THE WHIG cabal.  

THe sullen night worn threadbare, when I lay,  
Expecting the approach of early day:  
Such Loyal thoughts did in my bosom rage,  
As drew my curses on this factious Age:  
With tears I mourned our sinking country's fate,  
And shadowed glory of the royal State.   

Till slumbering at the last, a glimmering light,  
Methought was shown to my mysterious sight.  
When I descried a treasonous damned Cabal,  
Hell's mounting Engines that would sink us all,  
And rise upon our King's and Country's fall:  
Dark were their looks, and knowingly I saw,  
Villains they were, and such as fled the Law;  
Printers, and those who had abused the times,  
Religion was their Cloak to hide their Crimes.  
Envious as Fiends, like Hell's Divan they sat;  
What would Hell more? to ruin Church and State:  
So vile as these, it never could appear,  
Had the great Whig-land Lucifer been there.   

When in an abrupt voice I heard one cry,  
Rome's Idol-York shan't gorge our Liberty.  
Rouse up my Friends, our Ruins more than feared,  
Their Bulls do roar so loud we can't be heard.   

With that he paused— then said with much distress  
What shall we do? The Tide of our Success,  
Now seems to Ebb, nor can we hope for less:  
For even those, will now believe no more  
Our sham's, who judged them Miracles before.  
Interest's our Hook, and Freedom is the Bait,  
Bondage but named, you'll see Rebellion straight.  
Each weak Pretence deceives the easy crowd;  
With them 'tis Law, what is by us allowed.   

But shallow are our Plots to searching eyes,  
They see what mischief at the bottom lies:  
Our Sheriffs and Juries for their Ends-applause,  
With Ignoramus, Riots, prop our Cause;  
They doubt of Peace from those that break the Laws;  
There our designs are desperate, and so crossed,  
Bold the attempt must be to gain what's lost:  
Zealous Rebellion must secure us all;  
We cannot fail while we pretend a Call,   

With that like Fiends they Vanished and I work,  
Whilst all amazed and troubled, thus I spoke▪   

O Wretched Land! how proved thy curing Vain?  
Sine thy old Wound is breaking out again,  
The wholes endangered by th' infected part,  
But Heaven instruct our great Physician's art.  
There's one way left to heal this desperate wound;  
Cut off the rotten for to save the sound.  
Were there no cause for this now needful blow,  
Religious Peace then through the Land would flow,  
So Jehu Zion purged, and Faith did grow.  
But let's Unite with pious joy to sing,  
Health to the Best— to England's gracious King.  
Blest may he be, his Queen and Royal Bed;  
And blest great James, whilst all their Foes lie dead,  
So we at last shall bruise the Serpent's head.    

LONDON, Printed for Walter Davis in Amen-Corner, 1682.