A True COPY OF A Letter of CONSOLATION Sent to NAT. the Printer, Near the POPE's Keys in Fetter-Lane, from the Meal-Tub Mid wife, in Newgate.  
Printed to prevent False, Seditious and Lying Reports.  
Dear Nat.  
I Have with great Sorrow heard the News of Thy Bombasting, by our Heretical Enemies; But now under Thy own Hand, and Composing, I have Read, That they did not Beat thee enough— to send Thee to our Holy Father for a Consecrated Martyr and Saint. Alas! may Thee and I say, That we are (deservedly) made Sufferers for so good a Cause, that we have now for some years so vigorously Served. But indeed (poor Rogue) I would not have. Thee Angry with Me, as though I Flattered Thee, when I Commend thy Industry in our public Calling [of Lying] for I cannot but Observe (notwithstanding Thy late wholesome Chastisement) Thou hold'st that good old Principle firm; since in thy last Relation of the Heretics making a Bonfire of our most Dear Father the Pope, Thou baste altogether left out the true Story of the Popish Printer Riding with his Face to the Horse's Tail, all to beset, and bedecked with Lying Intelligences, lest the people should have taken it to have been Thine own Picture; being so exactly like Thee, as few could discern any difference: Next, Thou didst like Our Party too, omit the Suborners and Suborned on the Pillory; for though we Love Hugg and Carress them with Huzzah's to the Brim, yet it would be Madness in us to let the People know them, and suffer such a conceit to run in their Noddle, as if we made great use of them. In reality Nat. badst thou (when thou wast last here) foreseen this Thumping, Bumping Disaster; my Stone Jacquet, if the Keeper would have Lent it Thee, had been freely at Thy Service, however my Head-piece, (that kept off the Stone of twenty pound weight at my Exaltation) is wholly at Thy Command, lest next time Thou peepest out of White friars, some Bold Protestant Heritick should Ring the second Part to the same Tune on thy empty Noddle, and make the uncapable of Serving the Catholic Interest any longer. However cheer up, for whilst the Fathers of this College can Write a LIBEL, Thou shall not want the Honour of being the Catholic Printer; and, if thou canst Believe Me, (who gave a true Account of Racking of Mr. Prance in Newgate, though he was a Sleep all the while and never felt it; and who hath sent to thy Forge so many useful LIBELS to our Cause) I say, if, Thou canst confide in Me, pull up thy Courage, Writ, Swear, Print, Lie, as Bold as a JESUIT, and ten times worse: Curse, and Ruin Thy Native Country, if Thou canst, by Sowing and Fomenting DIVISIONS; all these Services for our CAUSE, and ten times as Much, if Thou canst do, shall Eternize Thy Name in Golden Letters in the Holy Vatican, and keep Thee ten thousand Years out of Purgatory. Salute our Fellow-Sufferers, Madam Joana, alias Monsieur Observator; together with the Most obliging, Seigneur Heraclitus Ridens: To Conclude, We earnestly wish Thy good Campany here; where Thou wouldst be as well Guarded as in Whitefriars; Farewell, and do Well, and thou wilt greatly Oblige her, whose Motto is, I NEVER CHANGE,  
Eliz. Cellier.   

Postscript.  
THE Muses of Our College being got Tipsy in Drinking the old HEALTH, they have (Dear Implement) Composed a Sonnet, for Thy further Consolation, and in Memory of Thy Basting, which They desire Thee to send to Monsieur Heraclitus Ridens our Register, to be by him Published among his Odes and Ballads, which we Compose for him, when our Pension comes fresh in, and that we Drink Sack with an Huzza, Farewell  
E. C.   

The SONNET of the CANE.  
To the Tune of, To prevent False, Seditious and Lying Reports, etc.  

COme be not dismayed,  
Tho' Thou wert well paid,  
We swear by the Soul of King Arthur,  
In spite of the Smiter,  
Or Jack the Presbyter  
Thou shalt be put down for a Martyr.   

Our Father the POPE  
Without Tyburn or Rope,  
Since thou art so known a Transgressor:  
With thy own black Paint,  
Shall Print Thee a Saint,  
When we have a Romish Successor.   

Thou hast the Pope's Keys  
As every one Sees,  
They be hanged up at Thine own Door,  
For what use? can't you tell?  
To open Heaven and Hell,  
Dear Nat, what wouldst Thou have more?   

The Authority is good,  
If well understood,  
And in it, Thou well mayst Glory,  
You may abuse whom you please,  
Of all Sorts and Degrees;  
And make a Damned Saint of a Tory.   

Tho' we're now in our Drink,  
We cannot but think,  
What Laughter, what Jest, and what Sport there's,  
To see Thee give an hint  
Of Thy Sufferings in Print,  
To Vile, Care, Janaway, and others,   

Take Courage, we say  
When we get the Day,  
Thou shalt be well Paid for Thy Basting;  
And in the mean time,  
Accept of our Rhyme,  
To make a Knaves Name everlasting.    

London, Printed for W. Johnson, 1681.