A NARRATIVE OF POPISH PLOTS With a full Account OF THEIR BLOODY DESIGNS.  By D. W. W. 
LICENCED, December the 10 th'. 1678.  

AT length the sacred Mysteries revealed,  
Those lowering Clouds, whose misty  
Brows concealed  
The Bright-beamed Luster of Eternal day,  
Dissolved to Vapours and are chased away  
From his bright Throne, for Man to hid is vain,  
Whose powerful Arms the trembling world sustain:  
His Eyes survey the secret depths below,  
From whence dire Massacres and Treasons flow;  
From that great God what Mortal can retire,  
Whose swist-winged Messengers are flames of fire.  
From him what Cave, what dismal shades of night,  
In whom there is no shade, can bar the light;  
When Death and Hell stand obvious to his Eyes,  
In whose bright self the Spring of brightness lies.  
The naked Universe before him quakes,  
The trembling Earth's affrighted Pillar shakes:  
The Deep's discovered, and all Secrets known,  
The hearts of Kings and Princes are his own:  
He rules in all, and yet proud Man dare do  
The vilest things that Hell can prompt him to:  
A little world of Dust, so swelled with Pride,  
Enticed to Ills, he quickly turns aside:  
ne'er fears Death's little Antics, nor the Grave,  
Nor that dire portion thirsty Sinners have,  
〈◊〉 thirsty 〈◊〉 pale-faced God of fears;  
〈…〉 deals in Sepulchers;  
For why, of late the Scarlet Whore has made  
Fate her diversion, Death her children's Trade:  
By secret Treasons is her seat upheld,  
Her murdering thoughts with steaming slaughter swelled,  
Grown proud with power, she fancies Sea and Land  
Must bow beneath her Blood-bedabled Hand:  
Thinks to unhinge the Globe, and tumble down  
Kings from their Thrones, and grasp the Monarch's Crown.  
Her flowing Cup being filled with slucing steel,  
She drinks the Blood of Martyrs till she reel.  
Witness Bohemia thou her rage canst tell,  
In thee an Hundred Thousand Christians fell  
By Popish Tyrants; Enemies to good,  
Whom Tortures please their Eyes delight in Blood.  
Those Crimson Streams exhausted, still she craves,  
And seeks new World's, for Blood she ploughs the Waves;  
Through briny Seas divides the swelling Flood,  
And Tyger-like pursues the scent of Blood:  
Those undiscovered Lands which Natures care  
Guarded by Seas, she finds, and fixes there  
Her dreadful Engines; and for no offence  
Millions are murdered in their Innocence;  
Naked, as when their Infant cries did gain  
Their Mother's love, but now their cries are vain:  
No whispering Voice of Mercy now appears,  
Blood must be found, for that she seeks not tears:  
Poor Mexico, Peru, for both we grieve,  
But grief augments those ills we can't relieve:  
In days of old kind death on Age would smile,  
Fates sanguine Eyes were strangers to your soil;  
But now with dreadful Inquisitions dressed,  
Racks, Engines, Flames and Tortures, when at best,  
Deluges of slaughter, and perpetual groans,  
Horror and Fury wait upon her Thrones:  
That this is she, sacred Writ explains,  
That City 'tis which over Nations reigns.  
But why so wide my Muse, where wilt thou room,  
Let India stay, thy Task is nearer home.  
Her left hand's there, her right on Europe lies,  
Distressed Piedmont's, fatal Massacryes:  
Cry loud to Heaven, 'tis Blood, the Nations sweat,  
Fried and consumed by her prodigious heat.  
Poor Albigenses stifled are in Caves,  
Waldenses slain and scattered without Graves,  
A prey to Beasts; but for their Faith they die;  
Christ died for them, they'll reign with him on high:  
In Flanders, in poor Flanders, there was slain  
Three times six thousand Souls by Popish Spain:  
The raging Sword, like a Disease came on,  
Thy Blood was sweet to thirsty Babylon:  
By cruel Jesuits the world's on fire,  
No shade is found where Christians may retire;  
On one hand Death, on th' other Treason stands,  
Black as themselves to fright the harras'd Lands;  
Like Foxes first they craftily betray,  
Then, Lion-like, devour the greedy Prey.  
Paris, in thee, alas! what fury set  
To hunt for Souls, that Babylon's Net,  
So secretly covered, the Prince of Night,  
Of Hell and Darkness hatched the damned Exploit;  
To shroud this big-blown storm so swollen with Wind,  
For smooth pretext, a marriage is designed;  
Navarre's young Bride must long, 'tis so, she wants,  
To cure that pain, the Blood of Protestants;  
Her thirsty Hymen is not pleased with Wine,  
His Lust's too great, he wants the Crimson Brine;  
Or else the Music that delights their Ears  
Must be a Peal of groans or dying prayers:   

These, or what e'er, when darkness did surrround  
The Hellbred rout began the fatal sound,  
The Midnight cries of Murder, Kill and Wound,   

Alarmed all the sleepy Host, but then  
They slept secure, and never waked again:  
Paved were the Streets with Slain, the Channels roar  
Like some wild Torrent with the streaming gore;  
But twenty thousand, ha'— the sums too small,  
Not lives enough to make one Festival;  
Their scarlet Mistress storms, and thinks it fit  
That thirty thousand more should follow it.  
Stay, wonder not, there's more, by her consent  
The King was poisoned in the Sacrament;  
Oh horrid deed! what howling Fiend below,  
Damned Spirits, Harpies, can such Villains show;  
The Mystery of our Saviour's sacred Blood,  
And glorious Body, Fountain of all good,  
Must they be made, I dread to speak the guise,  
To murder Kings and mask their Villainies;  
Look down great God why sleeps thy Vengeance say  
Thy injured mercies made the Monster pray.   

Poor Ireland's groans breathe fresh into my mind,  
Anger by name to angry Foes consigned:  
Fates bailful streams upon thee have been shed,  
And cruel hands have died thy bosom red;  
A hundred thousand sacrificed lives  
By Tortures, Rack, and Massacreying Knives:  
That Phoebus blushed to see the Crimson day,  
And muffed in Clouds he turned his Face away;  
Not silver Hairs, nor Infant cries could prove  
Of force sufficient Tyrant's hearts to move;  
Beauties in vain to blunt their fury strive,  
First ravished are, and then ripped up alive,  
From Mother's Arms enfeebled by a Wound;  
The Babe is snatched and dashed against the Ground:  
With Fire and Sword they triumph and declare  
Their black Commissions from the Prince of Air:  
This dreadful Beast whose crashing Jaws devour  
The Nations up, receives the Dragon's power;  
His burning rage in England has been seen  
To plague her subjects, tempts the easy Queen:  
Our brave Heroes fix their Eyes above,  
And dare his malice, armed with sacred love,  
Redeemed from Earth, they dare the worst of ill;  
They fear not him who can the Body kill;  
‛ Their Hands nor Foreheads never bore his Name,  
‛ Mount like Elijah up to Heaven in flame.  
 quell this storm begun, Jehovah sent  
‛ Such saving Balm as healed our Government,  
And broke his Horn, with which he pushed down Kings,  
And reached the Stars with proud aspiring wings;  
Then like himself he threatened with his Tails,  
And with dire plot our peaceful Land assails;  
Powder and Fire the Engine brought from Hell  
To shake the World's affrighted Citadel;  
But Heaven took care to blast that black design,  
And crushed the Villains in their fatal Mine:  
The Net was laid, and they forgetting where,  
Groping in darkness did themsleves ensnare.  
Where more than seventy years, like Snakes in Snow  
They seemed benumbed, and scarce a motion show.  
'Twas opportunity, not want of will,  
That cramped the Tyrant, made his malice still;  
Warmed by the mildness of a gracious King,  
(Good next to him that made him) rears his Sting:  
All guilded o'er as smooth as Man could seign,  
Yet bears the deadly Poison in his Brain:  
His Mouth prepared a Flood to drive away  
The sacred Church, and Cloud the States bright Ray.  
The first by deadly Acconite must die,  
The next devoured by swarming Locust lie;  
This Land so far for wholesome Laws renowned,  
With Peace, with Plenty, and with Justice Crowned;  
Ruled by a Prince whom Heaven did so proclaim  
Before the Tribes on Earth, to bear his Name:  
A King so bounteous, merciful, and great,  
Besides him none could fill his Father's Seat:  
So just, so good, the Power Immense thought fit,  
That Majesty should only Govern it.  
The mighty God before whose Throne there lies  
The flaming Seraphims, whose sacred cries  
Are Hallelujah, and eternal praise;  
Glory and honour are before his Face:  
Thousands of Angels, and ten thousands stand,  
To execute his just, and great Command.  
In vain does thirsty Nimrod hunt for blood,  
Heaven sees his secret Baths they are not good;  
He broke the Lion's Jaws, redeemed the Prey,  
The deeds of Darkness showed in perfect Day;  
Saved his Anointed, and our gracious King,  
To his great Name let's loud Hosannas sing:  
He has remembered mercy, still does bless,  
And turns our Foes device to foolishness;  
Hosanna, Power, Salvation, Glory, Might,  
To him who dwells in everlasting Light.   
Gloria Deo in excelsis, Pax Hominibus, Vivat in Eternum Rex Carolus Secundus.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for D. M. 1678.