Tom Telltruth: OR, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE DEVIL and the POPE, About Carrying on the PLOT.  DEVIL. 
MY dear adopted Heir, mine only Son,  
Thou that hast fought, and all my Battles won,  
Enlarged my Kingdom, and with Thousand Souls  
Filled up the Cat'logue of my sulphury Rolls;  
Whose fiery Bulls, and bloody Inquisition,  
Feigned Purgatory, and thy false Tradition,  
Beads, Images, thy Relics, Crucifix,  
Indulgence, Pardons, and such taking-tricks,  
Have more augmented my Infernal Host,  
Than Pagan- Rome herself could ever boast,  
And damned more Souls, than Heretics e'er lost.  
This to thy glory I acknowledge—  POPE. 
Grandsire of Popes, 'tis kindness thus to own  
What duty we thy Nuzzled Sons have shown.  
That Letter which I lately did receive  
From thy dark Court, did me such courage give,  
(Which I had answered (Sir) but for this Reason,  
So many of our men of late for Treason  
Have plied old Charon so, that he did swear,  
Go and be damned yourself, d'ye think I care  
To be your Porter? I must tend my Fare.  D. 
Is he so flushed? I shall abate his fee.  P. 
And well you may, since 'tis increased by me.)  
That welcome Packet (you may it believe)  
To me, I say, did such new vigour give,  
As had not that mysterious English Monster,  
Which Popes or Devils ne'er could truly construe,  
Who all our Policies do circumvent,  
That many-headed Beast called Parliament,  
Crossed my designs, England's admired Prince  
Had fallen a sacrifice to thee long since.  
But since your Devilship is pleased to come  
In person, to your lower Court at Rome,  
My zeal's blown up to such an heat, nay flame,  
That I resolve it (in the Devil's name)  
Neither to stop or stay, I'll take no rest  
Till I have once more fired that Rebel nest  
Of Heretics; and if my Jesu'ts falter,  
I will myself provide them each an Halter.  
Had not base Cowardice appeared our foe  
At Whitehall, Windsor, and New-market too  
Our work, I'm sure, had not been now to do:  
But since they are so fearful of the Rope,  
They shall expect it from their Father Pope.  
The next occasion that doth happen fair,  
He that shall slip it, i'faith, I'll send him where  
He shall do penance for his panic fear.  D. 
Heroickly resolved, I like it well:  
But how will you go forward, can you tell?  P. 
That I expect from you; but the old Mask  
I think will serve till we have done our task.  D. 
What mask is that, my Son?  P. 
Religion.  D. 
Right,  
This managed well, with policy, and might,  
Will do the business: wrest it as you please,  
This way, or that, to give the Actor ease.  
Make it a Shooing-horn, that will easily draw  
Any thing on, and make it seem a Law.  
A Stalking-horse, whereunder you may lurk,  
Till you've accomplished your intended work.  
'Tis a brave guil●ed Mask that blears the eye,  
And makes a lie seem truth, and truth a lie.  
You've put it on already, use it well,  
And expect aid from all the powers of Hell.  P. 
I hope, most Infamous Apollyon,  
You will be pleased to see how we go on;  
And new inspire us with Ignatian zeal,  
To make such Rents as none shall ever heal.  D. 
Doubt not my utmost aid, for 'tis the Pope  
And his Adherents are the only hope  
I have on earth; 'tis by your heads and hands  
My Kingdom in the world so strongly stands.  
Besides, if you consider well how I  
Have taught you to equivocate and lie,  
Then to confirm it by the Sacrament,  
You've little cause to doubt my male-intent.  
A thousand ways I've shown you how to gull  
The credulous multitude, and do you—?  P. 
Nay, pray, Sir, be not thus enraged, that I  
Ask the assistance of your policy.  
Preceding Popes have by tradition told  
What you by them, and for them did of old.  
And I confess (dear Father) you have done  
As much for me as e'er you did for Son.  
For which, I vow, I will not fail to sac're  
Those deuce to you, I owe unto my Maker;  
And daily more endeavour Art and Powers  
T' assure you (Sir) I am obliged yours:  
Yet am I but a passive instrument  
In your wise hands, to perfect your intent.  
The Conquests that I win, belong to you,  
And I hold it just, to give the Devil his due,  
And truer Trojans, Sir, you have but few.  D. 
I am appeased.— Observe now what I say,  
Till all obstructions lying in our way  
Be beaten down, my Sceptre cannot sway.  P. 
Name what they are, Sir, and the Devil take me  
If I don't do't, unless my Imps forsake me,  
Which I don't fear, for they have plighted troth  
To be thy faithful drudges and mine both:  
And no reserves shall serve, that they can mint;  
If Devil cheat Devil, than the Devils in't:  
Equivicate they may with Heretics,  
But not with thee or me, who know their tricks.  
Thy counsel therefore Great Abaddon—  D. 
First set on work your Engines, to prevent  
That adored Idol, called Parliament;  
Hells greatest envy, Popery's mortal foe,  
Pope's plague and pest, and Rome's eternal woe.  
These must not sit, for they'll be laying open  
All our ambushments, and sinister scope:  
See this be done, and then there is no doubt,  
But we shall yet bring matters brave about.  P. 
But grant they do, if we the Members choose,  
Our party by it then can nothing lose.  D. 
But that's a devilish hazard, if we shall;  
'Tis sufer, therefore, there be none at all.  P. 
Agreed, and to this end, in us, I'll see  
That nothing shall be wanting.  D. 
Nor in me.  
Next, I advise, you speedily depose  
Him, whom th' Almighty his Vicegerent chose:  
Let not that Bugbear, Idol, name of King,  
Into your spirits any terror bring.  
He is Heretical declared;— 'tis good  
To get his Crown by shedding of his blood,  
'Tis our great loss that He so long hath stood.  
Then England's Gloyr, King and Parliament  
Destroyed, we cannot fail of our intent,  
To pull down Laws both Civil and Divine,  
And in their room to set up yours and mine.  
A cunning cheat, the Church and State to mend  
By killing Him that should them both defend.  P. 
St. Coleman good success unto it send.  D. 
This done, to Trap again, and with that game,  
Cutting won't be amiss, that so the flame  
May ne'er extinguished be, but by a flood  
Of the accursed Heretics heartblood.  
And to this end, see you an Army fix,  
That you bened baffled as in Sixty six,  
And do your work by halves—  P. 
Each man shall strive who shall burn and kill most,  
And I will pray, the Devil take the hindmost.  D. 
It shall be so; and so adieu.  P. 
Nay, stay,  
And think if you've not somewhat more to say.  D. 
What is the Shipping you should set on fire?  P. 
'Tis well remembered, my mischievous Sire.]  
A little of that i'th' Thames, at Chatham too,  
Would greatly weaken our Imperial foe,  
And to our Friends, the French, huge service do.  
'Tis well you stayed, What more?—  D. 
Justice corrupt with Bribes; you see the bait  
Is pleasing, and if large, is taken straight.  
Make rents in Church, fire the Non-Con's zeal,  
And Con's against him, till they each other peal.  
Preach up the Ceremonies now, and when  
You know 'twill tickle, Preach them down again.  
Sometimes the Bishop you must style Divine,  
That under those alone the Church doth shine:  
That all fanatics, and their false opinion,  
Are wholly mine, and set up my Dominion.  
Sometimes john Presbyter commend, and cry,  
They are the Preaching, Gospel Ministry.  
Then for Plebeians, you'll do very well,  
To banish from their minds all fear of Hell.  
Far from the guilt take punishment of sin,  
And love to God will not restrain 'em in.  
This to do better, take away the Law,  
Give them the Reins, force not, but slyly draw;  
The Law being ta'en away, sin is not known;  
And so the game is up, the day your own.  
Style grossest sins, slips of infirmity,  
And Christian duties, false Idolatry.  
Tell them that Christ hath died, there needs no more  
But bare belief, the rest may pass oth'score.  
That Heaven's their own by Letters-patents granted;  
And there's no sin can damn the Covenanted▪  
And I believe a small Arithmetic  
May count the number that to God will stick.  
How like you this my Son?  P. 
Like it Sir?  
'Tis like thyself, adored Lucifer.  D. 
Once more farewell, for I must to my Vault,  
Where I have some already for this fault.  P. 
Nay, Father stay, by mentioning your Cell  
Or Vault, where you and your Companions dwell,  
A secret you have brought into my mind,  
I fain would be resolved in: be so kind  
To tell how Langhorn, Coleman, Gavan, Grove,  
With th'rest do like our Purgatory Stove?  
Do they not cry that they were all betrayed,  
And curse the Feast too, now the Reckon paid?  D. 
Son, I would tell, but if it comes to light,  
It is enough our Vassals all to fright,  
To make them tack about, and leave us quite.  
And save their Souls by a full confession,  
Which these have lost by damned equivication.  
Hark then, my Darling Son, put close thine ear,  
For I must only whisper it, for fear  
Some Heretic should chance to overhear.  P. 
I listen, Father, with my greatest care.  D. 
Such is their carriage Son (the truth to tell)  
They make thy Purgatory a mere Hell.  
They're so enraged to see themselves defeated,  
And flaming-mad to think how they are cheated  
Of soul and body both, they vex me more  
Than half the damned that I had before.  
Hark, methinks I hear them! hark—  
Coleman, Langhorn, Gavan, etc.  
O horrid folly! where were our wits, our faith,  
To credit him, who lies what e'er he faith!  
Ah! Popish zeal, which we before thought right,  
Proves now the Devil turned to an Angel bright.  
O had we but one hours reprieve from Hell,  
To fetch him there, that taught us to Rebel;  
With Father Pope, and all his smooth-tongued tools,  
Who made us bloody Traitors, Knaves and Fools;  
Whose cursed Indulgence, Absolutions, Bull,  
Do silly Souls thus into mischief gull.  
Let's break our Chains and fly into the World,  
And pull down him, that hath us hither hurled;  
Lay open the Plot, the people undeceive,  
That never man may Papist more believe.  
we'll tell the King what danger he is in,  
Although they swear, and swear, and swear again,  
we'll tell the Duke too, whither he is going  
To his eternal ruin and undoing.  
We will inform each Protestant we meet,  
Of every disguised Priest that walks the Street.  
There's not a Romish Factor in the Nation,  
But we'll disclose him fully, and his station:  
Bring them to Tyburn, and fill Charon's Boats,  
Fuller than Bedlow hath, or Dr. Oates.  
Thus with one mouth your Holiness they Curse,  
Threaten those things, yea, and Ten thousand worse,  
Could they get out.  P. 
And will you let them go,  
To ruin all our fair designs?  D. 
No, no,  
Never fear that, my Son, do thou but hast  
All the rest thither, and I'll keep them fast,  
Till thou thyself come to them at the last.  
Where Popes, and Jesuits, and all the crew,  
Which greatly hath enlarged been by you,  
Together shall lie down in infamy,  
Torment and shame, to all Eternity.  
FINIS.