THE MUSES FIREWORKS Upon the Fifth of November: OR, The Protestants Remembrancer OF THE Bloody Designs of the Papists in the Never-to-be-forgotten Powder-Plot, etc.  

HAil happy hour, wherein that Hellish Plot  
Was found, Which, had it prospered, might have shot  
At the Celestial Throne; at whose dread stroke  
Atlas had reeled, and both the Poles had shaken:  
And Tellus (sympathising in the woe)  
Had felt an Ague and a Fever too:  
Hell-gates had been set open, to make men say,  
S. Peter's Vicar hath mistake his Key.   

Methinks I see a dismal gloomy Cell,  
The Lobby-Porch and Wicket unto Hell,  
The Devil's Shop, where great had been his Prize,  
Had he prevailed to make his Wares to Rise.   

Say, gentle Drawer, were they Ca'ks of Beer?  
Or was old Bacchus turned and firkined there?  
Nay, than the Pope's turned Vintner: Friends, behold  
What mortal Liquour's at the Mitre fold!   

Fire-spewing Aetna with good cause may fear  
That her Distemper springs from too much Beer:  
And old Enceladus may well confess  
That all his Belchings caused by Drunkenness.   

Had wretched Dives begged a Drop of this,  
To allay his heat, the Fool had asked amiss:  
His hapless empiric might have done him wrong,  
'Twould have tormented, not have cooled his Tongue.  
Had Heber's Wife but known this Trick of thine,  
She'd spared her Milk, and given the Captain Wine.   

Strange, sure, had been th' Effects; it would have sped  
Our lawful King and left the Pope instead.  
Right Drunkenness indeed, which, for a space,  
Steals Man away and leaves a Beast in's place.  
'T had caused a general intoxication,  
The staggering, nay, the downfall of the Nation.   

Oh murderous Plot! Posterity shall say,  
His Holiness oreshoots Caligula.  
The Pope by this and such Designs ('tis plain)  
Out-babels' Nimrod and out-butchers Cain.   

About this time the brave M●unteagle, whose  
Firm love to his Religion rather chose  
To break the Roman Yoke, than see the Reign  
Of deceased Mary wheel about again,  
Received a Letter in a dubious sense,  
It seemed a piece of Stygian Eloquence:  
The Characters looked just like conj'ring Spells;  
For this bout Hell here spoke in Parables.  
The Pope's and Devil's Signets were set to't,  
The cloven Mitre and the cloven Foot.   

But shall our State by an unlooked-for Blow  
Receive a mortal Wound, and yet not know  
The hand that smote her? shall she sigh and cry,  
Like Polyphemus, Out is quenched mine Eye?  
Is England by the angry Fates sad Doom  
Condemned to play at Hot-cockles with Rome:   

No, Man of mysteries, no, we understand  
Thy Gibb'rish, though thou art confounded, and  
Have found thy meaning; Heaven can read thy hand.   

Thus were our Senate like to be betrayed  
By a strange Egg which Peter's Cock had laid:  
For had the Serpent hatched it, the Device  
Had proved to us a baneful Cockatrice.   

Now like proud Haman being stretched upon  
The heightened Pegs of vain Ambition,  
Above Pride's highest Ela, how he took  
Poor Mordechal's advancement, and could brook  
Hanging in stead of Honouring; that Curse  
Which made him set the Cart before the Horse:  
Just such was Faux, his baffled hopes bequeath  
No comforts now, but thoughts of sudden Death.  
Like Haman's fate, he only could aspire  
To be advanced fifty Cubits higher.   

What Phoebus said to th' Laurel, that sure he  
Said to the Gallows, Thou shalt be my Tree.   

But didst thou think, thou mitred Man of Rome,  
Who bellowest threatenings and thy dreadful Doom,  
And like Perillus roarest in thy Bull  
Curses and Blasphemies a Nation full,  
At one sad stroke to massacree a Land,  
And make them fall whom heaven ordained to stand.   

No, though thy head was fire and thou could turn  
Thy ten branched Antler to a Powder horn;  
Still we are safe, till our trangaessions merit  
A Reformation from such a Spirit  
As comes from thence: our Nation need not fear  
Dark Lanterns, whilst God's Candlestick is here.  
The Purple Whore may lay her Mantle by,  
Until our Sins are of a Scarlet-dye.  
Those Horns alone can sound our overthrow,  
And blow us up, which blew down Jericho,   

Christ bless this Kingdom from intestine quarrels;  
From Schism in Tubs, and Popery in Barrels.    

LONDON, Printed for William Miller at the Gilded Acorn in St. Paul's Churchyard, near the little North Door.   

At which Place you may be furnished with most sorts of bound or stitched Books, as Acts of Parliament, Proclamations, Speeches, Declarations, Letters, Orders, Commmissions, Articles; as also Books of Divinity, Church-Government, Sermons, and most sorts of Histories, Poetry, Plays, and such like; etc. As also Tickets for Funerals ready fitted.