A TALE of THE TUBS or ROME'S MASTER PEICE Defeated Villains beware, a Parliament will Rout ye they never yet have failed. POPE look About ye Deus Vidit S. Wilt Waller Col● Mansell Weighty Things We 〈…〉 Meal Tub Turn Coat Rob 〈◊〉 Gadbury Madam Po● Se●eier Popish Midwife All we fear's a Parliament The Drunken Crew Ale Tub all our Cares more Ale and Wenches If England's Prayers be heard, and Senate sit; Down goes proud Rome, French Arms, and Northern Wit. The Ale-Tub's Complaint. O Unkind Devil, thus at last deceive me! Stay till the Ale was out, and then to leave me: Hath not my service greater been by odds, Than can be hoped from Bread and wooden Gods? See how our offspring altogether strive, To keep the Balance and the Ale alive, Although at Bottom, while perfidious you Tack to that Triple Dog and Damned Crew Of Loyala's till they Us all undo: Sot that you are, to have a greater hope From a few Priests, and an old doting Pope, That their dry PLOTS, can e'er your interest further Than I have done, by Rapine, Whores, and Murder, Who by the Liquor of my musty Cell Hath sent you scores, nay hundreds, quick to Hell: You are ungrateful, thus to leave old Friends, And think Rome's Vassals e'er can make amends; Who when their work is done will Domineer; And swear that hell was meally mouthed for fear: Then turn your hand, and on our side it give, Or they will stave my Hogshead as I live, And so grow sober, then shall both on's pass, Ale for a Witch, thou Devil for an Ass. The Devil (or Jack, on both side's) Reply. What Ails this Drunken Puppy to Complain, Thinks he I know not where's my greatest gain: That Pack of Bandogs, breed of Northern Tikes; Shall Tease the souls of all that us dislikes; Must my Vicegerent with his Triple Crown By Empty Ale-Tubs ere be weighed down? No know I am wiser, Drunkards are but fools Unto this MEAL-TUB and his Holinesses Tools. 'Tis true, the Ale-Tub, is our friend we know, And oft from thence some Reeling to Hell go, But these can Ruin Kingdoms at a Blow. And where they Conquer, there the Herreticks feel, Far greater Torments than our whips of Steel We Exercise upon our Slaves below, Who (but for them) did ne'er such tortures know. Flay men alive, then forth their Bowels tear, Women rip up with Child, and on their Spear Mount their young Infants, while in blood they sprawl, The Catholics way to quiet them that Bawl; Cities Consume with fire, Ravish Maid and Wise, Destroy by Poison, Pistol, Burnings, Knife, With thousand other ways to End their hated Life. But what is best of all: when they have done, They call this holy work: most Christian— Acted from pure zeal, and love so mild, Makes them as guiltless as the Unborn Child; Two Ave-marys, and one Pater-Nos— Will make amends for all, and quit the Cost They're daring sinners, of the Pope's first Rate, With God himself they will Equivocate— By Breaden Gods they can Absolve a Lie— Nay by the Mass they dare do more than I, Not Tremble at, but mock the Deity.— Then cease to murmur, they shall bear the Bell For Damned Designs, and PLOTS that outdoes Hell. The Jesuits speak their merits. Most Holy Father, we do much admire Your weighty Goodness, and your Reverend Sire, Whose helping hand doth for us turn the Scale, By him we have, and do, and shall prevail; 'Tis not Heaven's Power that shall frustrate this Most Brave design, which in the MEAL-TUB is; Nor Presbyterians save their hated Throats, Now at the last, by a Damned tell-tale Oats. If Hell for Heaven we matter not) 〈◊〉 This Blessed Intrigue, by all our Gods the MEAL Shall have high honour, on our Altars that Made into Gods be worshipped smoking hot. This matchless Treason, makes it holy all— White as from Tower scrapped, or Westward Hall; This wonderworking Euch'rist shall do more Than Jesuits Powder, Pensioner, or Whore, Or all the Baffled Plots we e'er Contrived before, 'Twill make the Herreticks all aghast to see Themselves the Plotters, murdered Legally. And make us fat with Laughing, how they will Divided fall and one another Kill:— 'Tis holy sport to see their blood run down In every Channel of the Burned Town, While Changeling Robin, Bugbear in the City, Dye the Green Ribbons Red; by Hell that's pretty: Then shall that Mote, in Northern eye be sped, After Exile called back to lose his head. But these are scraps of what our TUB contains. And do these Coxcombs, with their addled Brains, Think e'er to weigh us down with Ale and Grains? No Punies know, your Reeling throng's outdone, we'll make all England stagger e'er't be Long: But talking's Idle, let's to action come, And strike the stroke, may Ruin Christendom. Sir William Waller to Col. Mansell. See Mansell where that Damned hellish Crew, Are plotting Murders, and begin with you; See heaven discovers unto thee and I Their horrid Treasons, hellbred Villainy, Concht in that packet brought by Willoughby. Oh Blessed God whose mercies infinite Do yet preserve us from Eternal Night; It's thou alone whose heavenly goodness still Defends our Lives (almost) against our will, From these vile Plotters, Miscreants of Rome, Bloodthirsty Villains, Pests of Christendom. Direct me Heaven to take them in their toil, And all their Treasons, and their plottings spoil. Let's in amongst them, Mansel, here's my hand, I'll lose my life to save my native Land. 'Tis done, says Mansel brave Sir William; I In such a cause with you am proud to die. We'll make those Vermin know, we scorn their rage, Our nobler Souls dares Rome and Hell engage. And if such manhood Reigneth in us two, What can't the Courage of our English do? But Ruin all its Foes, when once provoked thereto. Let's search that Pest house, where the Midwife's bread, Who brings Rome's Bastards and their Plots to bed, Methinks it looks, as if the Tower Beasts Had there some Prey on which they often feast. 'Tis there my Lady meets her trusty Steer; Some Newgate-Birds and Sir Examiner. There's Stars amongst them whence young Tycho drew The Plots good fortune, but his own not knew; See how the Whores of either Sexes Tug, While the Grand Bawd sits Brooding on the TUB, we'll turn the Bottom upwards ere we go, I'll lay my Life there's Treason at his Toe. So off they fetch him, with his Triple Crown, And threw the Crosier, and the MEAL-TUB down; Whence came such stuff the Devil, frighted, swore, He never saw such Princely stuff before, The West must yield the Belt unto the No●e. Thus England once more is delivered from Rome's Rogues abroad, and Plotters here at home: Stand on your Guard, now hold yourselves awake, Left their next Plot (you careless) Napping take. Respice & Cave. FINIS. Printed for the Loyal Protestant, at the Sign of the True Englishman in Great Britain, Nou. 11. 1670.