A CORDIAL FOR ENGLAND, OR A CHARACTER OF TRUE BRITAIN'S: Together with a Narrative and Recital of all POPISH PLOTS in ENGLAND since the Days of QUEEN ELIZABETH.  
And a PROPHECY of ROME'S DOWNFALL, by a Loyal Britain. Nemo sibi nascitur.  
WE love our Money, and we love our Blood,  
We value neither for our Countries good;  
Mars and Apollo both conjoined in one▪  
Will say an Ajax and a Hector strong.  
In time of Peace we'll fight by England's Law,  
And when in Field, we'll fill their hearts with awe  
That dare oppose us with an open face,  
They're all dead men unless they quit the place:  
We'll neither quarrel, duel, swagger, swear,  
We will be patient, for we Britain's are;  
We will be Lambs in time of public Peace,  
And when in Field, we'll Lions rage's increase:  
When as we come to hewing, hacking work  
We'll neither fear the French, the Pope nor Turk,  
Nor any other Instruments of Hell,  
That would contrive our Land and Laws to sell.  
Base Pensioners they are, who under ground  
Combine to smite us by a dangerous wound.  
The Head is very sick, our Body too  
Is in an inward Hecktick; what shall's do?  
Let's call a good Physician speedily;  
He's able, upright, and he'll seek no Fee;  
To save his Patient's Life is his desire,  
And for his pains he will not much require:  
And rather than the Patient's Life should go,  
He'll buy the Cordial, he's a friend, not foe:  
Then call him quickly, call him; come, I pray,  
I fear me much I'm near a Critic day.  
There's many Symptoms, and there's Omens too,  
Of a most sad Distemper that doth grow:  
'tis ready for to seize the Vital Seat;  
When once it seizes, than it is too late.  
Oh England's Clergy! look about you now,  
You are the men that have great work to do:  
'tis not your work you do, fat Flocks to fleece;  
When once the Fox gets in beware the Geece.  
And we for our parts, that Soldiers are,  
Will of our Work and Duty have a care.  
And though the FLOWER o'th' Flock is gone away,  
Yet men remain that can fight in array.  
And God Almighty bless us, blast our Foes,  
And give Success and victory over those  
That do combine and plot to take away  
Our sacred Sovereign's Life without delay,  
And Protestant Religion desire  
Quite to extirpate and raze out by fire;  
And great Dissensions which they daily raise  
Within the Church of England, seeking praise,  
They'll plot in England in the open Sun,  
And Massacres in Ireland they have done:  
They thirst for Blood, and long to see one night  
Of stabbing Skean-work English to affright.  
Revive, Oh England! cheer thy heart again.  
Thy old Commander marches in the vann,  
And he can quickly put thy foes in fear,  
When once he bringeth up his Knocking rear:  
And though at present, we, in forlorn hope,  
Shall see a day of terror to the Pope.  
And to all those that plot, combine, and lie  
In wait for Blood, to spill it secretly.  
Oh God of England rise, awake again,  
In days of old we have thee glorious seen.  
In Eighty eight they did invade our Land,  
The Spanish Ships Armadas did Command;  
They came on boldly to the very Coast,  
And in a full career they hoped for roast:  
But God Almighty put them all in fear,  
And with his Fireships did scatter vann and rear:  
He raised up brave Conductors, Englishmen,  
That made the Spaniards homewards go again;  
All this was done in Queen Elizabeth's days,  
To God Almighty England give the praise.  
And in King James' time did they contrive  
To blow up mortal men while yet alive;  
But Heaven forbade the Stroke, and turned the blow  
Unto their final fatal overthrow.  
And in the time of Charles the First our King  
Mighty combustions on the Land did bring;  
They stirred up Father's wrath against the Son,  
And almost was the Nation quite undone  
By Civil Wars, which they fomented so,  
As laid poor England all in blood and woe,  
And sent our Gracious Prince, of blessed memory,  
By fatal blow into eternity.  
When this was done Prince Charles, our present King,  
They sent into Exile, ah cursed thing!  
But God was good, and brought him back again;  
And now the Crown doth on his Head remain:  
This was not all enough, but into Court  
These Monsters creep again to make some sport.  
And while this Toad in Bosom warm doth lie,  
It soon begins to plot conspiracy.  
So deep their Plot was laid, so under ground,  
So dark, so hellish was th' intended wound,  
By Poison, Pistol, and by Silver slug:  
But Heaven defeated this their fatal Drug;  
And while the Horse was eating a few OATS  
His griping belly filled was with Bots;  
And thus the Plot came out; and truth it was,  
Though now there is no Plot: so let it pass;  
'Tis no great matter, Jesuits and Priests  
May sit on rotten Eggs; Cursed be their Nests:  
And though the House of Lords and Commons have  
Voted a hellish Plot; yet still they wave  
The Name of Plot; it is a cursed thing;  
But had almost to ruin brought our King.  
All this is nothing, there is yet no fault,  
'tis not so bad to steal as to be caught:  
And though the Fact be plainly proved on Trial,  
Their Faces can persist in bold denial.  
What can his Holiness and Rome devise,  
Such cursed things as Plots, all are but Lies;  
And we poor Martyrs die exposed to scorn,  
Yet are as innocent as th' child unborn,  
Alas poor men! they're gone, much wrong they had  
Coleman and Plunket, many more as bad:  
But silence now! they're dead; silence, I pray,  
They'll never plot again, I'll boldly say;  
Yet nevertheless, if Pluto could but grant  
These Martyr's leave, they'd play another prank;  
They'd find a Sham-Plot, if it could be found,  
That should lay England levelly with the ground:  
And though they die, they are resolved, like men,  
To wish success unto the Plot again:  
They die in Faith, that Wasps are yet behind.  
That will the self same Plot and Project mind.  
And this is comfort to their wicked breast,  
They sent poor Godfrey before them to rest.  
The King and Kingdoms Martyr sure was he;  
England he saved alive, although he be  
Now dead, yet still he lives, and speaketh still,  
Avenge my Blood on them that did it spill.  
Alas! what mean you? Do not charge men so▪  
It was not they, but his own Sword did do  
The Execution; upon Primrose-hill  
After he strangled was, they prove it will  
And will you not believe it, Heretics  
And Infidels, you're men out of your wits.  
Now England judge, I pray you, men most wise,  
Come near, and view the Cradle-babe that cries,  
His Name is Plot, compare well, and see  
Which is his Father, Pope or Presbytry:  
The former hath his limbs, his hands, his face;  
Yet must the latter bear the Brats Disgrace:  
'Tis no new thing indeed; for every Whore  
Will lay her Bastard at another's door;  
But Lord have mercy on us; must not we  
That guiltless are deny this Bastardye:  
No, no, the Whorish woman's Word is very great,  
And 'tis enough; she says you did the feat:  
But Heavens forbid that Protestants should be  
Abused by a Whore that's all pocky.  
And send our King a Solomon's heart, to make  
A Judgement just, who shall this Bastard take:  
And make her an example to all Whores,  
Who lay their Bastards daily at men's Doors.  
Lord God Almighty wake, arise, I pray,  
And send to dawn that clear Sun shining day,  
When Kings and Kingdoms all shall jointly hate  
The Scarlet Whore, and bring upon her pate  
The Vengeance written long ago, foretold  
And prophesied in former days of old:  
And when this Work is done, Lord take the praise,  
And to thyself a Generation raise,  
To serve thee in a glorious Gospel-day.  
When all the world shall walk in one good way.  
And though I die and never live to see.  
Let God fulfil this ancient Prophecy.  
My Countries Friend Jacob Sontley.