
I'll add my Prayers to God, for England's good,  
And if he please, will seal them with my Blood.  
O blessed God destroy this black Design  
Of Popish Consults; it's in thee we trust,  
Our Eyes are on thee, help, O Lord! in time,  
Thou God of Truth, most merciful and just,  
Do thou defend us, or we perish must:  
Save England Lord, from Popish Cruelty,  
My Country bless, thy will be done on me.  
Man's Life's a Voyage, through a Sea of Tears,  
If he would gain the Heaven of his Rest,  
His Sighs must fill the Sails (whilst some men steers)  
When storms arise, let each Man do his best,  
And cast the Anchor of his hopes (oppressed)  
Till Time, or Death, shall bring us to that Shore,  
Where Time nor Death, shall never be no more.   
Laus Deo: S. C. From my Prison in the Tower, Aug. 15. 1681.  
Amen.   

LONDON's Fatal Fall: Being an ACROSTIC, etc. Written (as a Second Poetical Diversion) the 8 th'. of September, 1666.  

L o! now confused Heaps only stand  
O n what did bear the Glory of the Land.  
N o Stately Places, no Edefices,  
D o now appear: No, here's now none of these,  
O h Cruel Fates! Can ye be so unkind?  
N ot to leave, scarce a Mansion behind.   

L et England then lament, and let her keep  
A dismal day, let every Soul to weep  
T o wash away those Sins, that thus provoke  
E ternal Heavens all-consuming stroke.  
L et Penitential Tears quench out the Fire  
Y et reigning in our Lusts, let that expire.   

E lse we can have no blessed Confidence,  
N or hopes in Heavens merciful Defence.  
G race is the best inducement too to move  
L ove from the God of Mercies, God of Love.  
A sighing Heart becomes this Tragedy,  
N eroes may laugh at it, so must not we.  
D on't soon forget this greatest Accident,  
S ince julius Caesar entered into Kent.   

G reatest of Men or Cities, now ye see  
L ay subject unto Heavens just Decree.  
O let us then be careful to prevent  
R eligiously, such future punishment.  
Y easterday though not thought of, yet ye see   

N othing to day but sad extremity:  
O bdurate Hearts might melt to see a flame,  
W hich made even Bells themselves to do the same.   

B arbarians may weep to see a City  
E steemed so much, destroyed, (Ah pity! pity!)  
C onduits not now, but Gutters, ran with Wine.  
O ils also did unto the like combine.  
M ortality never Men so fast did mow,  
A s the consuming Flames did Houses now.   

T roy's Flames were fatal, What did those begin?  
R ape was the cause of that, and that was Sin.  
A and we have Helen's too too many, that  
God knows, our guilt (I fear) do aggravate.  
I ncontinency's (in our sinful time)  
C all'd by fond Man, a Failing, not a Crime;  
K nowledge by Will is so disfigured,   

S atan now as a Saint is worshipped.  
T hen this it is, (We cannot but confess)  
OH btrudeth Judgements on our happiness.  
R epent then, God will (if we Sinno more)  
Y ield us more Blessings unto those before.    

A QVADRUPLE ACROSTIC on LONDON.  
Lo! what a Chaos this unhappy Fall— L,  
O-nly a dismal sight, and signs of W— O,  
Now Metamorphized, Ovid writeth o— N▪  
Democritus had wept too (doubtless) ha— D  
O-nly Melpomene's the Singer wh— O  
Now each, a Stoic look too putteth o— N.  
L-ends us instead of England's Capital— L.  
O-ffers our Optics objects, Things are s— O  
Not such, not to, but from, Confusio— N.  
D-estiny raised an Object then so sa— D.  
Order my Muse, and best becomes it to— O.  
Nothing but Clouds appear, the Sun is go— N.   

LONDON Anagram, NOLO. DOLO.  

The EXPLICATION.  
THough Now I am unwilling, wOes attend  
Me, so I grieve by fOrce, Let Heaven send  
Such Detriment no more, for nOw I find,  
Grief wilL alONe DepOse the Noblest mind,  
Thus this will highest Spirits subjugate,  
They must (though most unwilling) yield to Fate.   

LONDON's Epitaph.  
HEre lies the Flower (as you may understand)  
Not of a Family, but of a Land;  
A beauteous LADY, Nations did her court,  
And all the World unto her did resort:  
She had a vast Estate (as may appear)  
And many Sisters, but made none her Heir;  
No, She (that they the more might sadly mourn)  
Has all, consumed with her in her URN.  
But from those Ashes all her Sister's cries  
Are, that another PHOENIX yet may rise;  
And all hopes are, Heaven yet will send  
Unto'em such another in the End.    

Upon the Fifth of November.  
HAil happy Hour, wherein that Hellish Plot  
Was found, which, had it prospered, might have shot  
At the Celestial Throne; at whose dread stroke  
Atlas had reeled, and both the Poles had shaken:  
And Tellus (sympathising in the woe)  
Had felt an Ague and a Fever too:  
Hell-Gates had been set open, to make men say,  
Saint Peter's Vicar hath mistake his Key.  
Methinks I see a dismal gloomy Cell,  
The Lobby-Porch and Wicket unto Hell,  
The Devil's Shop, where great had been his Prize,  
Had he prevailed to make his Wares to rise.  
Say, gentle Drawer, were they Casks of Beer?  
Or was old Bacchus turned and firkined there?  
Nay, than the Pope's turned Vintner: Friends, behold  
What mortal liquour's at the Mitre sold!  
Fire-spewing Aetna with good Cause may fear  
That her Distemper springs from too much Beer:  
And old Enceladus may well confess  
That all his Belchings caused by Drunkenness.  
Had wretched Dives begged a Drop of this,  
To allay his heat, the Fool had asked amiss:  
His hapless empiric might have done him wrong,  
'Twould have tormented, not have could his tongue.  
Had Heber's Wife but known this Trick of thine,  
She'd spared her Milk, & given the Captain Wine.  
Strange, sure, had been th' Effects; it would have sped  
Our lawful King, and left the Pope instead.  
Right Drunkenness indeed, which, for a space,  
Steals Man away, and leaves a Beast in's place.  
'T had caused a general intoxication.  
The staggering, nay, the Downfall of the Nation.  
Oh murderous Plot! Posterity shall say,  
His Holiness o're-shoots Caligula.  
The Pope by this and such Designs ('tis plain)  
Out- Babel's Nimrod, and Out-butchers Cain.  
About this time the brave Mounteagle, whose  
Firm Love to his Religion rather chose  
To break the Roman Yoke, than see the Reign  
Of deceased Mary, wheel about again,  
Received a Letter in a dubious sense,  
It seemed a piece of Stygian Eloquence:  
The Characters looked just like conj'ring Spells;  
For this bout Hell here spoke in Parables.  
The Pope's and Devil's Signets were set to't,  
Th' Cloven Mitre and the Cloven Foot.  
But shall our State by an unlooked-for Blow  
Receive a mortal Wound, and yet not know  
The hand that smote her? shall she sigh and cry,  
Like Polyphemus, Out is quenched mine Eye?  
Is England by the angry Fates sad Doom  
Condemned to play at Hot-cockles with Rome?  
No, Man of mysteries, no, we understand  
Thy Gibb'rish, though thou art confounded, and  
Have found thy meaning; Heaven can read thy hand.  
Thus were our Senate like to be betrayed  
By a strange Egg which Peter's Cock had laid:  
For had the servant hatched it, the Device  
Had proved to us a baneful Cockatrice.  
Now like proud Haman being stretched upon  
The heightened Pegs of vain Ambition,  
Above Pride's highest Ela, how he took  
Poor Mordechai's advancement, and could brook  
Hanging, instead of Honouring; that Curse  
Which made him set the Cart before the Horse:  
Just such was Faux, his baffled hopes bequeath  
No comforts now, but thoughts of sudden Death.  
Like Haman's fate, he only could aspire  
To be advanced fifty Cubits higher.  
What Phoebus said to th' Laurel, that sure he  
Said to the Gallows, Thou shalt be my Tree.  
But didst thou think, thou mitred Man of Rome,  
Who bellowest threatenings and thy dreadful Doom,  
And like Perillus roarest in thy Bull  
Curses and Blasphemies a Nation full,  
At one sad stroke to Massacree a Land,  
And make them fall, whom Heaven ordained to stand.  
No, though thy head was fire and thou could turn  
Thy Ten Branched Antler to a Powder-horn;  
Still we are safe, till our transgressions merit  
A Reformation from such a Spirit  
As comes from thence: our Nation need not fear  
Dark Lanterns, whilst God's Candlestick is here.  
The Purple Whore may lay her Mantle by,  
Until our Sins are of a Scarlet-dye.  
Those Horns alone can sound our overthrow,  
And blow us up, which blew down jericho,  
Christ bless this Kingdom from intestine quarrels;  
From Schism in Tubs, and Popery in Barrels.   

The DEVIL pursued: Or, The right Saddle laid upon the right Mare. A satire upon Madam CELLIERS standing in the Pillory, By a Person of Quality.  
ALas! What has this poor Animal done,  
That she stands thus before the rising Sun,  
In all the heats of Infamy and Disgrace,  
The sure Remarks of a bold Brazen-face?  
Truly for no great hurt, nor for much harm;  
Only inventing to spill Royal Blood, to keep it warm;  
Fire Cities, Burn Houses, and Devast Nations;  
Ruin us in all our several Stations.  
But who would think it from the Woman fine,  
A thing whom Nature itself hath made Divine,  
That she should act such horrid barbarous things,  
As to design to stab Statesmen, and to Murder Kings?  
But here she still appears for her ill acts,  
Like second storms after Thunderclaps.  
Philosophers tell us, The best things corrupted are the worst,  
And from their own fine species are ever cursed.  
When once we take to Ill and Vices Road,  
We then paint ourselves much like the Toad;  
Since Vice not only horrid is from the being of Nature,  
But also from the thing itself, and from its own feature.  
Who makes us look at once, and that several ways,  
Like squinting people, from their false Optic Rays.  
This teaches us therefore how a strange a thing is Religion,  
That makes one a Vulture, the other a Raven, and the other a Widgeon;  
To be so very false, in the instructing those  
To commit such horrid acts, and with them close:  
As what is opened and presented here,  
By a Popish Midwife, called Madam Cellier.  
Go to therefore, all ye Papists and Men of the Red Letter,  
Would you but seriously consider of it, yond would do much better  
Than Plot such secret Villainies against the State,  
The direful operations of your ungodly hate.   

On the Murder of Sir EDMONDBURY GODFREY of WESTMINSTER: An hasty POEM.  
O Murder! Murder! let this Shriek fly round,  
Till Hills and Dales, and Rocks and Shores rebound;  
Send it to Heaven and Hell; for both will be  
Astonished and Concerned as much as we.  
First send to Endor where of old did dwell  
An Hag, could Fates of Kings and Kingdoms tell;  
If that cannot be found, to Ekron go,  
To Pluto's Oracle and Hell below.  
There serve this Hue and Cry, for there 'twas hatched,  
(Except the Priests their Gods have overmatched.)  
Methinks Belzebub, if he be outdone  
In his Grand Mysteries; and Rome needs none  
Of his Black Arts, but can Out-Devil Hell,  
His Envy and Revenge this Plot should tell:  
And by disclosing in his own defence,  
Not only vindicate his Innocence,  
But hasten their destruction, and prevent.  
Loss of his Trade, (the Jesuits intent)  
Unless he fears them, as indeed he may;  
When once in Hell, none shall Command but they.  
But if this Tragedy be all his own,  
And Roman Actors (taught by him) have shown  
How they can play all parts he can devise;  
Female or Male, with or without disguise:  
And need no Cacodoemons prompting Art  
Or Whisper, but can fill up any part;  
Fast, Pray and Weep, Swear and Forswear, Decoy,  
Trapan, Kiss, Flatter, Smile, and so Destroy,  
Stab, Pistol, Poison Kings, un-King, de-Throne,  
Blow up or down, Save, Damn, make all their own.  
Knows not he then, tho' Founder of the Stage,  
The Laws of Theatres in every Age.  
That th' Actors, not the Author of the Play,  
Do challenge the Rewards of the first day.  
Make then their names renowned, and come to hide  
Such Children of thy Revels and thy Pride;  
Send to their Father, and thy eldest Son  
That Lucifer of Rome, what feats they've done:  
That he may make their names be understood,  
Written in Calendars of Martyrs Blood.  
But if the Fiends below be Deaf and Dumb,  
And this Conjuring cannot overcome;  
They and their Imps be damned together: I  
To Gods on Earth will send my Hue and Cry.  
Arise Just Charles, Three Kingdoms Soul and mine,  
Great james thy Grandfather could well divine;  
And without Spell the bloody Riddle Spell,  
Writ by like Secretaries of Rome and Hell.  
And if Thy Proclamation cannot do,  
We pray God's Spirit may inspire Thee too.  
If Thy Prophetic Usher did not err,  
The Mass would enter by a Massacre.  
The Wounds Thy Godfrey found were meant for Thee,  
And Thou liest Murdered in Effigy.  
In God's Kings Kingdoms Cause this Knight was slain,  
Let him a Noble Monument obtain;  
Erected in your Westminster's great Hall,  
That Courts of Justice may lament his Fall:  
And may (when any Papist cometh near)  
His Marble Statue yield a bloody tear.  
Yet let him not be buried, let him lie,  
The fairest Image to draw Justice by.  
There needs no Balm or Spices to preserve  
The Corpse from Stench, his Innocence will serve.  
Ye Lords and Commons join your speedy Votes,  
A Pack of Bloodhounds threaten all your Throats.  
And if their Treason be not understood,  
Expect to be Dissolved in your own Blood.  
O Vote that every Papist (high and low)  
To Martyred Godfry's Corpse in person go;  
And laying hand upon his wounded Breast,  
By Oath and Curse his ignorance protest.  
But Oh the Atheism of that Monstrous Crew,  
Whose Holy Father can all Bonds undo:  
Whose Breath can put away the heavi'st Oath;  
Who fears no Heaven nor Hell, but laughs at both  
Therefore a safer Vote my Muse suggests,  
For Priests and jesuits can swallow Tests  
As Hocus Pocus doth his Rope or Knife,  
And cheats the gaping Farmer and his Wife.  
Oh Vote each Signpost shall a Gibbet be,  
And hang a Traitor upon every Tree.  
Yet we'll find Wood enough for Bone-fire-piles,  
T' enlighten and inflame our British Isles  
Upon the approaching Fifth November night,  
And make Incendiaries curse the light.  
November Fires Septembers may reveal,  
One Burn (we say) another Burn will heal.  
Lastly, And surely, let this Hue and Cry  
Reach Heaven, where every Star looks like an Eye  
To that High Court of Parliament above,  
Whose Laws are mixed with Justice and with Love;  
Whither Just Godfry's Souls already come,  
And hath received the Crown of Martyrdom;  
Where Murdered Kings and slaughtered Saints do cry,  
Their Blood may never unrevenged lie.  
Ye Saints and Angels hate that Scarlet Whore,  
Whose Priests and Brats before your Shrines adore,  
And in their Massacres your Aid implore:  
Staining your Altars with the precious Gore:  
Pour down your Vials on their Cursed heads,  
And in Eternal flames prepare their Beds.  
And Thou Judge Jesus Hanged and Murdered too,  
By Power of Rome and Malice of the jew,  
In Godfry's Wounds Thine own to bleed anew.  
Oh Rend Thy Heavens! Come Lord and take Thy Throne,  
Revenge Thy Martyrs and Thine own.   

The Loyal Protestants New LITANY.  

FRom the Romish Whore with her Triple Crown,  
From the Plot she hath hatched, and her Babes now disown,  
Though they died with a Lie in their Mouth is well known.  
Libra nos Domine.   

From such as presume to speak ill of Queen Bess,  
From a Popish Midwife in a Sanctified Dress,  
Adorned with a Wooden Ruff for a Crest.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From judas the Purse-bearers Protestant face,  
From any more of his Machiavelli race,  
That henceforth may ever succeed in his place.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From a Doctor that durst prepare such a Dose  
That would take a Protestant Prince by the Nose,  
(Although it be spoken under the Rose.)  
Libra nos, etc.   

From a Papist that Curses the Catholic Whore,  
Although in his Heart he the same do adore,  
And still his contriving more Plots than before.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From a Jesuit dressed up in Masquerade,  
That understands his Bloodthirsty Trade,  
That can neither by Justice or Mercy be laid.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From Bumpkin and Citt that at random do range;  
And for a Sham-Plot do true honesty change,  
Though come off by the LEE, methinks it is STRANGE.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From such a hard Fortune as barely to write  
But only for Bred from Morning till Night;  
That would more than a Crack-farts Courage affright.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From those that Sedition do daily invent  
To render a breach and gross discontent  
Betwixt our Great King and Loyal Parliament.  
Libra nos, etc.   

From such as do daily possess us with fears,  
And yet at the same do prick up their ears,  
Which care not which Course our Council now steers.  
Libra nos, etc.   

That the Rhomish Whore may be stripped of her dress,  
And cast in the Pit that is called Bottomless;  
That her Plots, Loyal Subjects no more distress.  
Quesimus te Domine.   

That Queen Bess' Enemies run the same Fate  
As lately they did in the last Eighty Eight,  
May never one want to peep through a Grate.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That the Purse-bearer judas his Protestant face  
May never resume his former high place,  
Except for to fall in Eternal Disgrace.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That the Doctor beyond Sea in spite of his skill,  
May never return, but keep close there still;  
Or else may he die by his own Poisonous Pill.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That Popish Cur in honest disguise,  
That Curses us all before he do rise,  
May his Plots be confounded though never so wise.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That such whose hands are still dipped in Blood,  
And intent to make second Noah's Flood,  
That all such may perish, and all of their Brood.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That such as do render the Plot for a Fable,  
And make it the talk of each Coffee-house Table;  
To enter Heaven Gates may they never be able.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That such as are forced to write but for bread,  
May be by the daily Providence fed,  
Much rather than those who will Plot till they're dead.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That Seditious Spirits may now be suppressed,  
And that in true earnest, not only in Jest,  
That such may never more feather their Nest.  
Quesimus, etc.   

That those who do daily possess us with fears,  
May fall themselves together by th' Ears;  
And quit us all from that Cloud which appears.  
Quesimus te Domine.    

The JESUIT Ierked: A satire.  
AScend, Allecto, from thy Den, and come  
Just as thou look'st in that Infernal Home,  
Hell, Fury, Fire, my Fancy, for I have  
More Cause than Poet e'er had yet, to Rave:  
Thou art my Muse, thy Snakes my Laurels are,  
Inspired by thee, I'll Rome's Intrigues declare:  
Then to thy intermitted Task retire,  
And pay the jesuits their Arrears of Fire.  
A jesunt old Satan's Envoy is,  
Sent to succeed the Snake of Paradise;  
For when the fatal stroke of Adam's Loss,  
Was healed by the Great Theanthropos,  
And that first Argument of Hellish Power,  
Was quite Confuted by a Saviour:  
Then baffled Lucifer no answer had,  
Till he a jesuit his rejoinder made,  
By whom he hopes completely to renew  
The Battle, and once more Mankind undo;  
Plotting his Old Dominion to make good  
By false Implicit Faith, or Fire and Blood:  
That catches Fools, and These destroy the Wise,  
Thus all Mankind are equally his Prize.  
" Shut your Eyes close, believe me, and you'll see,  
" Th' Ignatian cries the way t' Eternity:  
" Deny all Reason, misbelieve your Sense,  
" Church cannot err, be that your Confidence:  
" Pin on your Sleeve your Faith, and tho' you're blind,  
" Take but fast hold, and follow us behind;  
" Our open Eyes the way for both will find.  
This Wine and Wafer now are common Food,  
But a few words shall make 'em Flesh and Blood;  
And though they still the self same things appear,  
Yet is Christ's very Blood and Body here:  
Such plain Impostures, such bold Cheats as these,  
Can surely none but Fools or Madmen please.  
The Snake of Paradise played fairer far  
With Adam's Wife, and more upon the square;  
He called an Apple, Apple, bid her see  
How fair the Fruit, desirable the Tree:  
The Iesuits tricks would ne'er have ta'en with Eve,  
She saw and felt before she did believe:  
Besides he told her that 'twould make her wise,  
But these the grossest ignorance advise.  
And thus we lose ourselves b' a greater cheat,  
Than what the Devil used in Eve's Defeat:  
Thus we our Sense and Reason lay aside,  
To take an Old Ambitious Pope for Guide.  
Thus we turn Stocks and Idiots, and then  
Become good Cath'licks, ceasing to be Men;  
As if the only way to save our Souls,  
Were to be easy Slaves, or senseless Fools.  
To all this fond Credulity we're hurled,  
By slavish fears about a burning World;  
So (to be sure) to feel no torment there,  
First strip ourselves of all our senses here.  
Now my Allecto, let's advance and view  
The frauds that lurk under Religious show;  
For though to Heaven their fair pretences swell,  
The root lies deep and dark, as is thy Cell:  
No Heathen Lawgiver, no Pagan Priest,  
Could e'er with such mysterious Wiles infest  
The superstitious Multitude, for they  
Are still most apt to fear they know not why;  
No Cabalist of State could e'er trapan  
With such firm subtilety as Rome's Divan.  
And First, lest Holy Church should chance to float  
Without a last Appeal in endless doubt;  
You must with dumb Obedience still repair  
Unto Rome's Holy Apostolic Chair,  
That, that's Infallible and cannot err.  
This bold Assumption keeps more in awe,  
Than Numa with his feigned Egeria;  
For though it seems at point of Faith to aim,  
'Tis to be uncontroulibly Supreme,  
Get universal Def'rence, and Create  
A close dependence on the Roman Seat:  
Branding on all damnable Heresy,  
That dare oppose the Apostolic See,  
Or Rome's Political Divinity.  
Rome's Doctrine is a secular Device,  
Mere trick of State in reverend Disguise,  
Th' Ambitious Spawn of latter Centuries.  
And tho' it proudly boast an ancient Line  
From Peter, 'tis of basest Origine;  
A Priestly Brat, by them Engendered on  
Ignorance, Fear, and Superstition;  
These three completely make the Triple Crown,  
And still support Old Rome's Imperial Throne.  
How slily do the Priests by help of these  
Make Men believe, and then do what they please;  
How solemnly they dazzle vulgar Eyes  
With fine mysterious Holy Vanities:  
Whose Ceremonious Pomp strikes awful dread  
In Fools that by their Eyes and Ears are led:  
But should I here endeavour to declare  
The numerous Gimcracks of the Romish Fair,  
Their mystic Idols, consecrated Baubles,  
Feigned Miracles, and monstrous Holy Fables;  
How dead Saints Relics cure the Gout and Ptisick,  
And are like Egypt's Mummy, used for Physic.  
How they can scare the Devil with a stench,  
As young Tobias did to get the Wench.  
In telling this I might as tedious be,  
As the return of their next Jubilee;  
But these are petty Trifles, petty Toys,  
Tricks to catch Women, gaping Fools, and Boys;  
They have devices of a larger Size,  
Traps to ensnare the Wary and the Wise.  
And if you chance to boggle at the Bait,  
They curse, and cry Damnation be your Fate,  
And then you swallow it at any rate.  
Oh! what a melancholy dismal Story  
They roar in dying Ears of Purgatory;  
That rather than the affrighted Wretch will burn  
So long, he'll all his Gold to Masses turn.  
Thus Ecclesiastic Chemists (you'd admire)  
Make real Gold by a fictitious Fire.  
Next extreme Unction comes from whence the Priest  
Gets the most good by greasing in the Fist;  
But of all cheats that necessary are  
Unto Salvation, Auricular  
Confession bears the Bell, and seems to me  
Next to Infallible Supremacy.  
It wears a Holy Veil, but underneath  
Is Shame and Slavery far worse than Death:  
The Priest may tyrannize without Control,  
That knows the guilty secret of the Soul.  
So when the Gentle Sex Confession makes  
That they have often sinned upon their Backs,  
How easily the Priest comes in for snacks,  
And shrieves the pretty Pen'tent Alamode,  
No trick like a jure Divino Fraud.  
Thus are their chiefest Doctrines plain Device,  
Pimp to their Pride, their Lust and Avarice?  
In Holy Apostolical Disguise.  
In short, the whole mysterious Cheat doth lie,  
In Superstition and Idolatry,  
Two Spurious Graffs  
Set in the Tree of Life, Religion,  
By whose luxurious Branches 'tis o'ergrown  
To such a monstrous Disproportion;  
That first the Planters would it quite disown.  
Religion like a modest Rural Maid,  
No artificial Dress, no Fucus had,  
But was in Native Innocency clad.  
Till in Rome's Court she ceased to be such,  
Thence sprang her Infamy and first Debauch;  
There laying plain simplicity aside,  
She grew to lazy Wantonness and Pride:  
Yet still some modesty confined her home,  
Nor rambled she beyond the Walls of Rome;  
Till proud of her successful Charms, she grew  
Ambitious greatest Monarches to subdue.  
So by deceitful Arts she enlarged her Power,  
And made them Slaves that she had served before:  
Than wisely some the Vassalage forsook,  
Others repined, as weary of the Yoke;  
She jealous lest her Universal Sway  
Should lessen, and her former Fain decay;  
Mongst others, did the Schoolmens Pen employ  
To vindicate her Truth and Honesty,  
(Schoolmen who ransack Sciences and Arts,  
To prove with pains that they are Fools of parts)  
So these her Honour justified in Words,  
As Bully jesuits Plot to do with Swords;  
But both in vain, for 'tis concluded on,  
Their Mistress is the Whore of Babylon.  
Shift, shift the Scene, Allecto, Fury, Fiend,  
Wake all thy Snakes and make this Tragic End;  
By Hellish Art raise up in dark Cabal,  
The Pope, a jesuit, and Cardinal:  
Thyself place in the middle raving Wood,  
With Poisons, Pistols, Daggers, Fire and Blood.  
Now let this Scene start into sudden sight,  
By gloomy Flashes of sulphureous Light;  
There let his Holiness' Face appear,  
Full of deep Counsel, weighty thought, and care,  
Whilst each of you in awful silence hears  
The sacred Oracle with humble Ears.  
Was it for this my ample Power was given,  
For this have I the Keys of Hell and Heaven?  
In Vain I boast of a Supremacy,  
And call my Chair the Universal See:  
A little Nest of Heretics cut off  
From Europe's Earth, at all my power doth laugh  
Who though they kindly could decline to be  
A Bar to balance gallic Tyranny,  
Yet still oppose my Holy Monarchy.  
False Agents Heartless Traitors, have you  
So often swore by Sacramental Vow,  
Or to Convert this Island, or undo?  
Was your Commission scant, did I deny  
Plenipotentiary Villainy?  
Have not I nulled Divine and Humane Laws,  
That without Let, you might promote the Cause  
Heaven's Laws, though fixed by an Eternal Seal,  
Stoop and are liable to my Repeal.  
Moses once broke these Tables, often I,  
Not to prevent, but fix Idolatry.  
Thus had your large Commission no restraint,  
Nor did you Apostolic Blessing want;  
Nay more the blackest Crimes in you were Merit,  
For which all others endless Flames inherit:  
So Treasons, Murders, Perjuries, became  
Sure Monuments of your Eternal Fame;  
So Nature's Course was changed, yet nothing's done  
T' Advance the Catholic Religion.  
Be gone, Slave, fly, Delude with crafty Words,  
If they prove vain, use Poison, Fire, and Swords;  
Make better work on't, or I swear by th' Mass,  
And the Divinity of Holy Cross—  
These chance unlucky Words broke all the Spell,  
They vanished, and Allecto sunk to Hell.   

On the Murder of Sir EDMONDBURY GOD FREY.  
ARe these the Pope's Grand Tools?  
Worshipful Noddies! Who but blundering Fools  
Would ever have forgot  
To Burn those Letters that revealed their Plot?  
Or in an Alehouse told that Godfrey's Dead,  
Three Days before he was Discovered;  
Leaving the silly World to call to mind  
That Common Logic, They that hide can find?  
But see their Master Policy on Primrose Hill,  
Where their great Enemy  
Like Saul upon Mount Gilboa doth lie,  
Fallen on his Sword, as if he himself did Kill.  
But oh, the Infelicity!  
That Blood was fresh, and gushed out of the wound,  
This so congealed that not one spot was found:  
No, not upon his Sword, as if it would  
Tell us 'twas guiltless of its Master's Blood;  
Some Carcases by bleeding do declare,  
This by not bleeding, shows the Murderer.  
But to its broken Neck I pray  
What can our Politicians say?  
He Hanged, then stabbed himself, for a sure way.  
Or first he stabbed himself, than wrung about  
His Head for madness, that advised him to't;  
Well Primrose, may our Godfrey's Name on thee  
(Like Hyacinth) inscribed be:  
On thee his Memory shall flourish still,  
(Sweet as thy Flower, and lasting as thy Hill;)  
Whilst blushing Somerset to her  
Eternal shame, shall this Inscription bear:  
The Devil's an Ass, for Jesuits on this spot  
Broke both the Neck of Godfrey, & their Plot.   

A Passionate satire upon a Devilish Great He-Whore that lives yonder at ROME.  
A Pox on the Pope, with his damned bald Pate,  
What a stir hath this Toad made here of late;  
Such a Noise and a horrible Clamour  
Is here with this Whore, a Plague of God on her.  
Must the Kingdom and State be at a loss,  
Leave their sweet Peace to lie under a Cross?  
Must Church and Churchmen be exposed to scorns,  
Tossed up and down by a Beast with Ten Horns?  
Must Christians that know no more but one God,  
Worship Ten Thousand, or be scourged with a Rod?  
Must Beads, and a Cross, and a Relic from jone,  
Make us fall down to Prayers right or wrong?  
Must Hobgoblin Mass, that's learned of Old-Nick,  
Compliment God for the Well and the Sick?  
Must Water blessed by a Conjuring Monk,  
Scour away Sins from a Pockyfied Punk?  
Must Souls be prayed out, the Devil hath got,  
At so much per Mass, else there they must rot?  
Must Sinners be saved by Old Sinning Gulls?  
I'll ne'er beg your Pardon, those are damned Bulls.  
Must We, Canibal-like, eat up our God,  
Or else must We not in Heaven have abode?  
Must Fire and Wood burn all that won't bow,  
Worship S. Doll, and the Devil knows who?  
Must Ignorance be our Guide to Glory,  
Then Heaven I'm sure is but an Old Story.  
Must all Men be blind that open their Eyes,  
That Priests may do what they please with their Wives?  
Must kill of Kings, and Princes to boot  
Be Marks that the Pope is sound at the Root?  
Must a Conclave of Rogues, and Jesuit Priests,  
Persuade all the World to Worship the Beast?  
Must the Pope order all by Sea and by Land,  
Who must turn out, and who is to 〈◊〉  
Must those be entrusted that swear and receive  
What e'er you impose, that they may deceive?  
Must judas be saved that eat of the Sop?  
No, by the Mass, he deserved the Rope:  
Must such be employed at Sea and at Shore,  
That would subvert all to set up the Whore?  
Must those be good that designed to seem such?  
Who in Parliament time subscribed to the Church:  
Must We all be undone by a damned Popish Crew,  
Some that is about us, and some We ne'er knew?  
Must the King and his Friends see and know this,  
And yet be advised that nothing's amiss?  
Must this be the Trap, than the Devil take it,  
Our Hogs We've brought to a blessed Market.   

Upon the Execution of the late Viscount STAFFORD.  

I.  
SHall every Jack and every Jill,  
That rides in State up Holbourn Hill  
By aid of Smithfield Rhymes defy  
The Malice of Mortality?  
And shall Lord Stafford die forgot?  
He that would needs be such a Sot,  
To die for love of a damned Plot?  
No, Viscount, no; believe it not.   

II.  
Diana's Temple, all in flame,  
Advanced th' Incendiaries Name;  
Ruffians, and Bawds, and Whores, and Theives,  
In Ballad Records live new lives:  
And shall a Lord because a Traitor,  
In such an Age so given to flatter,  
Want that which others, Saints to him,  
ne'er want to fame them, Words, and Rhyme.   

III.  
Oh Sir! the Papishes, you know  
Have much more gratitude than so;  
For this same Lord that broke the Laws  
Of God and Man, to serve their Cause,  
Shall live in Pravers, and Almanacs  
Beyond what Ballad-Monger makes;  
And some Years hence, you'll see, shall work  
Such Miracles, would turn a Turk.   

IV.  
Blessed is that Man that has a Box  
To save the Sawdust in, that soaks  
His tainted Blood, or can besmear  
One corner of his Muckender:  
Oh! then, some Ages hence they'll cry  
Lo, Stafford's Blood, and shed for why?  
For nothing but because he sought  
To kill his Prince, and shame the Plot.   

V.  
Now they that die for crimes like these,  
The Papists send to Heaven with case:  
For they secure 'em safe from Hell,  
Which once believed, the rest is well.  
A strange Belief, that Men should think  
That were not drunk with worse than Drink;  
That such Rewards as Deifying,  
By Treason should begained and Lying.   

VI  
The Man that for Religion dies,  
Has nothing more before his Eyes:  
But he that dies a Criminal,  
Dies with a load, and none can call  
Religion that which makes him dream,  
Obduracy can hide his shame.   

VII.  
The Pope may do what he Conjectures  
As to the business of his Pictures,  
The Colours ne'er can hide the Crimes,  
Stories will read to after Times.  
And 'twill be found in the Hangman's Hands,  
Will strangely blur the Pope's Commands.   

VIII.  
Had he but showed some Christmas Gambles,  
And Headless took St. Denis Rambles:  
The Plot had been a damnable thing,  
And down had gone the Scaffolding;  
But 'cause his Lordship this forgot,  
Men still believe there is a Plot.   

IX.  
Where was St. Dominick asleep?  
Where did St. Frank his Kennel keep?  
That on a business so emergen,  
They did not brisly tease the Virgin?  
To let his Lordship play a Prank  
Her Grace becoming, and his Rank?   

X.  
But they that Heaven and Earth Command,  
You see sometimes they're at a stand;  
For truth to tell ye, should the Saints  
Be bound to hear all Fools complaints;  
Their Lives would be as void of mirth  
In Heaven, as formerly on Earth.   

XI.  
Now Ballad-wise before he's dead,  
To tell ye what the Sufferer said;  
He both defended, and gainsaid,  
Held up his hands and cried, and prayed,  
And swore he ne'er was in the Plot,  
No, by his Vicountship. God wot.   

XII.  
Come, come, Sir, had it not been better  
To have died to Death common Debtor?  
And that upon your lasting Stone,  
This Character had been alone?  
Here lies a very Honest Lord,  
True to his King, true to his Word.   

XIII.  
But those of your Religion,  
Are now a days so damned high flown,  
You think that nothing makes a Saint  
But Plot refined, and Treason Acquaint;  
And Heaven accepts no Offerings,  
But Ruined Kingdoms, Murdered Kings.   

XIV.  
Now you that knew who were his Judges,  
Who found him Guilty without grudges,  
Who gave him over to the Block,  
And how he shamed to save the stroke,  
If you believe the Speech he made ye,  
Le'strange, and P— ton's shame degrade ye.   

XV.  
Thus used all Arts that could cajole,  
You may be sure, his silly Soul;  
And were those promises performed,  
With which his Conscience they had charmed,  
Who would betray a Cursed Plot,  
To be when Dead, the Lord knows what?   

XVI.  
But if those jolly Promises  
Do send thee into Little Ease,  
As certainly they must undo thee,  
What ever Fools and Knaves said to thee;  
Then Phlegeus like in Hell condole,  
And Curse them that betrayed thy Soul.   

XVII.  
Now God preserve our Noble King,  
And bless all them that thus did bring  
Unto the Block that silly Head,  
That cared not what it did or said.  
And all good Men may Heaven defend,  
From such a vile untimely End.    

The Lord STAFFORD's Ghost, etc.  
FRom Stygian shade, lo, my pale Ghost doth rise,  
To visit Earth, and these sublunar Skies;  
For some few moments I'm in Mercy sent,  
To bid my Fellow-Traytors to Repent:  
Repent before you taste of Horrid Fate,  
Your Gild confess, before it be too late.  
I am not here arrived on Earth, to tell  
The hidden secrets that belong to Hell:  
Nor am I sent to publish or declare▪  
Who are torments, whom tormented there.  
For now I know that it is Heaven's decree,  
These things to Mortals still shall secrets be;  
Who have fantastic Dreams, and nothing know,  
Of what is done above, or yet below:  
But I have seen with my Immortal Eyes,  
Things that with horror do my Soul surprise;  
Too late alas! too late, I see my Sin,  
With strange Chimaeras I've deluded been,  
By a cursed brood, who sounded in my Ear,  
Dye obstinate, no Chains of Conscience fear:  
Upon us firmly let your Faith be built,  
We can and do Absolve you from your Gild;  
And after this, you need no more Repent,  
For you a Martyr die, and Innocent.  
O Cursed Men! who on Wretches thus Intrude,  
And thus poor Souls, Eternally delude:  
Whilst they believe what these deluders say,  
Life is snatched from them, and they drop away;  
And falling down, by Charon Death they're hurled  
Into the Mansions of a dismal World,  
Where Conscience stands, and stairs them in the face,  
Showing a Table of Eternal Brass:  
In which in noted Characters are wrote  
Their whole life's crimes, which living they forgot.  
With Conscience these have an Eternal strife,  
And Curse the vain delusive Dreams of Life:  
With torment now their crimes read o'er and o'er,  
And waking, see they did but Dream before:  
Too late, and than too late, what Plague is worse?  
They see their folly, and themselves they Curse;  
They Curse themselves, because they did believe,  
And doubtly Curse those who did them deceive.  
When to the fatal Scaffold I was brought,  
I said, and did what I was bid, and laughed,  
Tho' Conscience said, I did not what I ought.  
Stoutly the Gild, as I was bid, denied,  
And for the Cause, I Rome's great Martyr died.  
I that Religion then esteemed good,  
And gladly would have sealed it with my Blood,  
Because I then no better understood.  
Let not the World to vain delusions fly,  
I did for Treason, not Religion, die.  
Tho' on the Scaffold I would not confess,  
My Ghost, alas! too late can do no less.  
Let all Complotters warning take by me,  
The World we may delude, but God doth see;  
Tho' what we did should never come to light,  
It can't be hid from the Almighty's sight:  
Give God the Glory, and confess your Crime,  
Confess your horrid Treason while you've time;  
Public Confession shows you do Repent,  
And is the best way to grow Innocent.  
I see too late, I have been led astray,  
And by Error, far from Truth, was led away;  
For that Religion never can be good,  
That would erect itself by Humane Blood.  
I pined myself upon another's sleeve,  
And blindly I did as the Church believe;  
What my delusive Guides did bid me do,  
That I believed was Holy, Just, and True.  
With Zeal I acted, and hoped for Applause,  
Of Men and Heaven, in so good a Cause:  
But Oh! I sigh, and now my Airy Ghost,  
Shivers to think what Blessings I have lost:  
The broadway to Destruction than I took,  
And Virtues Road my blinded Zeal mistake.  
But you my Friends, who yet are left behind,  
Now to yourselves, and to your Souls be kind;  
Open her Eyes, and be no longer blind,  
Pry my sad End, do you your Errors find.  
Confess your Crimes before it be too late,  
Confess, confess, before you yield to Fate:  
Before from Life, and from the World you go,  
Before that you descend to Shades below,  
Before your Souls taste of Eternal Woe.  
Truth cannot Die, it stronger is than Death,  
Remains when Mortals have resigned their breath;  
To amazed Souls with Conscience she appears,  
To aggravate, and to increase their fears.  
Confess her while you live, though drawn to Sin,  
Repentance with Confession doth begin.  
Believe no longer that accursed Brood,  
Who on the Necks of Kings have proudly trod,  
Nor him who thinks himself an Earthly God.  
Those Hectoring Jesuits who so Zealous be,  
Who think to Rule the World by Policy;  
Who to the Gallows seem with joy to come,  
To be the Martyrs, and the Raints of Rome.  
When Life is fled, and they are gone from hence,  
In tumbling down are waked into Sense;  
Where all amazed, and wondering where they've been,  
They howl, and cry, and wish to Die again.  
Beware I say, be fooled no longer here,  
For Rhadamanthus is a Judge severe.  
Hark! I am called, I must descend below,  
But let me Prophesy before I go:  
See the bright Star which o'er your Heads doth shine,  
I can as well as Gadbury Divine;  
What the bright stream of Radiant Light doth mean,  
Which every Night so frequently is seen.  
Hear me, O Rome! though in your Cause I died,  
Nigh is the setting of your Pomp and Pride:  
That Star doth show, that day is near at hand,  
That Rome no longer shall the world command,  
And many Years it hath not now to stand.  
By that bright stream, which still points to the East,  
The Everlasting Gospel's Light's expressed:  
Which just is breaking forth, and doth bespeak,  
That its most Glorious Day's about to break;  
When Peace, and Truth, and Righteousness shall stand,  
Everlasting Pillars set in every Land,  
And Christ in Power alone the world command.  
Then shall the world shine with Eternal Glory,  
And Perhaps, may then leave PURGATORY.   

The Ghosts of Edward Fitz Harris, and Oliver Plunket, who were Executed at Tyburn for High Treason, etc.  Fitz Harirs. 
I Groan and Languish to Relate  
My Country's present Case and State,  
Which now lies under pressures great.  
I have been in my time a Thing,  
That would have done aught against the King,  
Whereby I Popery in might bring.  
I Boggled not sham's to devise,  
Whereby to charge upon (with Lies)  
The Presbyterians Plotting Guise.  
Tho' they in Truth for aught I knew,  
Had naught under design or view  
But what was Loyal, Just, and True.  
In order this Sham-Plot to vent,  
I a damned Libel did invent,  
against both the King and Government.  Plunket. 
Tush, Fellow Martyr, Tush I say,  
You do what misbecomes your way,  
Rome's Plottings if you do betray.  
For what Man ever think you, got  
A Pardon for being in the Plot,  
That to the last denied it not?  
Or ever heard you was there one  
That was o'th' Roman Church a Son,  
But went on as he had begun?  
D'ye think you ever saved shall be,  
If you retract not what you say,  
And Holy Church don't justify?  
I as a Priest pronounce you damned,  
You shall be into Hell now Crammed,  
If you persist in things forenamed.  
And there in endless Torments lie,  
Whilst all our Rogueries I deny,  
And thereby into Heaven fly.  Fitz. 
If Heaven Sir, you think to win,  
By persevering in known Sin,  
You will I doubt fall into th' Gin.  
For if one Crime that unrepented  
Be damnable, how you've prevented  
Your Fate I know not, but contented  
Am, that you should a Papist dye,  
And so by telling many a lie,  
To Heaven reach, but I, Poor I,  
Will make a free and true discovery  
Of what I know at large or by  
Of this vile Plot which I decry;  
Most Heartily confessing, that  
I truly sorry am, for what  
I 've done, t'advance the Romish Plot.  
For now at last I plainly see  
Rome's Religion's damned Heresy  
Kept up, and carried on by Cursed Cruelty.  
For else how comes it pray about,  
Our Friends toth' Cause have been so stout  
Tothth' very last, to brave it out?  
I wonder how you durst presume,  
God's Sacred Name in Mouth t'assume,  
To justify your Lies, and Rome.  
And thereby weakly to keep up  
The Credit of your damned Pope,  
though't cost you Hell for't, and a Rope.  
I do confess I justly die  
For serving you and Popery,  
In Villainies I Blush to say.  
My Judges freely I forgive,  
Being one no way deserved to Live,  
No, nor the grace of a Reprieve.  
'Twas favour great indeed, I think,  
For th' King to give me, on the brink  
Of my sad Fate, time e'er I sink.  
Wherein I reconciled might be  
To the enraged Deity,  
For Crimes against His Majesty.  
And might my Country's danger tell,  
And what had surely it befell, (Viz.)  
All Protestants that therein dwell.  
Oh! that this time allotted me,  
Whereon depends my Eternity,  
May tend to extirpate Popery.  
May I therein do all such things,  
As may Atone the King of Kings,  
Which is the thing true comfort brings.  
And likewise warn poor England yet,  
In this dark day, ere it be too late,  
To avoid both French and Popish. State.  
And may it, as one Man, oppose  
Itself to Ruin by its Foes,  
And strive to save itself from Threat and Woes.  
May now my Soul lie down in Peace,  
And ne'er hereafter may it cease,  
To praise the God of Infinite Grace.  Pl. 
What long Harangues, Sir, have you made  
You've made me by 'em quite afraid,  
To Persevere in what I said.  
I do confess likewise, that I  
Concerned was much i'th' Villainy,  
For which I am Condemned to Die.  
And that from Popish Treachery,  
England was like Reduced to be.  
To French and Romish Tyranny.  
But this I always took for Truth,  
That what comes out o'th' Church's Mouth,  
Is Oracle from North to South.  
And when I knew the Church had given  
Power to go on with the Old Leaven,  
I thought it surely come from Heaven.  
But now I doubt I was mistaken,  
And fear Rome Babel will be shaken,  
If England throughly awaken.  
I am in Truth in doubt, we shall  
e'er long receive a lasting fall,  
ne'er more to vex the World at all.  
And though I Dye o'th' Church of Rome,  
Yet I believe those things will come  
Upon her, which will be the Final Doom.  Fitz. 
Sir, If you do these things Believe,  
Yourself you wretchedly deceive,  
If that you quickly done't receive.  
The Protestants Religion's good,  
Which I almost Conform to could,  
But for my having sought their Blood.  Pl. 
If then Sir, you are not convinced  
Which is the Right, pray do not mince it,  
But leave to Time for to evince it.  
And let us hearttly both join,  
And in our Prayers now combine,  
I'th' words of the ensuing Line.  Both. 
May God long Bless the King, we Pray,  
And all Plots against him still bewray.  
Popish and Factious, and let all Men lay  
Amen.   

The Answer of Coleman's Ghost, to H. N's. POETIC OFFERING.  
Rise Nevil, Rise and do not punish me,  
With the vain sight of your Idolatry.  
You may with equal Reason call upon  
The good Saint Icarus or Phaeton,  
Who do the Sacred Name deserve as far,  
As some who blush in Roman Calendar:  
With like Ambition I designed to know  
No other Triumphs but of things below;  
And rather laboured how there might be given,  
French Crowns, postponing all the Crowns of Heaven.  
Favoured in this, because kind Heaven declines  
My high Intrigues, and baffles my Designs.  
None with more covetous Zeal pursued our Cause,  
Or fell a more due Sacrifice to Laws.  
In that sad day when strangled Life expired,  
And the just flames my bloody Limbs required,  
Whilst my hot Soul in hasty flight retires,  
From tyburn's only Purgatory Fires.  
Immortal shapes crowd on in Troops to view,  
My Plotting Soul and stopped me as I flew,  
Such Spirits who Incarnate ever moved  
In their By-Paths, and never quiet loved.  
The Cunning Machiavelli drew near and feared,  
Screeked at the sight of me and disappeared.  
Showing how weak all human Plots are laid,  
Where Hopes and Souls have always been betrayed.  
Scylla and Marius wondering at our Crimes,  
Pitied the near misfortune of our times,  
Sighed at those streams of blood which were to run,  
And cursed our Tables of Proscription.  
Fierce Catiline our Villainy decried,  
To whom the bold Cethegus soon replied,  
How New Rome imitates and yet exceeds  
In dire Conspiracies our puny deeds!  
Great Caesar's Ghost with Envy looked on me,  
That for Rome's sake I aimed at more than he,  
To Conquer all the Isles of Britanny,  
Yet blamed the Cruelties which were to come,  
From that Dictator which now reigns at Rome.  
Spiritual Dictator! who more controls  
Than he, and claps his Fetters on our Souls?  
He told me old Rome's Walls had longer stood,  
If Romulus had spared his Brother's blood  
And that Rome's happiness grew always worse,  
When it resembled the fierce Wolf its Nurse.  
Ah, my good Friend, how clearly do I find,  
In this new State the faults of human kind.  
Nothing procures so high a place above,  
As Universal Charity and Love,  
Infused and managed by the Heavenly Dove  
Heaven is quiet Kingdom which we call  
Your injured Scriptures true Original,  
There no false Comments on the Text appear,  
Nor must Trents Swurio●s Council domineer.  
Sometime with me, dear Nevel, you must grant,  
The Church Triumphant to be Protestant.  
If against them on Earth Rome's Malice thrives,  
'Tis not Rome's Cause prevails, but their ill Lives.  
So Babylon of old vexed Israel,  
And wicked Men raise Enemies from Hell.  
As once on Earth I did your good attend,  
So now for Love I am your Ghostly Friend:  
Let your Soul hate all bloody ways and things,  
To subvert States and Laws, to murder Kings.  
Or you are sure to equal my disgrace,  
And without Mercy you may name your place.   

A Dialogue between the POPE and the TURK, Concerning the Propagation of the Catholic Faith.  POPE. 
HAil mighty Monarch! by whose aid  
I hope I shall subdue,  
And for the future make afraid  
The whole Heretical Crew;  
You will both wise and grateful prove  
While you with me combine,  
Who always have showed you my love,  
And now your good design.  TURK. 
What mean these ambiguities  
With which to me you come?  
Is th' Oracle of doubtful lies  
From Delphos gone to Rome?  
Your kindness I ne'er understood,  
Whatever you pretend  
To him, to whom you ne'er did good,  
How can you be a Friend?  POPE. 
Ungrateful Man! do you forget  
How I did once betray  
The Grecian-Empire, which as yet  
Your Sceptre doth obey?  
I did the Greeks to Florence call,  
And kept them there with me:  
And you were Master made of all,  
Before we could agree.  TURK. 
This manifests your wickedness  
And makes your cause yet worse;  
I see no reason you to bless,  
Though Greece hath cause to Curse:  
You prove your Treachery indeed,  
But not your love to me,  
You'd ne'er have helped me in my need,  
If they'd submitted t'ee.  POPE. 
I think I stood your Friend (good Sir)  
When james did aspire:  
I both did keep him Prisoner,  
And poisoned him for hire;  
Then against France 'twas I did send  
For your victorious Arms,  
With promise that I would defend  
Your Kingdoms from all harms.  TURK. 
Two Hundred Thousand Florins, when  
You did my Brother's work,  
You had: The Benefactor than  
Was not the Pope but Turk;  
'Tis true, me once you did invite  
Your interest to advance;  
Not cause you loved me, but for spite  
Against the King of France.  POPE. 
Though still Ingratitude you pay  
For kindnesses good store,  
If you'll be ruled, I'll on you lay  
One obligation more:  
I'll raise your Empire yet so high,  
That you shall straightway yield  
That I pull down, and only I  
Do Monarchies rebuild.  TURK. 
For all your talk, I still do fear  
That while you make a pother,  
And with one hand pretend to rear,  
You pull down with the other:  
But what is't now that I must do,  
My Kingdoms to extend;  
That I may see at last that you  
Are really my Friend?  POPE. 
Why first I'll give you all those Lands  
That against me do Rebel,  
Go take them straight into your Hands,  
I've cursed their Kings to Hell;  
I freely to the King of Spain  
The British Islands gave:  
He wanted strength those Isles to gain,  
Which I am sure you have.  TURK. 
You're generous Sir, and at one word  
Great Territories grant,  
Which if Men gain not by the Sword,  
They must for ever want:  
So while you Saintship give to some,  
And frankly Heaven bestow,  
I doubt (what ever's decreed at Rome)  
Their Portion is below.  POPE. 
Whether Heaven and Hell are in my gift  
I do not greatly care,  
(Let learned Men those Questions sift)  
sure earthly Kingdoms are;  
I can from ancient deeds declare  
What power belongs to me:  
The greatest Kings are what they are  
By my Authority.  TURK. 
I've often heard what Tricks you use  
To help you in your needs,  
Sometimes you do the World abuse  
With forged Books and Deeds:  
Sometimes you Kingdoms give away  
(As now you do to me)  
Hoping that thus obliged, they  
Your Vassals still will be.  POPE. 
If I your Benefactor be,  
I hope you won't think much,  
(When I've raised you to high degree)  
To Honour me as such:  
If Universal Monarchy  
You do receive from me,  
The Universal Pastor I  
May be allowed to be.  TURK. 
I understand your kindness now,  
Me thus you will advance,  
If unto you I'll cringe and bow,  
And after your Pipe dance;  
Then you'll unto me be so kind,  
That you will crack your brain,  
Some place i'th' Alcoran to find,  
That shall your Pride maintain.  
This Honour more you'll on me heap.  
Whenever I you meet,  
That on my Knees I straight must creep,  
To Kiss your Worship's Feet.  
When ere your Pride I do oppose,  
You'll curse me straight to Hell;  
My Subjects too shall ne'er want those  
Shall stir them to Rebel.  
You still unto me plagues will send  
As you have done to others;  
From Priests I must myself defend,  
Worse than aspiring Brothers:  
Where you set foot no Prince is free,  
But straight must be your slave,  
Good Sir, pray cease to treat with me;  
I other business have.   

On Sir John Oldcaste, Lord Cobham, who suffered ' December 1417.  
ROME'S old new fraud in Cobhoms Fate we view;  
The Heretics must still be Traitors too;  
All Popish Sham-plots are not hatched of late  
Long since their Interest cnllid in the State;  
For God; and for the King the Prelates cried  
But only meant their own Revenge and Pride.  
Had the sly Meal-tub fadged, or Irish Oaths  
Been Jury-proof, old Churches hated Foes  
Ere now, had been Old-Castled, Hanged and Burned;  
And Loyalst Patriots into Rebels turn'a.  
But Midwife time at last brings Truth to light,  
For after Death each Man receives his right.  
Then sleep, brave Hero! till last Judgements day  
Raisins to Glory thy twice martyred Clay  
Rome's Malice, and thy Innocence display   

Ignoramus: a Song. To the Tune Law lies a bleeding.  

[1]  
SInce Popish Plotters,  
Joined with Bog-Trotters,  
Shame Plots are made as fast, as Pots are formed by Potters,  
Against these Furies  
There no such Cure is,  
As what our Law provides, our True and Loyal juries.  
The Action and Paction  
Thar breeds our Distraction,  
Is secretly contrived by the Popish Faction.  
Who shame us and flame us,  
Trepan us, and damn us,  
And then grow enraged when they hear Ignoramus.   

[2]  
Traitors are rotten,  
Yet not forgotten,  
Nor Meal Tub Devices, which never well did cotton,  
At every Season  
Inventing Treason,  
And sham's that none believed that had or Sense or Reason  
With fetches and stretches,  
These notorious Wretches  
Would get loyal Subjects into their bloody clutches.  
They shame us, and flame us, etc.   

[3]  
If wicked Tories  
Could pack their juries,  
That would believe black, white, and all their lying Stories  
Then by Art Stygian  
Whigs proved a Widgeon,  
And should be hanged for plotting against the Pope's Religion.  
They'd hear a, and swear a  
Thing that was a mere a  
Gross Lie as e'er was told, and find it Bella vera.  
Then shame us and flame us, etc.   

[4]  
This IGNORAMUS,  
For which they blame us,  
And to the pit of Hell, so often curse and damn us,  
Are Men by Trial.  
Honest and Loyal,  
And for their King and Country ready are to dieall,  
They show it and vow it,  
Honest Men to know it,  
Their Loyalty they hold, and never will forgo it.  
They shame us and flame us, etc.   

[5]  
At the Old-Baily  
Where men don't dally  
And Traitors oft are tried, as Coleman, Whitebread, Staley,  
Was late Indicted,  
Witnesses cited,  
A loyal Protestant, who spite of Rogues was righted,  
Offences commences  
Against all men's Senses,  
'Cause the honest Jury believed not Evidences.  
They shame us and flame us, etc.   

[6]  
For which a Villain  
Who for ten Shilling  
To hang a Protestant shall be found very willing.  
Now at this season  
And without reason,  
Shall call the Jury Traitors, and the Law make Treason  
In fashion is passion,  
Curses and Damnation,  
How quiet should we be, were Rogues sent to their station▪  
They shame us, and flame us, etc.   

[7]  
Alas what is Conscience  
Ith' jesuits own Sense.  
For the Church one may lie, and forswear without offence.  
Now what a Lurry,  
Keeps barking Tory,  
'Cause he is not able the Innocent to whorry!  
Doth wrangle and brangle,  
'Cause he cannot entangle,  
Nor bring honest Tony to the Block or Triangle.  
They shame us and flame us, etc.   

8  
I'll tell you what, Sir  
You must go Plot, Sir,  
And get better Witness e'er wise men go to pot Sir,  
When such abettors,  
Protestant haters  
Would damn their souls to hell to make them wicked Traitors;  
We mind it and wind it,  
And are not now blinded,  
For what we now reject, no honest jury ' le find it,  
They shame us and flame us,  
They ram us and damn us,  
When according to the Law, we find Ignoramus.    

A SONG.  

[1]  
A Pox on Whigs we'll now grow wise  
let's cry out guard the Throne,  
By that we'll damn the Good Old Cause,  
and make the Game our own:  
Religion, that shall stoop to us,  
and so shall Liberty,  
We'll make their Laws as thin as Lawn,  
such Tory Rogues are We.   

[2]  
When once that Preaching Whining Crew  
are crushed and quite undone,  
The Poor we'll banish by our Laws,  
and all the rest we'll burn.  
Then Abbey-Lands shall be possessed  
by those whose right they be,  
We'll cry up Laws, but none we'll use,  
such Tory Rogues are We.   

[3]  
The Name of Protestant we hate,  
the Whigs they know it well,  
And since we can't it longer hide  
let's Truth genteely tell.  
Now Damn me is good Manners grown,  
and tends to Gallantry,  
We'll S— the Nation out of Doors,  
such Cursed Rogues are We.   

[4]  
What care We for a Parliament,  
no Money comes from thence,  
Would they but give us Coin enough,  
we'll spend the Nations pence.  
These Twopenny Statesmen all shall down,  
a goodly sight to see,  
To finish all, we'll plunder 'em too,  
such Sons of Whores are We.   

[5]  
We'll build more Universities,  
for there lies all our hope,  
And to th' Crape Gown we'll cringe and creep  
supposing 'twere a Pope;  
Say what he will we'll him believe,  
if true or false it be,  
And while he prays we'll Drink his Health,  
such Tory Rogues are We,   

[6]  
What Pimping Whig shall dare control,  
or check the Lawful Heir,  
We'll take the Rascal by the Pole,  
and Pox of all his Hair.  
Then here goes honest Iame's Health,  
come drink it on your Knee,  
●zowns we'll have none but honest Souls,  
such Tory Rogues are We.   

[7]  
These Crafty Whigs are subtle Knaves  
to give them all their due,  
And yet we balked the Popish Plot,  
though they had sworn it true.  
For this you know who we may thank,  
But Mum for that, yet we  
Are bound to pray and praise him for't,  
such Tory Rogues are We.   

[8]  
When all these Zealous Whigs are down,  
we'll drink and fall a roaring,  
And then set up the Triple Crown,  
'twill Saint us all for Whoreing.  
When we have quite enslaved 'em all,  
ourselves cannot be free,  
Then prithee Devil claim thy own,  
〈…〉   

9  
We'll choose their Sheriffs and Juries too  
and then pretend 'tis Law,  
We'll bring more Irish o'er to swear  
against those they never saw:  
We'll seize their Charters then they must  
come beg 'em on their Knee,  
If this won't do we'll call the French,  
such cursed Rogues are We.    

On the Death of the PLOT.  
ALas! what thing can hope Death's Hand to escape,  
When Mother-Plot herself is brought to Crape?  
The teeming Matron at the last is Dead;  
But of a numerous Spawn first brought to Bed:  
The little Shamms, Abortives, without Legs,  
(She laid, and hatched, as fast as Hens do Eggs.)  
But they no sooner peeped into the Light,  
Than they kicked up, and bid the World good night.  
The Bantlings died always in their Cradle,  
And th' Eggs, tho' kept in Meal-Tubs, still proved addle.  
She lived to see her Issue go before her;  
And some made (Tyburn-Saints) who did adore her.  
But what is strange, and not to be forgot,  
The Plotters lived to see the Death of Plot:  
And O— if now he will his Credit save,  
Must raise thee up like Lazarus from the Grave.  
Men, who their Senses have, do more than think  
Thee dead, when it is plain thou now dost stink.  
Well fare thee Dead; for living thou mad'st work,  
For Heathen, jew, for Christian, and for Turk,  
For Honest Men, and Knaves, for Wise, and Fool,  
And eke for many a witless, scribbling Tool;  
Who now sit mute, pick Teeth, and scratch the Head,  
Now th' Idol-Mother-Plot of Plots is dead.  
But loath these are to believe News so sad,  
And swear they think that all the World are mad:  
But blame them not for being so much vexed,  
To lose the Uses of a gainful Text.  
These swear she's in an Epileptic Fit,  
And P— will bring her out of it.  
Let them think on, and their dear selves deceive,  
When I shall see her rise, I will believe,  
And not before? In the mean time from me,  
Accept, for her, this slender Elegy.  
I do confess she does deserve the Rhimes  
Of all the ready Writers of the Times:  
But with wet Eyes they do in silence mourn,  
As if they'd drown the Ashes in her Urn.  
But here she lies whom none alive could paint,  
Old Mother Plot, the Devil and the Saint.  
A Popish-Protestant, Hermophradite,  
An hidden piece that none could bring to Light.  
A Mother, and a Monster rare, who had  
A numerous Issue, and without a Dad;  
A very strange, and an unnatural Elf,  
Who hatched, brought forth, and then eat up herself;  
Who's Dead, and stinks, yet whole, and will not  
Was, is not now, yet ne'er shall be forgot.  
An uncouth Mystery of a Medley Fame,  
A Plot, a Mother-Plot without a Name.  
FINIS.   

Books Printed for john How, at the Sign of the Seven Stars, at the South-West corner of the Royal Exchange, in Cornhill.  
THe Present State of London.  
The Protestant Schoolmaster, being plain and easy Directions for Spelling and Reading English, and an Account of all the Plots, Treasons, Murders and Massacres, committed by the Papists, on the Protestants in most Countries in Europe, for near 600 Years.  
Catastrophe Mundi, or Merlin Revived, with Mr. Lilly 's Hiroglyphicks.  
Rome's Follies, or the Amorous Friars: a Play. 〈…〉   

POEMS ON Several Occasions. Written by the E. of R. Dr. Wild and others of the Choicest Modern Wits.  
THE SECOND PART.  
LONDON, Printed for john How, at the Seven Stars at the South-West Corner of the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1683.   

Dr. WILD's Poem. In nova fert Animus, etc. OR, A New Song TO AN OLD FRIEND From An OLD POET, Upon the Hopeful New Parliament.  
WE are All tainted with the Athenian Itch,  
News, and new Things do the whole World bewitch.  
Who would be Old, or in Old fashions Trade?  
Even an Old Whore would fain go for a Maid:  
The Modest of both Sexes, buy new Graces,  
Of Periwigs for Pates, and Paint for Faces.  
Some wear new Teeth in an old Mouth; and some  
Carve a new Nose out of an aged Bum.  
Old Hesiod's gods Immortal Youth enjoy:  
Cupid, though Blind, yet still goes for a Boy;  
Under one Hood Hypocrite janus too,  
Carries two faces, one Old, th' other New.  
Apollo wears no Beard, but still looks young;  
Diana, Pallas, Venus, all the throng  
Of Muses, Graces, Nymphs, look Brisk, and Gay,  
Priding themselves in a perpetual May:  
Whiles doting Saturn, Pluto, Priserpina,  
At their own ugly Wrinkles Rage and Grin;  
The very Furies in their looks do twine.  
Snakes, whose embroidered skins renew their shine;  
And nothing makes Great juno chafe and scold,  
But Ioves new Misses slighting her as old.  
Poets, who others can Immortal make,  
When they grow Grace, their 〈…〉;  
And seek young Temples, where they may, 〈◊〉 Green;  
No Palsy hand, may wash in Hippocrene;  
'Twas not Terse Claret, Eggs, and Muskadine,  
Nor Gobbets Crowned with Greek or Spanish Wine,  
Could make new Flames in Old Ben johnsons' Veins,  
But his Attemps proved lank and languid strain:  
His New Inn (so he named his youngest Play,  
Proved a blind Alehouse, cried down the first Day:  
His own dull Epitaph— Here lies Ben johnson,  
(Half drunken too) He hickupped— who was once one,  
Ah! this sad once one! once we Trojans were;  
Oh, better never, if not still we are.  
Rhymes of Old Men, Iliack passions be,  
When that should downward go, comes up we see,  
And are like jews-ears in an Elder-Tree;  
When Spectacles do once bestride the Nose,  
The Poet's Gallop turns to stumbling Prose.  
Sir, I am Old, Cold, Mould; and you might hope  
To see an Alderman dance on a Rope,  
A judge to act a Gallant in a Play,  
Or an Old Pluralist Preach twice a day;  
Of 〈…〉 Taylor make a Valiant Knight,  
〈…〉 of a jesuit;  
As an Old bald-pate (such as mine you know)  
Should make his Hair, or Wit and Fancy grow;  
Nor is there need that such a Block as I  
Should now be hewed into a Mercury.  
When Winter's gone, the Owl his foot may spare,  
And to the Nightingales resign the Air.  
Such is the beautiful new face of things:  
By Heaven's kind Influences, and the Kings,  
Joy should inspire; and all in measures move,  
And every Citizen a Virgil prove.  
Each Protestant turn Poet; and who not  
Should be suspected guilty of the Plot  
If now the day doth dawn, our Cocks forbear  
To clap their Wings and Crow, you well may swear,  
It is their want of Loyalty, not Wit,  
That makes them sullen, and so silent sit.  
Galli of gallic kind— I'll say no more,  
But that their Combs are Cut, and they are sore;  
Yet to provoke them, my Old Cock shall Crow,  
That so his Echo round the Town may go.   

Upon the new Parliament.  
MY Landlord underproped his House some years,  
Was often warned— 'Twould fall about his Ears;  
For the main Timber, That above, and under,  
By every Blast was apt to rend asunder.  
This year He gently took all down, and then  
What of the Old proved sound, did serve again.  
May all the New be Heart of English Oak,  
And the whole House stand firm from fatal stroke,  
And nothing in't, the Founder ere provoke.  
My Grandam, when her Bees were old and done,  
Burnt the old Stock, and a new Hive begun;  
And in one year she found a greater store  
Of Wax and Honey than in all before.  
Variety and Novelty delights;  
Old Shoes and Mouldy Bread are Gibeonites.  
When clothes grow thread bare, & breeds Vermin too,  
To Long-Lane with them, and put on some new:  
When Wine turns Vinegar— All Art is vain,  
The World can never make it Wine again.  
'Tis time to wean that Child, who bites the Breast;  
And Chase those fowls, that do befowl the Nest.  
When Nolls Nose found the Rump began to smell;  
He docked it, and the Nation liked it well.  
Cast the old-marked and greasy Cards away,  
And give's a new Pack, else we will not Play;  
Nothing but Pork, and Pork, and Pork to eat!  
Good Landlord give's fresh COMMONS for our Meat.  
Trent Council Thirty years lay soused in pickle,  
Until it proved a stinking Conventicle.  
And now Old Rome plays over her old Tricks,  
This Seventy-nine, shall pay for Sixty-six:  
Out of the Fire, like new refined Gold,  
How bright new London looks above the Old!  
All Creatures under Old Corruptions groan,  
And for a New Creation make their moan:  
The Phoenix (of herself grown weary) dies  
Unto succession a burnt-Sacrifice:  
Old Eagles breed bad Hawks, and they worse Kites,  
And they blind Buzzards (as Old Pliny Writes),  
Deans, prebend's, chaplains think themselves have wrong,  
When Bishops live unmercifully long;  
And poor Dissenters beg they may ascend  
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end.  
And who hath not by good experience found  
Best Crops are gained by new-broken ground.  
And the first feed— OATS sifted clean and sound?  
But yet Old Friends, Old Gold, Old King, I prize:  
Old Tyburn take them who do otherwise:  
Heaven Chase the Vulture from our Eagles Nest,  
And let no Ravens this March-Brood molest;   

Another.  
BReak, Sacred Morn, on our expecting Isle,  
And make our Albion's sullen Genius Smile;  
His Brightest Glories let the Sun Display,  
He Rose not with a more important Day  
Since CHARLES Returned on his Triumphant way:  
Gay as a Bridegroom then our Eves he drew,  
And now seems Wedded to his Realms anew.  
Great Senate, haste, to join your Royal Head,  
Best Council by the best of Monarches swayed:  
Methinks our Fears already are o'er blown,  
And on our Enemies' Coast their Terror thrown.  
Darlings of Fame, you British Bards that wrote  
Of Old, as warmly as our Heroes fought,  
Aid me a bold Advent'rer for the Fame  
O'th' British State, and Touch me with your Flame;  
Steep my rude Quill in your diviner Stream,  
And raise my daring Fancy to my Theme.  
Give me th' Heroic Wings— to Soar as High  
As Icarus did, I would like Icarus Die!  
Now I behold the bright Assembly Met,  
And 'bove the Rest our Sacred Monarch Set,  
Charmed with the dazzling Scene, without a Crime,  
My Thoughts reflect on th' Infancy of Time,  
And wrap me in Ideas most Sublime.  
I think how at the new Creation, Sat  
Th' Eternal Monarch in his Heaven's fresh State;  
The Stars yet wondering at each others Fires,  
And all the Sons of Glory Ranked in Quires.  
Hail, awful Patriots, Peers by Birth, and you  
The Commons, for high Virtues, Noble too!  
The First by Heaven, in this Assembly placed,  
And by heavens Voice, the People's Votes, the Last.  
As Various Streams from distant Regions fall,  
And in the Deep their general Council call;  
Conveying thence Supplies to their first Source,  
And fail not to maintain their rolling Course:  
Our Senate thus, from every Quarter called,  
And in complete Assembly here Installed,  
Shall deal their Influence to each Province round,  
And in our Isle no Barren Spot be found.  
justice as plenteous as our Thames shall Flow,  
In Peace the Sailer Steer, and Peasant Blow.  
From Foreign wrongs safe shall our Public be,  
And Private Rights from Home Oppressors free:  
Degrees observed, Customs and Laws obeyed,  
Deuce, less through Force, than Fear of Scandal paid.  
Proceed, brave Worthies then to your Debates;  
Nor to Decree alone our Private Fates,  
But to Judge Kingdoms and dispose of States.  
From You their Rise, or Downfall, they assume,  
Expecting from our Capitol their Doom;  
You Form their Peace and War, as You approve  
They close in Leagues, or to fierce Battle move.  
And though the Pride of France has swelled so high  
A Warlike Empire's Forces to Defy,  
To crush th' United Lands confederate Power,  
And silence the loud Belgian Lion's Roar;  
Yet let their Troops in Silent Triumph come  
From Vanquished Fields, and Steal their Trophies home,  
Take care their Cannon at Just Distance Roar,  
Nor with too near a Volley rouse our Shore;  
Left our disdaining Islanders Advance  
With Courage taught long since to Conquer France,  
Seizing at Once their Spoils of many a Year,  
And Cheaply Win what they oft bought too Dear:  
Their late Success but juster Fear affords,  
For they are now grown Worthy of our Swords.  
Howe'er 'tmust be confessed, the gallic Powers  
Can ne'er Engage on Equal Terms with Ours.  
In Nature we have th' Odds, they Dread, we Scorn,  
The English o'er the French are Conquerors Born.  
The Terror still of our Third Edwards Name  
Rebukes their Pride, and Damps their towering Fame;  
Nor can the Tide of many rolling Years  
Wash the stained Fields of Cressey and Poictiers.  
A pointed Horror strikes their Bosoms still,  
When they Survey that famous, fatal Hill,  
Where Edward with his Host Spectator stood,  
And left the Prince to make the Conquest good.  
The Eagle thus from her fledged Young withdraws,  
Trusts 'em t' engage whole Troops of Kites and Daws.  
Nor has the black Remembrance left their Breast,  
How our Fifth Harry to their Paris pressed,  
Whilst France wept blood for their hot Dauphin's Jest,  
We forced their Cavalry their Foot t'ore-run,  
As Tides withstood, bear their own Billows down:  
Such was the Virtue of our Ancestors,  
And such, on just Resentment, shall be Ours;  
Our tempered Valour just Pretence requires,  
As Flints are Struck, before they show their Fires.   

Upon the Prentices-Feast at Merchant-Taylors-Hall.  
THe busy Town grew still, and City Fops  
Had bid adieu to melancholy Shops,  
Had left their lonesome Cells, and did repair  
To Drink, to Whore, to Feast, or take the air,  
I knew not which; but being Young I followed  
The shouting crowd, and most devoutly hollowed.  
At length arrived at a place they call  
The Cockscombs-Court or Merchant-Taylors-Hall,  
Where the starved Prentices kept Carnival,  
I entered; where in most prodigious sort  
Tables were placed al-a-mode at Court,  
I saw a Monster as I entered in  
(At first I took him for a rolling Pin)  
Till bowing with a grave Majestic grace  
Drew up his chaps; and said, Sir take your place;  
And so I did, for at a Loyal Dinner  
There is no difference 'twixt Saint and Sinner:  
In one place sat an hungry Irish Teague,  
And in another a fly cunning Whig;  
In drowsy murmurs echoed round the Hall  
The different voices of the Festival:  
At length the young shop Beagles entered in,  
And made a most confused hideous din;  
They yelp and bawl upon the hunting strain  
As if they meant to kill the Bucks again,  
Till monumental Pastry did arise,  
Which stopped their Tongues and feasted all their eyes,  
The sharp set Prentices could scarce forbear  
While Dr. Crape did say a Puny Prayer,  
Which he made haste to do; but kept his Eye  
Divinely fixed upon a Pudding pie,  
Lest some base sneaking Rascal should convey  
The Scholars well beloved bit away.  
He having said, they all did cease from prating,  
Left speaking nonsense, and all fell to eating.  
One cries God save the King! Rips up a Pie,  
But traitorous steam did put out every Eye.  
And then he damns the Cook, and calls him Sot  
To serve a Pastry up that was so hot;  
Another gently tastes, and then he swore  
In all his Life he ne'er eat Buck before;  
Another his long silence began to break,  
But's mouth was filled so full he could not speak;  
A fourth (whom they deemed to be i'th' right)  
Declared 'twas better for to eat then fight.  
At length their hungry paunches being full,  
With filled up Glasses, and with empty Scull,  
Bending their Marrowbones unto the ground,  
With hoarse huzza's the Loyal Health went round.  
How many converts Wine and Age do make?  
When forced the earthly Region to forsake,  
The aged Sinners whine in pious tone;  
So every Drunkard is a Loyal Drone.  
I (who as Loyal am, as tight, as true  
As any of the Drunken Tory crew)  
Of all the modern Healths ne'er drank but this  
The best, the Loyallest, his Majesties.  
But now was forced to drink all Healths of Fame  
A Catalogue, alas! too hard to name;  
For which base fact, I'm marked a fallen star  
In every Presbiterian Calendar;  
But if they call me sot and fool, and say  
I was a Rogue; it was but for a day;  
I drank a Papist Health, and since 'twas so  
I had a mental reservation too;  
I in deceit to some a fool did show,  
Tories to all are naturally so;  
Free from the People's censure and disdain  
I've cast my Tories skin, and now am Whig again.   

A rejoinder to the Whiggish Poem upon the Tory-Prentices-Feast at Marchant-Taylors-Hall.  
WELL! Tory Poets answers come at last,  
The Tory Sots never write Verse in haste;  
Or else the Cur got drunk like snoring Sow,  
Lay under Board, and never waked till now;  
But if the noise the yelping Beagles keep  
Did waken him, his Verse I'm sure's asleep.  
I'll swear, I thought (when first I looked on  
His Poem) he had sent me back mine own:  
It began alike; alike almost throughout,  
'Twas only mine was turned the inside out:  
'Tis a damned trick the Tory Tools have got,  
To kill an Enemy with his own Shot:  
Had he not imped me, he'd been to seek  
For an Exordium another week;  
For of the Tory Poets I must say  
It's a witty Rogue can write a Verse a day  
But Gaffer-Goose-Cap, who told you such stories,  
His Majesty sent Bucks to feast the Tories?  
You might as well have said the King was dressed  
In Royal Robes, and came to be your guest.  
But you may speak amiss, amiss may do,  
It had been Treason if I had said so;  
Tories may murder Fame, may Honour kill,  
May slander Kings, and yet be Loyal still,  
Their Loyalty consist in doing ill,  
You may 'tis like by these your Verses lewd,  
Make the mistaken Tory multitude  
Believe I Treason spoke, and that I swore,  
And I may safely say, you'll Drink and Whore,  
But this for truth they all do know before.  
That Noblemen were Priests, I ne'er said so;  
But Doctor Crape-Gown's may, for aught I know;  
'Twas Scandalum magnatum, if I do in jest  
But speak one word against Stewards of the Feast;  
Though Lords be high, yet Prentices are low,  
And lousy Tailors still were counted so:  
You may say what you please, but without doubt  
I may speak Treason against the Rugged-Rout;  
And Silly Fops 'cause they've all whigs abhorred,  
Shall have as good a title as a Lord;  
And prosecute for scandal whom they please:  
Such Lordly things are lordly Prentices.  
No, silly Citts! for ever doomed to Shops,  
Keep still your ancient titles, Fools and Fops.  
This Shame won't take; I'm Loyal still and true,  
Although I'm scandalised by traitorous you;  
Disloyal Tories! you the Traitors are;  
Whilst Loyal Baxter, Curtis, Loyal Care.  
Bravely maintain their Sovereign's right in truth,  
Without e'er feasting of the snotty Youth,  
True whigs ne'er stooped to such mean tricks as these,  
To feast the hungry snivelling Prentices.  
Illustrious Charles! by all that's great and high!  
(Tho I am branded with Disloyalty)  
No fawning Courtier e'er shall so much gloze  
As I'll detest thine and thy Nations Foes;  
No Charles the third, nor budding Embryo-King  
Shall be the Subject for my Muse to sing.  
Whilst thou do live; let Traitorous Tories' sooth,  
And raise Sedition in the Factious Youth;  
Long may'st thou live and flourish in thy Throne,  
Whilst all these little Kings shall basely tumble down.   

An Answer to the Tories Pamphlet called, The Loyal Feast:  
To the Tune of Sauney will never be my Love again.  

TOries are Tools of Irish Race,  
And well beloved by Blades of the Town;  
They've Irish Hearts, but an English Face,  
And Dammee and Huzza is all their tone.  
With Abhorring and Addressing their time is spent,  
Quaffing and Cursing, though all in vain:  
But the main thing they fear is an honest Parliament  
For Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

2.  
Tories are made like Bristol Cans,  
Round and hollow, but I'll tell you more anon;  
The Word is, Dammee jack! meet me at sam's;  
There's honest Roger, and Flat-footed Tom,  
Huffing and swearing in Silk so fine,  
Black-Coats, Red-Coats, Lord and Swain;  
ere long they'll Petition Caesar to resign,  
For Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

3.  
These are the Lads that fight the Pope's Cause,  
And all resolved, like pious good men,  
To hang by nothing but the Right Line and Laws,  
If the Pope and his Crew return not again;  
Bristol's Tears and England's Woes,  
With Scotland's Groans, do tell us plain,  
They will not take the Oaths they impose,  
For Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

4.  
These are the Babes that would shirk off the Plot,  
And under the Name of the Churches true Sons,  
Swear, Lie, and Shame, to have it forgot;  
But a Pox take the Fops they talk not to Nuns.  
They'll swear (but who'll be thus deceived)  
That Godfrey murdered himself 'tis plain;  
But the Devil on't is, they can't be believed,  
Because the Tory's a Rogue in Grain.   

5.  
But hark! sure I hear the noise of a Feast,  
Mars and his Sons with a glorious Show,  
The thing's very true, though I took it for a Jest:  
But here pray observe how they marched from Bow,  
O! the vast number, and well accourted too:  
These Bonny-boys, with their glistering Train;  
But yet the hired Feathers, and Faggot Merchants knew,  
That Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

6.  
The board being spread with store of Flesh and Fish,  
The Fat Kid, Wine, and other things besides;  
The French Mode observed, to garnish every Dish,  
And each course served up with Crucifix and Bread:  
Oaths Rot the whigs, with Huzza's flew about;  
But Slavery and Oppressions, there lay the main,  
And all to please the Image of the Rout,  
For Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

7.  
Many fine Shows, and other pleasant Games,  
Were offered after all, to please Spectators Eyes;  
The chiefest of which was London's fatal Flames;  
May curses still attend those that mischief devise:  
These are the Saints that plead Common-Good,  
Our Persons to secure, but their Intent is plain,  
To Crown us with Slavery, and christian us in blood;  
For Tory will still be a Rogue in Grain.   

8.  
God save the KING, and the true Royal james,  
Monmouths' Duke, and Tony, England's Friend,  
And all the honest Souls tho' I omit their Names;  
May Mischief in earnest their Enemies attend:  
But for those Rogues, that truths do oppose,  
And for Rome's Cause, have played their sham's in vain;  
Let Shame and Confusion be Plagues to all those,  
That are such Tories and Rogues in Grain.    

The INFORMERS LECTURE To His Sons, Instructing them in the Mysteries of that Religion.  
COme children, come, and learn your Father's trade,  
Though all else fail, here's good advantage made:  
Come, come away, and learn my precepts all,  
They'll make you rich, you'll get the Devil and all.  
Your very breath shall do't, my art is such,  
No Lawyer with his Tongue gets half so much:  
Time ne'er till now did open such a door  
To wealth, to those who had spent all before.  
No trade like this, no gains can clearer be;  
There's none have to glory more than we:  
The gainfull'st trade comes short, the richest fails,  
Merchants themselves may here to us strike Sails.  
The nimble Cutpurse always works in fears,  
He ventures Neck and all, we but our Ears:  
The Soldier ventures hard for Spoils, and so  
Gets them by force, we don't strike a blow:  
The High way men oft meet with many a Prey,  
And yet we drive a richer trade than they:  
For Jugler-like we need not bid them stand,  
Blow but a blast, our Money's in our hand:  
The Paritor, though he be near of kin,  
In such a way of trading ne'er has been:  
The pilfering Thief's in danger of the Stocks,  
And Courtesans and Whores may fear the Pox;  
This mars their Markets, makes them work in fear,  
But in our Calling no such dangers are.  
We need not fear, no dangers in our Eye,  
At least if we can scape the Pillory:  
And truly this we need not fear a jot,  
Hundreds that have deserved it, have it not,  
And if we had, for all their Mocks and Jeers,  
For twenty pound who would not lose his Ears?  
We neither Preach nor Pray, we take no pains,  
Preaching and Praying bravely us maintains:  
They preach and pray, we swear, yet who gets more?  
We thrive by swearing, preaching makes them poor.  
We sail with tide, against the stream they row,  
Swearing's the A-la-mode in fashion now.  
Why should we labour? will not Swearing do?  
That gets both Money and preferment too.  
Some Swearers formerly did Money give,  
And yet it is by Swearing that we Live.  
And Perjury's but a small fault; what more?  
And better too than we, have been forswore:  
And what a Crime is this? is this so bad?  
'Tis but turn Papist, Pardons may be had.  
Whoever then is poor may thank himself,  
Never did Mortals easier get their Wealth.  
Learn lustily to swear, to damn and rant,  
And then my Life for yours, you'll never want.  
Though swear you must, all swearing will not serve;  
Many that swear and curse, yet want and starve.  
There is an Art in't all Men do not know,  
And this I'll now to you (my Children) show,  
Take my directions and you need not fear,  
I'll show you how, and when, and what to swear.  
Mark when you swear, be sure to swear for gain,  
'Tis those that swear for nought, that swear in vain▪  
Be sure Inform, do this without dispute,  
But yet don't meddle with forbidden Fruit:  
Observe your Friends, strive not against the tide,  
Oppose not those that are o'th' rising side.  
Church men in power, what ere be their Offence,  
Meddle not with, we will with them dispense.  
For this should be the greatest of your care,  
To know for whom and against whom you swear.  
For if you should reform all things amiss,  
It would undo you, meddle not with this.  
A thousand Oaths you hear, and many a Lie,  
Meddle not yet, you've better Fish to fry;  
For swearing, whoring, drinking overmuch,  
Are genteel sins, and these you must not touch;  
'Tis not the Mark at which you ought to aim,  
You're Huntsmen, mind not then so low a Game.  
Though Papists, Atheists, God and Christ blaspheme,  
If you Inform, you'll sail against the stream:  
The Pocky-nose, and the red-pimpled Face,  
Are not the Persons that you have in chase.  
These little Sins are not worth reforming,  
Will never bring a penny for Informing.  
fanatics faults are of a deeper dye,  
And therefore mind these well, for so do I;  
Mind therefore their Offences, yet not all,  
But chiefly that they do their Duty call.  
Praying and Preaching, these are worse by far,  
Than swearing, whoring, or blaspheming are:  
For men may swear unto their dying day,  
Before they be compelled a Groat to pay:  
Fanatic Preaching though ne'er so precise,  
Is more infectious far than Swearing is.  
Adultery! no doubt fanatics love it,  
And are as bad as we, if we could prove it.  
The mischief is, they sin as bade no doubt  
In secret, but the Devil brings ours out.  
If you should find them guilty, for your pains  
Shame them enough, but this is all your gains.  
But meddle not too much, such is our Fate,  
Press them too hard, they will retalliate.  
Be sure with Whores and Harlots you dispense,  
For fear you give the worshipful offence.  
The Sabbath-breakers Sins are less by far,  
Than the offences of Tub-preachers are.  
The Sodomites did many things amiss,  
Yet ne'er were guilty of such a sin as this.  
These Meetings are more dangerous by far,  
Than Bull-baits, Bear-baits or Cock-fighting are:  
stageplays and Morrice-dances, Masks and Shows,  
Wakes, May-games, Puppet-plays, and such as those  
More harmless are; for all their Mocks and Jeers  
Are innocent, if but compared with theirs:  
You need not suchlike numerous meetings fear,  
There's none but Loyal Subjects will be here.  
Whore-house and Stews which Gallants do frequent,  
Compared with these are far more innocent:  
'Tis five or six crept in some hole to pray,  
That Plot the ruin of the Monarchy;  
Women and Children have been proved of late,  
To be supplanters of the Church and State.  
Some Country People, though yet out of sight,  
Do put the King and Kingdom in a fright:  
And those that neither Sword nor staff did bear,  
Have made a Riot, put the World in fear.  
Though France, and Spain, and Rome, and all conspire  
Against our Land, our City set on Fire:  
Threaten a Massacre, to spill our blood,  
To bring in Popery on us like a Flood:  
If half a score fanatics come to hear,  
They'll put the Nation in a greater fear.  
If silly Women, and some simple men  
Get God but on their side, where are we then?  
Keep them asunder, that they might not pray,  
Or do your best to keep their God away;  
For fear lest he should hear when they do cry,  
And should Conventicle as well as they.  
If they storm Heaven before us, 'tis a venture,  
Whether they'll leave us any room to enter.  
What though for King and Kingdom they do pray,  
If we will Swear they mind it to destroy?  
They Plot in secret, though we do not hear it,  
We know it well enough, and we dare swear it.  
The Papists are by far more innocent,  
For all their Plots, have far less mischief meant.  
What those call pity, we must confess  
They prosecute but in a sowler dress.  
Call it Rebellion, Schism, or what is bad,  
Those that will kill a dog must say he's mad.  
Say they are plotting and conspiring too,  
And boldly Swear it, if that will not do,  
What though your conscience give your tongue the lie,  
Heed not your conscience for to lose thereby.  
Praying and Preaching! this is worse by far,  
Than all the crying Sins of Sodom are,  
These sins are Acted o'er and o'er each day,  
Yet no one yet his forty pound did pay:  
The fault is greater, and the danger's more,  
To teach five Sisters then to bed a score.  
These are but tricks of Youth, yea harmless toys,  
Whatever God and Man and Conscience says.  
God's Laws condemn these sins say they: what than?  
We know not those, we know the Laws of Men.  
Preaching and Praying, say men what they will,  
You must regard, this water drives your Mill.  
One Sermon brings more profit ten times over,  
Than if you should a thousand Whores discover.  
Fanatick-preachers bring more gain no doubt,  
Than if you found so many Jesuits out.  
Swearing and Whoring now is all in Fashion,  
Preaching and Praying are the sins of th' Nation.  
A Jesuits a mild and Gentle man.  
If we compare him with the Puritan:  
Who say in Doctrine they with us agree,  
And they are Protestants as well as we,  
Against Ceremonies only they contend,  
Which do their queasy Stomaches so offend.  
Well, be it so: ere they and we agree,  
We'll make them swallow Knives as well as we.  
And though in secret corners now they sneak,  
ere long we'll make them either bend or break.  
We'll teach them shortly without much a do,  
To bow to th' Altar and the Image too:  
Who e'er commands, we'll make them to obey,  
The Bishops do't, and therefore why not they?  
We'll bring them down betime, for there's no doubt  
If times should change, they'll be the first stand out.  
Those that the Bishop's Laws do now withstand,  
We'll not obey, no though the Pope command.  
Against Kings and Kingdoms sins they rage and roar,  
When in their Tubs they care not who they gore.  
In a right course therefore that you may sail,  
Take these directions and you cannot fail.  
Those men that will not pray and preach in jest,  
Mark these, they are more dongerous than the Rest.  
Those that act Sermons as a Stage-players part,  
You need not fear them, they are sound at heart.  
Those that against the Nations sins exclaim,  
Are like to bring you the greatest gain.  
He that doth rather choose i'th' fire to burn,  
Before he'll Atheist or a Papist turn;  
This is a stubborn Rogue, and like to be  
A Grand affronter of Authority.  
He that doth bow, and bend, and stand, and sit,  
And shift his sails still as the Wind doth flit,  
Observe his Leaders, and his right hand-man,  
ne'er fear, he'll never turn a Puritan.  
But he that Serveth God for love, not money,  
Without Tradition or a Ceremony;  
As the Apostles did in the days of yore,  
Who never Cross did use or Surplice wore:  
And those that in their Family would pray,  
And not the Sabbath spend in sports and play:  
Beware of those, for it is ten to one,  
They're foully tainted, if not wholly gone:  
As also those that unto Sermons gad,  
Papists and Atheists are not half so bad:  
Watch those, and they will fall into your trap,  
And when they once are in, let none escape,  
With Sermon, Prayer, and Fasting bait the Net,  
And a full draught you will be sure to get.  
But venture Swearers, Drunkards, never fear,  
You need not watch them, they will ne'er come there:  
Taverns and Whore houses they haunt 'tis plain,  
You'll meet them there, but nothing to your gain.  
Having your prey before you, spare ye none,  
And whensoe'er you Swear, be sure Swear home.  
I hate these Quaking-fellows, that are loath  
To swear to purpose, these but spoil an Oath.  
e'er I'd lose twenty pound for want of reaching,  
I would swear home, and swear that praying preaching.  
In doubtful cases you may safely Swear,  
For twenty pound who would not lose an Ear?  
And sometimes when you cannot come to see,  
Swear those are present that are used to be.  
March on brave Lads, fear not to drink and roar,  
While the Fanaticks rich we'll ne'er be poor.  
We shall get money from these rustic Boars,  
To pay our debts, and to maintain our Whores,  
Like Furies haunt fanatics to the Death,  
Leave not while they have money, life, or breath.  
To drink, to drab, to whore, to lie, to swear,  
It is the Garb that all our Tradesmen wear.  
Haply they'll call us Knaves, but 'tis no shame,  
For any honest man to own his name.  
O but our Names will rot they say! what then?  
Let's die like Beasts, so we may live like Men.  
But God will plague us in a darksome Den,  
I would we could be sure to escape till then.  
They do their duty: Well, and so do we,  
Our Wives and Children must maintained be.  
But of all men, they say, we are the worst,  
The Fox thrives best (they say) when he's most cursed:  
Many Informers beggars prove to be;  
And many Tradesmen break, what's that to me?  
With Stocks and Pillory they would us fear,  
Many for Money lose more than an Ear,  
But ill got Goods third Heirs do seldom see!  
We mean our own Executors to be.  
Sons ply your work while you have aught to do,  
For fear the Parliament prove Roundheads too:  
And pray no Law in England may be made  
To help fanatics, or to spoil our trade.  
〈◊〉 once the Papists get the upper hand,  
Our trade will mend, though other trades should stand,  
〈◊〉 this succeed (my Sons) let's never fear,  
They shall to Mass, as well as Common-prayer.  
Mean-while we'll let them cant, we'll sing and roar,  
And with their Money drink, and drab, and whore.   

An ELEGY upon Marsh, A Public Sworn INFORMER against Protestant Religious Meetings in the City of LONDON, who Died very miserably in the Prison of the Compter. Ulter a Tergo Deus.  
GO set Scotch Bagpipes to the briskest Notes,  
But let the Singing-men rend all their Throats,  
Hang Tyburn round with Blacks, and let Catch squeeze  
His Eyes to Tears having thus lost his Fees;  
Myself (like a young Widow) fain would cry,  
But like her too, I know not how, nor why;  
Muse! get an Onion quickly, or else Woe  
Some Irish Poet for a Ha-la-loo;  
Oh Hone! Oh Hone! tell us what didst thou all  
Thus to trappan thyself into a Goal?  
Thou hadst a stout protection, and 'tis said  
A lumping Pension for good service paid:  
Some bribes thou got'st, and many a Penalty  
Was due we trow, and why then wouldst thou die?  
Thy Clovenfooted Masters works not done,  
Thou shouldst have Ruined thousands ere thou'dst gone,  
Thou shouldst have made each Nonconformist bow,  
And left them all as poor as thou wert now;  
Then mounted on State with solemn pride,  
Thou mightst to Hell in guilded Chariot ride:  
Been Pluto's Viceroy, and preferred more  
Than judas, or thy brethren all before.  
But now alas! thou scarce can get i'th' end  
To be the Groom o'th' Close-stool Chamber to the Fiend,  
But 'tis in vain thus to Expostulate,  
For poor Informers warrant's out of date;  
The Man of Gath is fallen that did so stickle,  
And swore to confound each Conventicle;  
Grim Death hath by a seizure snatched him hence,  
For to receive his dear-earned Recompense:  
Follow the scent, and from the Stygian Lake,  
Fit Junk for such a wretched Subject take;  
Black as his Trade let every Line appear,  
And each Ear tingle his sad Fate shall hear,  
Not that I am of that Presumptuous fry,  
Whose saucy Fingers picklock Destiny,  
Who snatched Fates-book, and furiously transpose,  
To Judgements all misfortunes of their Foes;  
Virtue may be unhappy, and sometimes  
Success here waits upon the worst of crimes,  
It is another day, a clearer Light  
Must set all these seeming disorders right;  
Yet must we grant that Heaven does now and then  
Visibly punish Irreligious Men,  
And against none its Arrows oftener fly  
Than these sworn Enemies to Piety,  
A Persecuting Spirit never yet  
But in a Cloud of shame and sorrow set,  
Just God how equal are thy punishments  
Thus blasting base designs with sad events;  
Though Crafty in self woven Nets is wrapped  
And in the Pit he digged for others, trapped,  
Hark how the Ravens and the Screech-Owls cries  
With frightful Echoes chant his obsequies.  
Whether he's gone now Dead, I shall not say,  
But whilst alive, he took the broader way;  
If Pythegorean Tenets are not flams,  
He's grown a Wolf by this, and worries Lambs.   

An Epitaph.  
Stay Reader! and Piss here, for it is said  
Under this Dirt there's an Informer laid,  
If Heaven be pleased when Mortals cease from Sin,  
And Hell be pleased when Villains enter in,  
If Earth be pleased when it entombs a Knave,  
Sure all are pleased, for Marsh's in his Grave.   

On Liberty of Conscience  By Dr. WILD. 
NO, not one word, can I of this great Deed,  
In Merlin, or Old Mother Shipton read!  
Old Tuburn take those Tychobrahe Imps,  
Astrologers, who would be counted Pimps  
To the Amorous Planets; they the Minuit know,  
When jove did Cuckold poor Amphitryo,  
Ken Mars, and made Venus wink and glances,  
Their close Conjunctions, and midnight Dances,  
When costive Saturn goes to Stool, and vile  
Thief Mercury doth pick his Fob the while:  
When Lady Luna leaks, and makes her man  
Throw't out of Window into th' Ocean.  
More subtle than the Excise-men here below,  
What's spent in every Sign in Heaven they know;  
Cunning Intelligencers, they will not miss  
To tell us next year the success of this;  
They correspond with Dutch and English Star,  
As one once did with CHARLES and Oliver.  
The Bankers might have, had they to them gone,  
What Planet Governed the Exchequer, known.  
Old Lily, though he did not love to make  
Any words on't, saw the English take  
Five of the Smyrna Fleet, and if the Sign  
Had been Aquarius, than they had made them Nine  
When Sagitarus took his aim to shoot  
At Bishop Cousin, he spied him no doubt;  
And with such force the winged Arrow flew,  
Instead of one Church Stagg he killed two,  
Gloucester and Durham when he espied,  
Let Lean and Fat go together he cried.  
Well Will Lille, thou knewest all this as well  
As I, and yet wouldst not their Lordships tell.  
I know thy Plea too, and must it allow,  
PRELATES should know as much of Heaven as thou:  
But now Friend William since it's done and passed,  
Pray thee, give us fanatics but one cast,  
What thou foresaw'st of March the Fifteenth Last;  
When swift and sudden as the Angels fly,  
Th' Declaration for Conscience Liberty;  
When things of Heaven burst from the Royal-breast,  
More fragrant than the spices of the East.  
I know in next years Almanac thou'st writ,  
Thou sawst the King and Council overnight,  
Before that morn, all sit in Heaven as plain  
To be discerned, as if 'twere Charles' Wain,  
Great B. great L. and two great AA's were chief  
Under great CHARLES to give poor Fan's relief▪  
Thou sawest Lord Arlington ordain the man  
To be the first Lay-Metropolitan.  
Thou saw'st him give induction to a spital,  
And constitute our brother TOM-DOE-LITTLE.  
In the Bear's paw, and the Bulls right Eye,  
Some Detriment to Priests thou didst espy;  
And though by Sol in Libra thou didst know  
Which way the scale of policy would go;  
Yet Mercury in Aries did decree,  
That Wool and Lamb should still Conformists be.  
But hark-you Will, Star-poching is not fair;  
Had you amongst the Stars found this March-Hare,  
Bred of that lusty Puss the Good Old Cause,  
Religion rescued from Informing Laws;  
You should have yelpt aloud, hangings the end,  
By huntsmen's Rule, of Hounds that will not spend,  
Be gone thou and thy canting Tribe, be gone;  
Go tell thy destiny to fools or none:  
Kings Hearts and Councils are to deep for thee,  
And for thy Stars and Doemons scrutiny.  
King CHARLES' Return was much above thy skill  
To fumble out, as 'twas against thy will,  
From him who can the hearts of Kings inspire,  
Not from the Planets, came that sacred Fire  
Of Sovereign Love, which burst into a Flame;  
From God and from the King alone it came.   

To the KING.  
SO great, so universal, and so free!  
This was too much great CHARLES, except for Thee,  
For any King to give a Subject hope:  
To do thus like Thee, would undo the Pope.  
Yea, though his Vassals should their wealth combine,  
To buy Indulgence half so large as Thine;  
No, if they should not only kiss his Toe,  
But Clement's Podex, he'd not let them go.  
Whilst Thou, to's Shame, Thy immortal Glory,  
Hast freed All-Souls from real Purgatory;  
And given All-Saints in Heaven new Joys, to see  
Their Friends in England keep a Jubilee.  
Suspect them not, Great Sir, nor think the worse;  
For sudden Joys, like Grief, confound at first,  
The Splendour of Your Favour was so bright,  
That yet it dazzles, and overwhelms our Sight.  
Drunk with her Cups, my Muse did nothing find:.  
And until now, her Feet she could not find.  
Greediness make, Profaneness i'th' first place;  
Hungry Men fill their Bellies, then say Grace.  
We would make Bonfires, but that we do fear  
Name of Incendiaries we may hear.  
We would have Music too, but 'twill not do,  
For all the Fiddlers are Conformists too,  
Nor can we ring, the angry Churchman Swears,  
(By the King's leave) the Bells and Ropes are theirs.  
And let 'em take 'em, for our tongue, shall sing  
Your Honour louder than their Clappers Ring.  
Nay, if they will not at this Grace repine,  
We'll dress the Vineyard, they shall drink the Wine.  
Their Church shall be the Mother, ours the Nurse.  
Peter shall Preach, judas shall bear the Purse,  
No Bishops, Parsons, Vicars, Curates, we,  
But only Ministers desire to be.  
We 'l preach in Sackcloth, they shall Read in Silk.  
We'll Feed the Flock, and let them take the Mildust:  
Let but the Blackbirds sing in bushes cold,  
And may the jackdaws still the Steeples hold.  
We'll be the Feet, the Back, and Hands, and they  
Shall be the Belly, and devour the Prey,  
The Tythe-pigg shall be theirs, we'll turn the Spit,  
We'll bear the Cross, they only Sign with it.  
But if the Patriarches shall envy show  
To see their Younger-Brother joseph go  
In Coat of divers colours, and shall fall  
To rend it, 'cause it's not Canonical:  
Then may they find him turn a Dreamer too;  
And live themselves to see his Dream come true.  
May rather they and we together join  
In all what each can; but they have the Coin,  
With Prayers and Tears such Service much avail:  
With Tears to swell your Seas, with Prayers your Sails;  
And with Men too, from both our Parties; such  
I'm sure we have, can cheat, or beat, the Dutch.  
A Thousand Quakers, Sir, our side can spare;  
Nay, two or three, for they great breeders are.  
The Church can match us too with Jovial Sirs,  
Informers, Singing-men and Paraters.  
Let the King try, set these upon the Decks  
Together, they will Dutch or Devil Vex.  
Their Breath will mischief far beyond a Gun,  
And if you lose them, you'll not be undone.  
Accept dread Sir, and pardon this corpse Paper,  
Your Licence 'twas made this poor Poet caper.   

THE CHARACTER OF A True English-Man.  
THe freeborn English, generous and wise,  
Hate Chains; but do not Government despise;  
Rights of the Crown, Tribute and Taxes, they  
When lawfully exacted, freely pay.  
Force they abhor, and wrongs they scorn to bear,  
More guided by their Judgement than their Fear,  
Justice with them was never held severe.  
There, Power by Tyranny was never got,  
Laws might perhaps enslave them; Force cannot.  
King's are less safe in their unbounded Will,  
Joined with the wretched Power of doing iii.  
Forsaken most, when they're most absolute;  
Laws Guard the Man, and only bind the brute.  
To force that Guard with its worst Foe to join,  
Can never be a prudent King's Design,  
What Prince would change to be a Catiline?  
Break his own Laws, shake the unquestioned Throne,  
Conspire with Vassals to usurp his own!  
Let France grow proud beneath the Tyrant's Lust,  
Whilst the racked People crawl, and lick the Dust:  
The mighty Genius of this Isle disdains  
Both High-shoons Slavery, and Golden Chains.  
England to servile Yoke could never bow;  
What Conquerors ne'er presumed, who dares do now?  
In vain your Holiness does rack your Brain,  
No Son of yours that happy Isle can gain:  
Armed with blessed Bibles, and undated Law,  
They guard themselves, and keep the World in awe:  
Whilst CHARLES Survives, and Parliaments can Sat,  
They scorn your Tories Swords, and jesuits Wit.   

ABHORRERS ABHORRED.  
Abhorred Abhorrers, horribly Abhorred!  
Monsters more base than afric can afford?  
What? Not Petition to our Sovereign Lord,  
That Parliaments might sit, and save the KING  
And Kingdom too, from those that both would bring  
To Slavery; first Lawless Chains at Home,  
And next intolerable Yokes from Rome?  
Be gone ye Fops to France, and there enslave  
Yourselves, and Spurious offspring; for a Knave  
Is fit t' Vassals; but too brave  
Is this Rich Isle, which only owneth those,  
That Popish Bondage do resolve t' oppose:  
Was't thou in England born, and there born Free?  
Thou profane Esau! Nay more vile than He;  
To sell thy Birthright to the French and Pope,  
Where all the Acquisition thou couldst Hope  
Was wooden-shooes; Fire, Faggot, and a Rope?  
Let Tyburn take thee, and thy fellow Slaves,  
And all detesting and Abhoring Knaves.  
Then CHARLES' lives safe, and quickly may become  
The Head of all Reformed Christendom:  
Secure the Belgic fears, and ours at Home.  
Blast Flower - de-luces', and the Keys of Rome.  
Next after God, to him our thanks we pay,  
For this (if but well-used) sure healing day;  
That our great Senate sits, whose joint Accord  
Does Vote ABHORRERS all to be Abhorred.   

To the Parliament.  
HAil, Glorious Senate, welcome as the day  
To wearied Pilgrims that have lost their way,  
Night-mareed by Goblins, and long led astray.  
Welcome! as Liberty to Algier-Slaves;  
As Gold to Courtiers, or Pardons to Knaves.  
The half-dead Genius of our trembling Isle  
At your Approach revives into a Smile:  
Each drooping Protestant begins look Grace,  
And dull October Rivals sprightly May.  
By your Sage Counsels we at once become  
A Match for haughty France and treacherous Rome:  
But first subdue the Monsters here at Home.  
Monsters! that would our Sacred Faith and Laws  
Or'e-turn, and in their never satiate Maws  
Swallow (like Egypt's Vermin) each green thing,  
Enslave our Persons, and destroy our King;  
That seek to strike out both our Eyes, and still  
Confine (for sport) our sampson's to their Mill.  
Prevent those dire designs, Dispel our Fears,  
Blast the Plot at the Root, and by your Cares  
Secure both us, and our yet unborn Heirs.  
May Heavens Blessing Crown all your Debates  
(On which depend more than three Kingdoms Fates.)  
May your blessed Union calm out jarring Notes,  
And Publick-Good give Birth to all the Votes,  
From each true English Heart these Vows are sent,  
Long live our King, Long sit our Parliament.   

A short Reply to Absalon and Achitophel.  
IN pious times when Poets were well banged  
For saucy satire, and for Sham-Plots hanged,  
A Learned Bard, that long commanded had  
The trembling Stage in Chief, at last run mad,  
And Swore and tore and ranted at no rate.  
Apollo and his Muses in debate  
What to do with him, one cried, let him Blood,  
That says another, will do little good;  
His brains infected sure, under his Nose  
We'll burn some Feathers of Peru, who knows  
But that may bring him to himself again?  
Ay, for some time says Clyo; she was more  
For Opiates, others for Hellebore.  
Apollo having heard all they could say,  
Rose up and thanked them said, he'd try away  
He hoped would do, than called a Noble Friend  
Well versed in Men, and begged of him to spend  
Some time and pains upon this wretch, which he,  
Agreeing to, went presently to work,  
Opened his head, saw where the Maggots lurk,  
Took many of them out, put them in Sut,  
Then Added Mercury and Nitre to't,  
Mixed and infused them well, and after all,  
Distilled them in a Limbeck Comical,  
And drew a Spirit very Sovereign,  
For those are troubled with the fits o'th' Brain,  
And gave our Poets some, all he could make  
The peevish, Squeamish, self-willed Coxcomb take,  
It did him good and cured him of those Fits:  
But 'twas too little to restore his Wits:  
For since he has gin o'er to Plague the Stage  
With the effects of his Poetic rage,  
Like a mad Dog he runs about the Streets,  
Snarling and Biting every one he meets.  
The other day he met our Royal CHARLES,  
And his two Mistresses, and at them Snarls.  
Then falls upon the Ministers of State  
Treats them all A-la-mode de Billingsgate:  
But most of all, the glory of our gown,  
He must be barked at, Driviled, pissed upon.  
He whose soft tongue had charms enough t'assuage  
The Tiger's fierceness, could not scape the rage  
Of this same whiffling Cur; poor Cerberous,  
That taught the Rogue to bark, was served just thus.  
This Viper's brood, contrary to all Laws,  
The torn out Entrails of his Parent knaws.  
He gives no quarter, spairs no friend, nor foe,  
And where he once gets hold, never lets go  
Until he breaks a Tooth, which he hath done  
So oft of late that he hath few or none  
Left in his mouth. Nay which is worst of all  
On his Physician he does always fall,  
And find him out where e'er he is, and bawl  
Eternally, taking in Evil part  
What he good man did by the rules of Art,  
And for his good, assisted by a Set  
Of the most able Leeches he could get;  
Apollo vexed to see there was no more  
Effect of Medicine, bid his Friend give o'er,  
And sent some Surgeons to him to anoint  
The Carcase of the whelp in every Joint  
With Cyl of Crabtree, than which nothing fetches  
The itching Venom out of Scribbling Wretches  
Better or sooner, but I know not how  
It came to pass, with him it would not do.  
For since his being anointed, he is run  
Yelping with Towier up and down the Town,  
And crying out against an Absalon  
And an Achitophel. The Curs had got  
Between them in their Mouths a new Sham-Plot,  
The Twentieth of the Kings, some say indeed  
It is the same that Mother Colier hid,  
Deep in the Meal-tub, only new licked o'er  
And brought to better shape by half a score  
Of Irish Mongrels, newly fetched from thence,  
The best in England at an Evidence.  
A little bribe will make them swear devoutly,  
They're much more famous for their swearing stoutly,  
Then for their fight so, this kind of cattle  
Are better far at Roguery than Battle,  
An Irish man's Antiwood-cock, cares  
To venture nothing but his head and Ears.  
This Copper coin will never with us pass,  
It looks so scurvily, nay it smells of Brass;  
How could you think this would be currant here,  
That is not so at home? 'Tis cried down there:  
What then shall we do now; saith you had best  
Try Scotland next, now it hath passed the Test;  
Come hither my Dog Towser, come, for I  
A new Experiment intent to try,  
I'll have thee wormed, hold out thy Venomed Tongue,  
What a huge Worm is here? 'Tis an Inch Long,  
And of the Jebusite smells very strong,  
If this won't do thou shalt be fairly hung.   

Oliver Cromwel's Ghost.  By Doctor Wild. 
Roused from Infernal Caverns void of Light,  
Where Traitors Souls keep an Eternal Night:  
Through the Earth's friendly Pores at last I come  
To view the Fate of Mangled Christendom,  
Treason and Blood, Ruin and Usurpation,  
Deceit, hypocrisy, and Devastation;  
Envy, Ambition, and untamed desire,  
Still to gain more, still to be mounted higher:  
Wars, Janglings, Murders, and a Thousand more  
Vices like these, you know were heretofore.  
The only grateful Bantlings, which could find,  
A kind Reception in my gloomy mind—  
— But now alas I'm changed— the Pondrous guilt  
Of Treason, and the Sacred blood I spilt;  
Those crowds of Loyal-Subjects I made groan,  
Under pretence of strict Religion,  
When I myself, to speak the Truth, had none:  
Too weighty for my struggling Soul did grow,  
And pressed it downwards to the shades below,  
Where it these twenty years has Silent lain,  
Tormented with Variety of pain,  
Too great for fleshly Mortals to sustain.  
Nor had it bu●g'd as yet— but that the Fame  
Of Plots, Conspiracies, and Murders came  
To the Infernal Gates so fast, that I,  
For others good, forgot my misery:  
And whilst the busy Daemons were Employed  
In culling out a bloody Regicide,  
I bilkt my Keeper, and with wondrous pain,  
Once more I mount my Native Soil again;  
Where to my Grief, more villainies I view,  
Than Heaven e'er Pardoned, or than Hell e'er knew.  
Since Lucifer's like Rome's Destructive Pride,  
Both Damned himself, and all his Imps beside:  
Though old in Artful Wickedness I be,  
Yet Rome, I now Resign the Wall to thee;  
Thou in this single Plot, hast now done more  
Than Mankind, helped by Hell, could do before.  
What! was thy swelled Ambition grown so wide,  
That nought but Kings could satisfy thy Pride?  
Must Monarches, whom the Heaven itself does prize,  
Now become Morsels for thy gaping Vice.  
Methought, though hot with Gluttony thou burn,  
A Pious Justice might have served thy turn;  
Especially when, (to content you more)  
Spitted on's Sword, and Pickled in his Gore;  
But now your aim we better understand,  
He was the Whetstone— you gaped for all the Land.  
Strange Cormorant! that in her monstrous Breast,  
Could at one meal three butchered Lands digest.  
Ye Powers! I thought my Country's Innocence,  
(When in fierce Whirlwind) you had born me hence)  
And by the Power of your most just command,  
Restored the Sceptre to the owner's hand)  
Would have sufficient been to Wall you free  
From the Assaults of such an Enemy.  
I little thought, when last I took my leave,  
And sadly entered my unwelcome Grave,  
That e'er the Porphry Idol could command  
So great a Friendship in our Native Land;  
As by that means to hope to circumvent,  
With black design both King and Government.  
But yet take heed ye Romish Idiots,  
That have a hand in these most Hellish Plots;  
Who by your base contrivance, hope to bring  
Ruin to Nations, Death unto a King.  
Beware, I say, by my Example do,  
For there's a God above does all things view:  
Tho wrapped in Clouds amongst the Skies he dwells,  
Yet he discerns you in your closest Cells;  
sees your Contrivances, and whilst you poor  
Conceived Traitors think yourselves secure,  
He your Clandestine Plots does plainly view,  
And will divulge them and their Actors too.  
Trust my Experience, one who if you will  
Believe, what all the World says of him still,  
Had no small share of Pride, Ambition, Wit,  
Courage and Conduct too to manage it.  
By which I wrought my Cursed designs so high,  
I could have matched my Brewer's Family.  
With the best Blood in Britain. Right or wrong,  
Or Life or Death, attended on my Tongue:  
All the three Kingdoms truckled to my Will—  
But what of this?— I was a Traitor still.  
Nay, so intemperate was my folly grown,  
I boldly offered at the Sacred Crown;  
Which though I missed,— yet by a holy Cheat,  
At last I gained to fill the tottering Seat;  
And made ten Thousand Soldiers Armed appear  
With Roaring Guns to plead my Title there.  
Not doubting but that happy Seat should be  
Transferred from me to my Posterity.  
But all was insignificant, when Death  
Unkindly Robbed me of beloved breath:  
My Titles all forsaken me, and my Race,  
Instead of them, Inherit my disgrace.  
This is the Fate of Traitors here; but know,  
That could you think what they endure below,  
I'm sure you would be Loyal; but the Pope  
By prating Jesuits, has so raised your hope,  
That I in vain those tortures now should tell,  
You'll know them when I meet you there—  
Farewell. R. W. D. D.   

Upon Nothing.  By the E. of R. 
NOthing thou Elder Brother, Eve to shade,  
Thou hadst a being ere the World was made  
Well fixed alone, of ending not afraid.  
ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not  
When primitive Nothing, Something straight begot,  
Then all proceeded from the great united What!  
Something, the General Attribute of all,  
Severed from Thee its sole Original,  
Into thy boundless Self must undistinguished fall.  
Yet Something, did thy Nothing Power command  
And from thy Fruitful Emptinesses Hand  
Snatch Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Water, Air, and Land  
Matter, the wickedest Off spring of thy Race,  
By Form assisted, flew from thy Embrace,  
And Rebel Life obscured thy Reverend Face.  
With Form and matter, Time and Place did join  
Body, thy Foe, with these did Leagues combine,  
To spoil thy Peaceful Reign, and Ruin all they Line  
But Turncoat Time assists the Foe in vain,  
And bribed by Thee, destroys their short Lived Reign  
And to thy hungry Womb drives back the Slave's again  
Thy Mysteries are hid from Laic Eyes,  
And the Divine alone by Warrant pries  
Into thy bosom, where thy Truth in private lies.  
Yet this of Thee, the Wife may truly say,  
Thou from the Virtuous, nothing takes away;  
And to be part of Thee, the Wicked wisely Pray.  
Great Negative! how vainly would the Wise  
Inquire, Design, Distinguish, Teach, Devise,  
Didst not thou stand to point their blind Philosophies.  
Is, or is not, the two great Ends of Fate,  
Of True or False, the Subject of debate,  
That perfects or destroys designs of State.  
When they have wracked the Politicians breast,  
Within thy bosom most securely Rest,  
Reduced to Thee are least, though safe and best.  
But Nothing, why doth Something still permit,  
That sacred Monarches should at Council set  
With Persons thought, at best, for Nothing sit?  
Whilst weighty Something, modestly abstains  
From Prince's Courts, and from the Statesman's brains,  
And nothing there like stately Nothing Reigns.  
Nothing, that dwells with Fools, in grave disguise,  
For whom they Revered Forms and Shapes devise,  
Lawn Sleeves, and Furs, and Gowns, when they look Wife.  
French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy,  
Hibernian Learning, Scoth Civility,  
Spaniards Dispatch, Danes Wit are seen in Thee.   

On Bow-Church and Steeple. Or a Second Poem upon Nothing!  
LOok how the Country-Hobbs with wonder flock  
To see the City-crest, turned Weathercock!  
Which with each shifting Gale, veres too and fro;  
London has now got twelve strings to her Bow!  
The Wind's Southeast, and straight the Dragon russels  
His brazen wings to court the breeze from Brussels!  
The Wind's at North! and now his hissing Fork,  
Whirls round, to meet a flattering gale from York!  
Boxing the Compass, with each freshing Gale,  
But still to London turns his threatening Tail.  
But stay what's there; I spy a stranger thing;  
Our Red-cross brooded by the Dragon's wing!  
The wing is warm, but O! beware the sting!  
Poor English-Cross, exposed to winds and weathers,  
Forced to seek shelter in the Dragon's feathers!  
ne'er had old Rome so rare a piece to brag on,  
A Temple built to great Bell, and the Dragon!  
Whilst yet undaunted Protestants, dare hope,  
They that will worship Bell, shall wear the Rope,  
O how our English Chronicles will shine!  
Burnt, sixty six; Rebuilt, in seventy nine,  
When jacob Hall on his High Rope shows tricks,  
The Dragon flutters; the Lord-Mayors Horse kicks;  
The Cheapside-crowds, and Pageants scarcely know  
Which most t'admire, Hall, Hobby-Horse, or Bow;  
But what mad Frenzy set your Zeal on fire?  
(Grave Citizens!) to 〈…〉 Spire  
On Sea-coal Basis? which will sooner yield  
Matter to Burn a Temple, than to Build!  
What the Coals build, the Ashes bury! no Men  
Of Wisdom, but would dread the threatening Omen!  
But say (Proud Dragon!) now preferred so High,  
What Marvels from that 〈…〉?  
〈…〉  
Of, sometimes Reverend, now Regenerate, Fauls,  
Thy envious Eyes, such Glories cannot brook,  
But as the Devil once over Lincoln, look:  
And envies Poison, will thy Bowels Tear  
Sooner than Daniel's Doses, of Pitch, and Hair!  
Then Eastward, to avoid that wounding sight,  
Thy Glaring Eyes upon the Mum-glass, light.  
Adorned with Monstrous forms to clear the scope,  
How much thou art out-dragoned by the Pope.  
Ah fools! to dress a Monument of woe  
In whistling Silks, that should in Sackloth, go!  
Nay strangely wise, our Senators appear  
To build That, and a Bedlam in a year,  
That if the Mum-glass crack, they may inherit  
An Hospital becoming their great merit!  
To Royal Westminster, next turn thine eye;  
Perhaps a Parliament thou mayst espy,  
Dragons of old gave Oracles at Rome;  
Then Prophecy, their Day, their Date, and Doom!  
And if thy Visual Ray can reach the Main;  
Tell's when the Duke, new gone, returns again!  
Facing abont; next view our Guildhall well,  
Where Reverend Fox-furrs charmed by potent spell  
Of Elephants, (turned wrong side outward) dare  
Applaud the Plays; and yet hiss our the Player:  
Player! whose wise zeal for City, Country, King,  
Shall to all points of the wide Compass ring  
Whilst Bow has Bells, or Royal Thames a Spring!  
Thy Roving Eye perhaps from Hague may send's  
How the New League, has made Old Foes, New Friends:  
But let substantial witness, Credence give it,  
Or ne'er believe me, if the House believe it!  
If true, I fear too late! France at one sup,  
(Like Pearls dissolved in Cloepatra's Cup)  
Trade, Empire, netherlands has swallowed up!  
But hark! The Dragon speaks from Brazen Mouth,  
Whose words, though wind, are spoken in Good south!  
To you of Rattling fame, and great esteem;  
The higher placed, the less you ought to seem!  
To you of Noble Souls, and Gallant Minds,  
Learn to outface (with me) the Huffing winds!  
To timorous feeble Spirits, that live beneath;  
Learn not of me to turn with every breath!  
To those who like (Chameleons) live on Air;  
Popular Praise is thin Consumptive fare!  
To you who Steeple upon Steeple set,  
Cut my Coxcomb, if e'er to Heaven you get.   

The Conclusion.  

I.  
LEt Gods un-erring Providence protect  
Great CHARLES in's Throne, and all his ways direct▪  
Let all His Foes be scattered like the Dust;  
And let that Sacred Trust,  
(Derived from God alone)  
Make a lasting and a happy Throne.   

II.  
Let all State-Traytors Plots, be left i'th' Lurch,  
That hate our Sovereign, and would ruin our Church.  
May's Royal Temples wear the Imperial Crown,  
Till England's Foes come down,  
With vengeance from that seat  
Usurped to ruin us, and make them great.   
FINIS.