THE Iesuites Lamentation, FOR THE DISCOVERY Of their two late PLOTS, OF THE APPRENTICES AND THE Irish Massacre.  

Alas! what Trust in Devil, or in Pope!  
Sandy Foundations, both betray our Hope.  
How oft the first has promised us to quell,  
The English heretics, with force from Hell?  
Yet still we'ave seen him baffled, made a Fool,  
And all his Plots turned into Ridicule.  
I doubt he never will be trusted more,  
But by some ugly Witch, or pocky Whore,  
And for a silly Cully now must pass,  
Since Luxemburg has proved him such an Ass.  
And very little signifies, we see  
The Popes admired Infallibility:  
How oft as he assured us we should thrive,  
And heretics like Chaff, before us drive?  
Us and our great Designs how oft hath blessed?  
And with delusive Hopes has us possessed;  
Yet though the Pope and Devil both agree,  
Trusting the one's Infallibility,  
And much confideing in the other's Power,  
Our Friends are still locked up within the Tower,  
And to our Cost in spite of Hell and Pope,  
Some of us have been nooz'd with fatal Rope.  
Like a Collossus strutting we did stand,  
With Footting firm, and fixed in either Land,  
And strid from London, to the Irish Strand.  
Assured now, to make our Power known,  
And two great Kingdoms to have overthrown:  
By new made Plots, fine Trains, and deep Designs,  
When we were just about to spring our Mines,  
Great Brittains watchful Genius stepped between,  
Who stood as Guardian of the Land unseen,  
In spite of Devil, Pope, and all our Skill,  
Upon our wretched Heads has turned the Ill.  
Has cut our strong and fine spun thrid in twain,  
And once more rendered our Attempts in Vain.  
Since Hell nor Pope can't help us at dead lift,  
And that we'ave almost now tried every shift,  
With diligence, with hazard, and with Care,  
We now may hang ourselves through sad despair  
Our Cause is fallen, spite of Hell and Pope,  
We hoped a Crown, but we have caught a Rope.  
What shall we do, now Hell and Pope do fail,  
Must we like Cowards on the Cause turn tail?  
Like beaten Soldiers out of Breath retire,  
And leave our mighty Hopes bog▪ d in the Mire?  
O no, we are not such poor spirited Elves,  
We'l trust nor Hell nor Pope, but to ourselves:  
We plainl● see now, that they both were Fools,  
And may learn Wit and breeding in our Schools.  
We will not thus give hopeful England o'er,  
We will endeavour still: hatch one Plot more,  
And such a one as certainly shan't fail,  
join Fox's Head, to Lions Paw and Tail.  
We'l lap no more, from thence have sprung our harms,  
Our next Attempt shall be by force of Arms.  
For little Godfreys wee'l no longer Angle,  
But Cut the heretic Throat we cannot strangle.  
And quickly change the Catterwauling Notes,  
Of Dugdale, Bedlow, Smith, and prance,& Oats.  
The Bug▪ bear's gon, that mighty Cat of Prey,  
The little Mice will now begin to play,  
Who are of very quick and eager Scent,  
And now may nibble Cheese of Government.  
The greater Rats shall stand more in Awe,  
Of nimble Cat, armed with a scratching Paw.  
A stinking Blast, from filthy Bum has spread,  
And thorough Nostrils fumed into every Head,  
So rank, so strong, and stinking now it grows,  
snuffed up into every silly foolish Nose,  
Who snuffle with this Jesuettick Pose,  
That now our Plots they never more can smell,  
Should they of Powder stink, as rank as Hell.  
Once more all Hands, let us now stoutly try,  
To set up Mass, or bravely Martyrs die:  
For if we fail, they'l say 'twas bravely striven,  
What should we fear, Tyburn's the Gate to heaven.   
FINIS.