A satire, By way of DIALOGUE Between Lucifer, and the Ghosts of Shaftsbury and Russell.  Shafts. 
WElcome, dear Brother Traitor to the Laws;  
Thrice welcome, bold Espouser of our Cause.  
Infernal Tribes of Fiends their Homage pays,  
And your false Head bedecks with fiery Bays.  
Heaven had almost o'er Hell a Conquest won,  
Had not your Prudent Conduct theirs outdone:  
For when the tottering Cause did faintly droop,  
Her Friends being fled, brave you alone stood up  
For her Defence, that you with Potent Hand,  
And Prudent Heart confounded half the Land:  
For still so soon's they viewed your awful Face,  
Each Rebel did himself in's Posture place,  
Then with uplifted Voice, and hideous Cries  
Proclaimed your Praises to the troubled Skies,  
Geneva's Hopes had turned to damned Despair,  
Had not your daring Mind dispersed her Care.  
You from her Eyes all Tears clean wiped away,  
Banished her Darkness, and confirmed her Day;  
And had the juster heavens adjourned my Fate,  
I'd wrought both Down-fall of the Church and State;  
Had not th' Allseeing Power descried my Crime,  
And snatched me from God's Earth before the Time.  
What Judas or Achitophel e'er hatced,  
And more should been by my Adventures matched;  
I'd made both King and Bishop tumble down,  
I'd rend the Surplice and consumed the Crown:  
Who dared but lisped the Name of King or Pope,  
Without a Sentence past should stretched a Rope.  
Geneva, Hell and I, to Heaven and Rome  
In spite of Law would soon denounced their Doom.  
Your Tub-men Prelate's Flesh should served to feast,  
Because they speak the Language of the Beast.  
With Hellish Darts against both Church and Laws,  
And rably Guards I'd fortified the Cause.  
Three Kingdoms wearied of a peaceful Reign,  
Should been embroiled in Blood with our Design.  
Father should Son, and Children Parents killed;  
But our damned Plot by Hell we would fulfilled;  
And when the Fiery Trial crowned the Day,  
we'd still been cleared by Ignoramus Sway.  
In Fine, in Golden Letters each Whigg's Name  
should blazed be in the Records of Fame.  
But now too late, I'n vain condole my Day,  
My Tap was run, I could no longer stay.  
I hope the World knows still I did my worst,  
And in promoting Plots was still the first:  
T' each common Vice I was by Nature moved,  
In higher Crimes by Art and Age improved:  
Yet for all this, our Plot's like to decay;  
Our Leaders faint, and Brethren go astray.  
Oh could the juster Judge of Israel's Tribes  
Found my Ignoramus for Fanatic Bribes,  
And had your Earthly Jury found thus, even  
This makes me curse our Laws since used in Heaven.  
Now with damned Furies since confined to lodge,  
we'll ne'er give over, but bear Mankind a Grudge.  
Let them conspire above, and we'll plot under,  
To furnish Hell, and all the Prisons plunder.  Russ. 
Why this Address, bold Wretch, darest th' own thy Gild?  
Dost know how many thousand Bloods thou'st spilt?  
Cursed be the day when first I saw thy Face;  
I banished Reason to give Treason Place.  
Traitor to God, thy King, and Friend, that's worse;  
Crowds that adored before, thy Fame does curse:  
In Prime, Of the damned Plot 'gainst State and Church,  
You sneaked away, and left me in the Lurch,  
With dull mechanic Monsters, and a Crew  
Of Thick-skulled Fools, who did our Snares undo.  
Thrice happy Thoughts had sure possessed my Mind,  
Had I but made you leave your Head behind:  
Which had I done, I should enjoyed your Brains  
With my poor Head, and saved the Hangman's Pains.  
But now alas, the dismal days are come,  
Which our Cabals did still design for Rome.  
And in Infernal Caves damned must I lie,  
Plotting in vain with Devils for Liberty:  
Nor did I, as some Traitors did to peach,  
To save my Soul, nor our black Gild did preach  
To Tory Blades: For had I cut my Throat,  
My Blood would cried, A damned Fanatic Plot;  
But I, true Traytor-like, in Flower of Age,  
With an undaunted Mind did mount the State;  
Where to the World I'n spite of King and Laws,  
With my last Gasp of Breath pressed home the Cause;  
Cried for our Liberties and countries' Good,  
In open Shame is shed my guiltless Blood,  
Which squeezed salt Tears forth from each traitor's Eyes;  
With Sighs and Hellish Groans they filled the Skies:  
Such bold Examples still prevail much more  
To smother Plots, than any Shame before.  
I hope there's not one Covenanter left,  
That is not of his Sense and Soul bereft,  
Who dares deny he's Debtor for his Breath  
To my good Service done at th' hour of Death:  
My Life t' an end renouncing God and King,  
The Devil, the Dr. and myself did bring.  
With Reverence I must remember's Gown,  
That seldom but at fatal Hours is shown:  
And for my sake I hope he'll save my Watch,  
Which I did him present with, not Squire Catch:  
Against the Maxims of both Sense and Reason,  
I blessed my fatal Hour, and hugged my Treason.  
Of two great Ev'ls the greater did I chose,  
My Life by Law, not for the Law to lose.  
I thanked my Stars, like some Turk, Jew, or Tartar,  
That there I died a Traitor, not a Martyr.  Shafts. 
Most brave audacious Champion of the Cause,  
Our chief Deformer of both Church and Laws:  
Let's still persist in Vice, eat doing Good,  
Oh could we cool our Tongues in Royal Blood;  
Old Noll, the Devil, proud Catiline consult,  
What from the worst of Plots may most result.  
Those upstart Traitors must not be compared  
With one whose Family was ever feared,  
But for my part, you'll grant I'm an Old Rogue,  
And while on Earth 'mongst Traitors bore a Vogue;  
Know by Compulsion you're sent here to dwell;  
But I myself came Volunteer to Hell:  
Yet next to Belzebub and me you shall  
Be still preferred before the whole Cabal:  
For Rebel-like you still contrived new Plots,  
And filled each Loyal Scutcheon full of Blots;  
And in your utmost Minute showed more bright,  
Than Phoebus mounted in's Meridian Height.  
You vouched your Blood for Protestants was spilt;  
Nay more, confessed the Fact, denied the Gild.  
You did not, like mechanic cowardly Fops,  
Confess so soons they saw their fatal Ropes;  
But, Traytor-like, joined to the Cause new Growth,  
Expiring, like a Rogue, with Lie in Mouth;  
By which I hope the Multitude you moved  
To plot anew, since all you said's approved:  
For sure the Rabble will believe you sooner  
Than Wallcot, Rouse, or any Whiggish Joiner.  
Well, let's plot on in spite of Laws and Reason,  
We'll please ourselves in Flames, contriving Treason:  
We'll still conspire below to ruin Earth;  
Till Friends and Foes both curse our fatal Birth.  
We'll send Advice to Titus and your Friend:  
For Oaths and Prayers with them are Blasts of Wind;  
And can procure a Pack of Helter Skalters,  
To furnish Necks as long as Catch can Halters.  Russ. 
Well, since poor Mortals can't revoke the Day,  
When past; but to succeeding Fate give way  
must, then let damned despair seize every Heart,  
And Fiends their Hellish Malice t'us impart.  
We'll take the Covenant from its Maker's Hand,  
To's hellish Laws, and him that firm we'll stand;  
'Gainst Heaven and King we'll straight go levy War,  
Cursed Hosts of Hell shall aid us from afar.  
Would that the House were once assembled here,  
We'd pass the Bill in spite of any Peer;  
And if our Plots cannot perplex the Nation,  
The Devil himself we will depose from's Station;  
And if our sham's take not as they're appointed,  
To touch the Person of the Lord's anointed,  
We'll straight a full Discovery then make,  
And on our Friends a whole Revenge we'll take:  
For nought but the whole Ruin of Mankind,  
Can please a Rebell-Whigg's Bloodthirsty Mind.  Lucifer, 
Bravely resolved, true whigs, by Hell, I swear,  
Such ploting Heroes dare not think of Fear.  
Old Noll and I were quite wore out of Hopes,  
Till now revived by you the Causes Props.  
Now for its sake and mine we'll march about,  
To keep the kindled Fire from dying out:  
New Treasons I'll convey'n your Speaker's Ears,  
T' incense the Rabble with Seditious Fears;  
To tell the King's a Tyrant and a Papist,  
Worse than a Jew, yea, worse than Turk or Atheist;  
And that he with his Bishops daily prop  
Th' Interest of the French King and the Pope:  
If that's denied, I'll bid them mark the Skies,  
What dreadful flaming Meteors there arise.  
I'll say these are the Missioners of Rome,  
To signify True Protestants their Doom:  
And when, like Deluges the Waters stand,  
Shows that the Beast will float within this Land.  
Let's term the Papists dying words but Wind,  
Equivocating Shamms t' ensnare the blind:  
And since the City Charter has been gone,  
Both Judge and Jury Papists ev'ery one.  
Swear Howard was a Papist born and bred,  
The Joiner a rank Jesuit by Trade:  
Tell 'tis more genteeel conspiring and a ploting,  
Than Tory-like to Whoring, lie and Sotting.  
When any Mischief's acted by our Sots,  
Make Titus blame his horrid Popish Plots;  
But's Hand is out, 'tis long since he kissed the Book,  
Which makes me fear his Oaths will ne'er be took:  
If any frailer Brother should confess,  
Strait have him swore a Priest in Trades-man's Dress;  
And doubtless every Goal before it be long,  
Will by the Faithful Traitors be made strong.  
At last with whigs when surfeited they swell,  
They'll spew them forth by Cart-Loads into Hell.   

London, Printed in the Year, 1683.