Advice to a Painter, &c.  

SPread a large Canvas, Painter, to contain  
The great Assembly and the numerous train,  
Who all about him shall in Council sit,  
Abjuring Wisdom, and despising Wit;  
Hating all Justice, and resolved to Fight,  
To rob his Native Country of its Right.   

First, Draw him falling prostrate to the South,  
Adoring ROME, this Libel in his mouth;  
Most Holy Father! being joined in League,  
With Father Patrick, derby, and with Teague,  
Thrown at Your Sacred Feet I humbly bow;  
I, and the wise Associates of my Vow,  
I swear not Fire nor Sword shall ever end,  
Till all this Nation to Your Foot-stool bend;  
armed with bold Zeal& Blessings from your Hands,  
I'll raise my Irish and my Popish Bands;  
And by a Noble well-contrived PLOT,  
managed by wise Fitz-gerrard and by SCOT;  
Prove to the World I'll have old ENGLAND know,  
That Common Sense is my Eternal Fo:  
I ne're can fight in a more Glorious Cause,  
Then to destroy their Liberties and Laws:  
Their Parchment Presidents, their dull Records,  
Their House of Commons and their House of Lords.  
Shall these Men dare to contradict my Will?  
And think a Prince o'th Blood can er'e do ill?  
It is our Birth-right; We have power to kill?  
Shall these men dare to think, shall these decide  
The way to heaven? and who shall be my Guide?  
Shall these pretend to say that Bread is Bread?  
Or that there is no Purg'tory for the Dead,  
That Extreme Unction is but common oil,  
And not Infallible the Roman soil?  
I'll have these Villains in our Notions rest:  
You and I say it; Therefore 'tis best.   

Next, Painter, Draw his Mordant by his side,  
Conveying his Religion, and his Bride;  
He who long since abjured the Royal Line,  
Does now in Popery with his Master join.   

Then draw the Princess with her Golden Locks,  
hastening to be Renowned with the P—  
And in her Youthful Veins receive that wound,  
Which sent N— H— before her under ground;  
That would of which the tainted C— fades,  
preserved in store for the next set of Maids.   

Poor P— born under some sullen Star,  
To find this welcome when you come so far:  
Better some Jealous Neighbour of your own  
Had called you to some sound, tho petty Throne;  
Where, 'twixt a wholesome Husband, and a page.,  
You might have lingered out a longer age.  
Then in false hopes of being once a Queen,  
Die before Twenty, Rot before Fifteen.   

Now Painter, show us in the blackest die,  
The Councellors of all this villainy.   

Clifford, who first appeared in humble guise,  
Was thought so meek, so modest, and so wise;  
But when he came to act upon the Stage,  
He proved the mad Cethegus of our age:   

He and the Duke had each too great a mind  
To be by Justice, or by Law confined;  
Their boiling Heads can hear no other sounds,  
Then Fleets& Armies, Battles, Blood& wounds;  
And to destroy our Liberty they hope,  
In Irish Fools, and a Doting POPE.   

Then Painter show thy Skill, and in fit place  
Let's see the Nuncio Arundels sweet face;  
Let the Beholders by thy art descry  
His Sense, and Soul as squinting as his Eye.   

Let Bellasis autumnal face be seen,  
Rich with the spoil of a poor Algerine,  
Who trusting in him, was by him betrayed;  
And so should we, were his advice obeyed:  
The Hero once got Honour by the Sword,  
He got his wealth by breaking of his word;  
He now has got his Daughter great with Child,  
And Pimps to have his Family defiled.   

Next Painter draw the Rabble of the PLOT,  
German, Fitz gerard, Loftus, Porter, Scot;  
These are fit Heads indeed to turn a State,  
And change the Order of a Nations Fate:  
Ten thousand such as these can ne're control,  
The smallest atoms of an English Soul.  
Old England on its strong Foundation stands,  
Defying all their Heads, and all their Hands;  
It's steady Basis never could be shook,  
When wiser Heads its ruin undertook;  
And can her Guardian-Angel let her stoop  
At last to Fools, to Mad-men, and the POPE.  
No Painter, no; Close up thy Piece, and see  
This crowd of Traytors hang in effigy.   

To the KING.  

GReat CHARLES, who full of Mercy wouldst Command  
In Peace and Plenty this thy Native Land;  
At last take pity on thy tottering Throne,  
Shook by the faults of others, not thy own:  
Let not thy Life and Crown together end,  
destroyed by a false Brother, and false Friend:  
Observe the Danger that appears so near,  
And all your Subjects do each minute fear;  
A drop of Poison, or a Popish Knife,  
Ends all the Joys of England with your Life.  
Brothers 'tis true should be by Nature kind;  
But to a Zealous and Ambitious Mind,  
bribed by a Crown on Earth, and one above,  
There's no more Friendship, Tenderness, or Love.  
See in all Ages what Examples are  
Of Monarchs murdered by th'impatient Heir.   

Hard Fate of Princes, who will ne'er believe,  
Till the Stroke's struck, which they can ne'er retrieve.    
FINIS.   

THE SECOND ADVICE TO THE PAINTER  

NOw Painter try if thy skilled hand can draw,  
The horrid'st Scene the trembling world ere saw;  
Wipe all the Pencills that the former drew,  
In dismal colours dip 'em all anew;  
Colours that may in lively parts express  
The plotted fall of Monarchs in a dress:  
May fright the World from Crimes we can't atone,  
With our best bloods, and Christians blushy to ow●:  
But let me first advice you ere you take  
This work in hand, a small reflection make  
On all that's heinous; murders, Treasons, Fires,  
Deaths in all shapes, and rapines, hot desires:  
Of murdering Kings I tremble to rehearse,  
A tottering world and sinking Universe:  
Think well on these ere you begin your part  
'twill heighten fancy, and affect your heart:  
In th' upper part of all the Canvas, paint  
His holiness the Pope, that mighty Saint,  
Old satan his associate too must stand  
Behind his chair to guide his heart and hand;  
Draw him stuck round with all the toys that come  
From the grand Mint of lies, old foppish Rome:  
Bulls, Dispensations, Pardons, all the baits  
He lays for the dull crowed; the Book of rates  
Will be convenient too, that t'every sin  
The value may be known, pray cram that in:  
Draw him dispersing with a bounteo●s han●  
For horrid ends the treasure of his Land▪  
Dispensing with false Oaths, or any thing,  
So that they'l ●urther Charles Great Brittains King:  
Poor fool to think the guardian of his throne,  
Is grown as dull and senseless as his own;  
No, proud Impostor, no● thy hand's too short  
To rea●h his head or make his fall ●hy sport:   

Next draw proud France, and his ambitious hope  
Of being mighty, cringing to the Pope:  
'tis not his zeal to him, or to those laws  
That cheat the world, that his affection draws;  
'tis interest, mighty interest, bears the sway,  
and dares not, though he's willing, disobey:  
Base Prince and foolish too, yourself you cheat,  
When on such terms as these you would be great;  
You feast your sences, secure at costly rates,  
That nothing else can serve but dellicates  
dipped in the blood of Princes: Deaths of Kings,  
In your opinion are but vulgar things:  
Had thirst of Empire swayed a generous soul  
These base low tricks could never sure control;  
But to a mind so firm on mischief bent,  
No generous thoughts or honour could prevent  
The meanest actions; Princes should be true,  
And act on principles of honour too:  
Then they are Sacred to the world, and ought  
To be adored, then disrespect's a fault:  
But when from base degenerate they are grown,  
The vulgar hurl'um headlong from the throne:  
Go on vile Prince in all these acts, and try,  
How soon your Crown will fade, your Empire die;  
By your example your own Subjects teach,  
To strike at Empires and at sceptres reach,  
And may their first attempt be on thy head,  
Dethrone thee first of all, then strike thee dead.   

Now Painter to our Subjects dip thy pen  
In black, in horrid black, yet once again;  
For when a Subject from a King revolts,  
Conspires his death, and thinks these things no faults,  
The scene must needs be horrid, first begin  
With Bellasis and his foul and grateful sin:  
Draw him a monster, in as foul a dress  
As ere your heart can think, or hand express:  
Long did he in his Princes bosom lye  
One would have thought voided of all Treachery;  
For what base man but he, could ere conspire  
To set that house, wherein he lives, on fire?  
Who could such Treason harbour in his breast,  
'Gainst th' best of Princes, and to him the best?  
The other Lords must on the Stage be lead,  
Drawn— each man with halter on his head,  
And dagger in his heart, that so in vain  
Wherewith they striven to stab their sovereign:  
Base Rebells! do you thus your Prince reward?  
Have you no Honour left? or no regard  
T' his Clemency, which some of you I know  
Have tasted story had died for't long ago:  
Had he been cruel or Tirannick grown,  
You had more reason to usurp his Throne;  
But to a gracious and Obliging Prince,  
'tis past all hopes of pardon or defence.   

Now Painter draw me Hell in all its heat,  
Let sulphurous flames and dismal darkness meet,  
And in the hottest place, as best befits,  
Draw Stayly, Coleman and the Jesuits:  
Let 'em endure the flaming brimstone rage,  
Those bloody Tra●terous miscreants of our age,  
Those were the men designed( O horrid act)  
Nay were resolved too, to commit the fact,  
Base Rebells don't you know, that Heavens high hand  
Has stil● kept sa●e the Monach of our ●●nd,  
And could you think to move our Scene and do  
What Heavens great Lord had nere consented to.  
Burn on vile wretches, think well on these things,  
What Treason is, what 'tis to murder Kings.   

Now draw in all his Majesty and State,  
Our sovereign Prince, just rising from his 〈◇〉,  
Pra● paint him laughing at the follies done  
By th' Pope, and France, his most unchristian Son?  
Prithy Old fellow, prithy tell me why,  
Old England ●hould so much disturb th● Eye:  
Is it because we do not dote like you,  
And worship all your Saints we never knew?  
If these, Old man, our aggravations be,  
Know, we defy thy malice, Imps, and thee.   

To the KING.  
WElcome great Prince, to Life ag●n, at least,  
welcome from d●ng●rs, which we hope ar●●●ast,  
Dangers which lately hovered o'er your head,  
threatening to strike your rising Glory d●●d;  
The Cloud's bl●wn over, and the mists away  
Portend the rising of a glorious day?  
May still your Sacred Majesty give Law  
To all your Kingdoms, keeping them in awe,  
May your bright Crown, a● beauteous ●ays disper●●  
As any Monarch● of the Universe.   
FINIS.   

The Third Part of ADVICE TO THE PAINTER, Concerning The great Turk, Count Teckley, and the Forces against them; the French, the Spaniards, the Dutch, and the English.  
PAinter once more thy Pencil Reasume,  
And in a Lanskip draw me Christendom.  
But first draw out the Turkish Empire, then  
Paint out in colours their division.  
Paint me that mighty Powerful State a Shaking;  
And their great Prophet, Teckely, a Quaking.  
Who for Religion made such busling work,  
That to Reform it he brought in the Turk.  
Next Paint our English Mufties of the Tub,  
Those great Promoters of the Teckelites Club.  
Draw me them praying for the Turkish Cause,  
And for the overthrow of Christian Laws.  
Next Paint the Turks Seraglio, then  
Paint our English Mufties entering in;  
That and Rebellion is their Darling Sin.  
Next draw the many guiltless Souls, that died  
A Sacrifice to their Lucifrian pride.  
And Paint to th' life their diabolic Faces,  
And angry Looks, for their late desperate Cases.  
But lastly, draw a fair and spacious Plain,  
And in it gallows to hang them on.  
Now draw in opposition to this Crew,  
The German Poles and Cosack Forces too:  
Show by thy Art what they have bravely done;  
Beat down the Turks, and their great Standard won.  
And for the Rebels Emblem draw me Hell,  
Whose Luciferian Fates has taught them well,  
What 'tis to Fight their King and to Rebel.  
And as our God did Satan overthrow,  
And for Rebellion him to Hell did throw;  
So these our Earthly Rebels shall  
Be fated here, and in Hell after fall;  
When Kings like Terrene Gods do justly Reign;  
Are by good Subjects held their Sovereign.  
Next draw the Monsieurs huffing ore proud Spain;  
But draw them too upon their turn again.  
Paint out their Courage more by words then blows;  
Blood but the Monsieurs, and they'l fly their Foes.  
And when you draw them to the Life, pray draw  
Instead of El's the cunning Foxes paw.  
Draw me the Spaniard rousing as they would,  
Revenge their Quarrel in the French Mans Blood.  
Draw me Great Orange whose Victorious Soul  
Will cool their heat, and Monsieurs rage control.  
Next draw me Holland poxt with jealous Fears;  
Paint them falling together by the Ears.  
Distrusting one another draw them now,  
And fearful what to do, or how.  
Paint them as hectored Men by Monsieurs word;  
Paint them as Men afraid of Monsieurs Sword.  
Next draw old England rising from the Dead,  
And Loyalty that now can show its Head.  
Paint me Great CHARLES that all the World doth awe,  
Who hath declared he Govern will by Law.  
Now, lastly, draw me London, that great City  
That twice rebelled in one Age, more's the Pity:  
But draw them Loyal now with their new Charter,  
And taking the Oaths for to be True hereafter.  
Draw all the Loyal Subjects, Joyful Hearts,  
Draw out their Loyalty in all its parts:  
Whilst other murmuring Rebels down are hurled;  
Confounded here, and damned in tother World.   

LONDON, Printed for Walter Davis in Amen-Corner. 1684.   

NEW ADVICE TO A PAINTER, &c  

PAinter, once more thy Pencil reassume.  
Draw me a Night Piece— Draw me Rome.  
Rome under ground, 'twill make a curious Piece!  
Out do the boldest hands of ancient Greece.  
Let the pale Tapers, which afford it lights,  
Burn blew, affrighted with approaching spirits.  
Draw me the shaking Triple Mitred Head,  
And all the Conclave, looking like the Dead.  
Draw fallen Lucifer in Brimstone Robes,  
Infernal Posts arriving thick like Jobes:  
Each telling after other rueful Tale,  
How all the Pious Stratagems still fail;  
Nor Pistol, Poison, poniard will prevail.  
How in defence of See apostolic,  
Like all true Bigots Roman catholic,  
Most boldly living, their late Martyrs tied,  
And all without Confessing, bravely died.  
How d●ring Coleman lead the Forlorn Hope,  
Of all th' Unfortunate Brethren of the Rope,  
Who murder Princes to exalt a Pope.  
Of this new Order of Cordeliers how  
He was the Founder and Confounder too.  
How Cardinal Ireland, Hartcourt, Gaven fell,  
Of Pickering, Grove, and Turner, let them tell,  
How all's undone, Rome, Purgatory, Hell!  
So! Painter 'tis enough; now lets retire,  
And leave the Pope in this new Malvidere.   

Next, let me see a spacious Curtain Drawn,  
Fine and transparent as the Cobweb Lawn.  
It must with curious Art and Care be wrought,  
That through it one may see a nimble thought.  
The ground with Faction, Treason, Tumult lay,  
All Varnish't o'er with shining Preach and Pray.  
Shade it with Fineness, Artifice, Intrigue,  
Darken the foldings with the Solemn League.  
Behind this Curtain let bold Actors stand,  
Buskin'd for Tragedy upon command;  
inspired with furious, not poetic Rage,  
A second time to tread a bloody Stage.  
Draw there an Aged Pope upon all four,  
With riding Furniture Equipped o'er,  
With Warlike Saddle, and with kerbing bit,  
Holsters and Howsings, Breastplate, all complete.  
Then let a dapper Pres'ter Poll bestride  
The Scarlet Rampant Beast, and fiercely ride.  
Let him be clad in the new Silken Buff,  
And wear an old Round-head without a Ruff.  
Upon the top of his triumphant Lance,  
The spoiled Whore of Babel's Smock advance.  
Before him let there march Lewd Reformation,  
Proclaiming Liberty and toleration.  
Paint dismal Ruin stalking in the Rear,  
Than landscape Desolation far and near.  
Paint close Cabals, and Midnights secret Clubs,  
Paint the Disciples of the bawling Tubs,  
With Ears erected and with Mouths displayed,  
And all the Brethren o'th Religious Blade,  
Big with their hopes and expectations blown,  
That e're't be long the day will be their own.  
Let several labelns from their mouths proceed,  
To note the different Tribes o'th' Holy Seed:  
Here, Root and Branch, there, down with Babel down.  
Away with Bishops, this, that, with the Crown.  
Here draw one closesly laughing in his sleeve,  
That he has made the zealous fools believe,  
What he has  told them is as Gospel true,  
If't be not so, then he's a very ●ew.  
Paint here Ambition making humble Court  
To Popular Ears, and showing Scripture for't.  
There, Draw me Envy, and here, private Pique,  
Looking demure while deep Revenge they seek.  
Here one who lost his Crown and Bishops Lands,  
Clapping for joy his Sacrilegious hands.  
Draw busy jealousy among the crowd,  
And whispering Fear, and Calumny still loud.  
Paint Armed Zeal in fighting Gospel Buff;  
Paint what thou wilt, so't be confused enuff.  
Then Painter Draw one laughing out this Mott,  
Come do it boldly then, Plot upon Plot.  
Now Painter let us Trade in open day,  
And bare faced Light: a barren landscape lay,  
Like some could Northern climb; there must not be  
Much Beauty in it, much Variety:  
Not many fruitful Vales, nor pleasant Springs,  
Nor murmu'ring Riv'lets, nor delightful things.  
But cragged Rocks, and the bald Mountains show,  
No Perrewigs of Wood, but Bonnets blew  
Of distant Sky, Paint Loughs, and Treacherous Bogs,  
Stored with Revelation croaking Frogs.  
And now the Scene is fit, the Curtain draw,  
Trumpets and Drums within, Sasa, Sasa.  
A reverend Prelate must the Prologue be,  
Enough alone to make a Tragedy.  
Paint him all over wounds and purple gore,  
Greater than Caesars and in number more.  
Than let the mad brained Zealous Troops advance,  
Hasting to forfeit their Allegiance,  
In the defence of Covenant; Well a way!  
True Protestant Religion to betray.  
While thus with Violence, Murder, Perjury,  
They strive to raise their new Fifth Monarchy,  
The Iron sceptre of Presbytery.  
Now Painter Summon all thy skilful Art,  
Thy choicest Colours, cleanest strokes impart.  
Draw me a blooming Hero, let him fly,  
more swift than lightning from a sullen Sky:  
Whose early Valour Rivals Caesars famed,  
For he too came, and saw, and overcame.  
Paint Woods of laurels for his conquering brow,  
he'l reap them all as fast as they can grow.  
But gentle Painter, plant them in the shade,  
Lest as they quickly grew, they quickly fade.  
And now dear Painter, how shall we device,  
To draw some thoughts? Oh! how would that surprise!  
But since those swift Ideas will not sit,  
Till thou canst finish 'em, even venture it,  
A careless dash does sometimes bravely hit.  
Draw then the discontented Factious crew  
Of Disaffected Brethren; let us view  
Their Faces well, and we shall easily find,  
Their secret thoughts by th' Index of the mind.  
Draw biting Lips, and sullen frowning Brow,  
And hands lift up betwixt a Curse and Vow:  
Paint this half drawing out his angry Sword,  
That weeping for the people of the Lord,  
Who for the Gospel were in Battle slain,  
Or by the Common En'my Captive tane.  
Let hasty blood mount in that manly Face,  
There let it sneak, and give pale Choler place.  
Here Paint one raving, raging, staring mad;  
Thus disappointed after seeking Gad!  
Thus by ill Conduct, and base Cowardice,  
To spoil the Good Old Cause, and ope' the Eyes  
Of Wicked men, to see and Triumph too;  
What hast thou done Lard? Lard! What must we do?  
Could not th' impatient Brethren stay till we  
Had fully hatched a New Conspiracy,  
No King, or else of Clouts, till we had made,  
( That is a Glorious King) they might have stayed:  
But thus with Shell on head, and callow wing,  
Thus run away! Lard! This was such a thing!  
Now should we strive to lend our helping hand  
To work Salvation, th' wicked of the Land  
Will call't Rebellion: and should they prevail,  
We can expect no Mercy, if we fail  
In our attempt, no second Amnesty  
Can e're be hoped, Ah! No indemnity!  
Painter, close up thy Piece, expose't to view;  
'twill meet with various Censures: But 'tis true.  
Till the next time we meet, Painter Adieu.   

To the KING.  
HAil Mighty Charles! Joy of our Lives and Eyes:  
Born and preserved, restored in wondrous wise!  
At last take pity of a Glorious State,  
Shook by the Malice, and the restless Hate,  
Of Undermining Foes, and Treacherous Friends,  
By differing methods driving the same ends.  
Papist and Presbyterian both combine,  
And Sampsons flaming Foxes Tails-conjoyn  
To R●b thee of thy Crown, and to destroy,  
With thee our Lives, Religion, Liberty.  
Rome and Geneva, both strive to pull down  
The Envi'd Mitre and Imperial Crown.  
The Royal Martyr Charles, the Wise, the Just,  
Commands you to forgive, but never trust.  
Lose not your Friends in hopes your Foes to gain,  
Eternal hates are reconciled in vain.  
You are no longer safe than they want power,  
No Monarch after that can Reign an hour.  
Cherish you Friends if sceptres you will sway,  
And Rule your Subjects many a happy day.  
Defend that Faith which does defend your Crown,  
Which Christ first taught, which all true Christians own:  
Who teaches any other, comes from Hell;  
The Dev'l first did, then taught men to Rebel.  
red all the rest in the late Rebel Scot,  
There is enough to show a second Plot.  
The Banks are yet entire, 'tis not too late  
To stop another Deluge o'er the State.  
Who his to morrow trusts for safety, may,  
Before it comes be ruined by delay.  
To speak bold truths Poets and Painters dare,  
Believe them, Mighty Sir, Believe, Beware!  
Nothing can save us from a dreadful Doom,  
But what secures from Faction and from Rome.   
FINIS.   

THE jesuits Advice TO THE PAINTER: Upon the DEATH of William Howard, Late Viscount Stafford.  

WHat damned dull Dog was that that did advice  
So poorly to depict ROME'S Treacheries?  
And in such mean pedantic Strains to call  
An Art-less Painter to her Funeral:  
Sure One that had no Soul, but what was Lent,  
And from some fulsome dunghill hither sent!  
Fond Poet, ROME's not dead nor dying! she  
Will yet Survive your grand Catastrophe:  
And all her Martyred Saints shall from the Dead  
Arise, and Plant their triumphs on her head;  
Such Glories her predicted Fall attend.  
As will in a Victorious Conquest End:  
With what dull Verse, with what insipid Spell,  
Dost thou lay down the Stratagems of Hell?   

ALl you infernal spirits from Styg'a● Lake,  
Requiems sing for our dear Stafford's s●ke,  
Who to the Last, unto his latest Breath,  
Our cause maintained, and sealed it by his Death,  
Paint this famed Hero Innocent and Great▪  
Make him a Saint in spite of Jove and Fate▪  
Let his cursed Treasons Loyalty supplant,  
Ten Rebels make for one damned Protestant,  
By his last traitorous Breath, let him create,  
Ten hundred Thousand Traytors to the State,  
And now with Hell let him once more combine,  
Implore its Aid, to drive on Our design.  
Lay all the Kingdom waste, and in a Word  
Put all the heretics to Fire and Sword;  
Leave not a Child of Two years old to tell,  
That ever here, a Protestant did dwell.  
But that these Things may fully take Effect,  
No Mercy show to young, nor old respect;  
When we ●●ud Blessings give, Know then we Curse,  
If we advice to Kill, you must do worse.  
When we Obedience preach, 'tis our Intent,  
Rebels to be to King and Parliament.  
Turn all Things upside down, till Rome and Fate,  
Become the ample Guardians of the State.  
till we involve i'th tie of human Blood,  
What no Age knew or ever Understood,  
Assist my Muse, from the Infernal ●IT!  
Whence jesuits draw their Abyss of Wit:  
All you dear Brothers of the Holy League,  
Ital●ans, Spanish, British, French and Teagu●,  
Conspire in one, both Hell and Rome predict,  
Your good Success; our PLOT to like effect.  
Damn that ignoble Painter that does Limn,  
The Holy PLOT, in Characters so dim:  
In stead of poison, Pistol, or a Stab,  
Paint Unbelief, no Faith but in a 
T●e Romish Church.  Drab.  
In stead of Gallows, Torture and Defence,  
Draw faithful Guilt, in shape of Innocence.  
Limn to the Life; Make our hanged Saints arise,  
Convert the Sceen, Draw murder in Disguise:  
From sleep ascents to Happiness and Bliss,  
Where you design to Kill, there paint a Kiss.  
Propound, confounded, desist, repent, recant,  
Paint holy— a Zealous Protestant:  
Give him the Oath, and swear him to maintain  
Reformed Faith in a true Popish Strain.  
This does indeed look something like ourselves:  
Knit in a Mystique tie with Saints and Elves.  
But to proceed, where Massacres should stand,  
There paint the Plague, by it a Happy Land.  
For Towns burnt down, and Cities in a flamme,  
Draw there the Pope his Holinesse's Name.  
By Pluto's side Limn Hope and pawned ●aith,  
And near their Feet Discovery and Death.  
Depict Discovery fearful in a Throng,  
Make dreadful Death as ●●a●tiful and young:  
And for a murdered Prince a Virgin draw,  
crowned with Religion, privilege and Law:  
Within her Arms, lay all the Holy PLOT;  
All what is yet designed, and what is not.  
All things proposed for Mischief to ensue,  
Paint in no fading colours but in Blew,  
That all our holy Order may at sight,  
In a Disguise see the Effects of Night.  
DANBY's pernicious Council place alone,  
Which, for the Kingdoms good, engrave in ston,  
And near the same, let his dear person stand,  
Loaden with Crimes, 
A Pardon.  High Treason in his hand.  
Upom his hardened Forehead, paint in read,  
The Dreadful Ghost of GODFREY from the Dead:  
But clear him of the ●●ult; Be sure to state  
The Heretick's the Author of his Fate.  
For th' other ill affencted Lords, set down  
No Treason, but aspiring to a Crown.  
Upon their Shoulders make Religion stand;  
But give her Wings, and Gold in either hand:  
Make her spit Fire which for the Churches good.  
See that you quench with the whole Nations blood.  
This done, in place of consecrated Knives,  
Put a long Chain of Prayers and Popish Lives,  
And though we Swear, For-swear, and lye, yet Paint,  
A jesuit no Devil but a Saint.  
For deep Rebellion of a Purple die,  
Draw humble Supplicants to Majesty,  
Where foreigners design for to invade,  
No Armies put, but Languor, Fear and Dread.  
Depose Great Lewis from his glorious Throne,  
Whilst we unite these Kingdoms to his own.  
Before those Kings which we are to Delude,  
Draw Prostrate jesuits in Blood imbrued.  
In a deep Dungeon the Inquisition place,  
Not with an Horrid, but a Pleasing Face.  
All that we have to do, is to deceive,  
And the Misguided World of Sense bereave.  
A Conquest we design o'th British Land,  
Whom we intend shall fall, pray here let stand.  
falsehood and Victory join, and in a Line,  
Make Breach of Faith resemble Truth Divine.  
We're now spur d on, with flames of Rage and Lust,  
To lay the Credulous World in Blood and Dust:  
O're-turn the Pillars of the Universe,  
And tragic Scenes of Cruelty rehearse.  
Make Monarchs fall upon their Sulphury Lees,  
And trembling seize upon their feeble Knees.  
Bring all into a Chaos, as at first,  
Before the Product of the Earth was cursed:  
In stead of Waters, let the Rivers swell,  
With human Blood, sent headlong down to Hell: 
As in Queen Marys days.   
Whilst raging Flames, their Lifeless Corps destroy,  
And fix the Periods of the Nations joy.  
Breath nothing but Revenge with Fire and Sword,  
Give the pernicious 
Massacre.  Pestilence the word:  
And that Hells deep Design may take Effect,  
All villainies pursue, no Crimes reject.  
Bring to Confusion whatso'er you meet,  
Hell guid your Souls, whilst Rome directs your f●et;  
So may the Painters hand be guided too,  
Contriving to Contrive, how to undo.  
Honour depress, Insult upon, degrade,  
Let perjured baseness Royal Thrones invade:  
Be kind to none that villainy detest,  
Or harbour generous Thoughts within their breast.  
But see you make the Martyrdom proceed,  
From those, to whom, by Us it is decreed.  
Upon their Brows plant Vengeance; and we'll smite  
Those wretched Catiffs to Eternal Night.  
This is the judgement, the Decree is sealed;  
Nor can it be revoked tho 't be revealed.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for T. Davies. 1681.