our God Or else must We not in Heaven have aboad Must Fire and Wood burn all that won't bow Worship S. Doll and the Devil knows who Must Ignorance be our Guide to Glory Then Heaven I 'm sure is but an Old Story Must all Men be blind that open their Eyes That Priests may do what they please with their Wivesâ— Must killing of Kings and Princes to boot Be Marks that the Pope is sound at the Root Must a Conclave of Rogues and Jesuit Priests Perswade all the World to Worship the Beast Must the Pope order all by Sea and by Land Who must turn out and who is to 〈◊〉 Must those be intrusted that swear and receive What e're you impose that they may deceive Must Iudas be saved that eat of the Sop No by the Mass he deserved the Rope Must such be employed at Sea and at Shore That would subvert all to set up the Whore Must those be good that designed to seem such Who in Parliament time subscrib'd to the Church Must We all be undone by a damn'd Popish Crew Some that is about us and some We ne're knew Must the King and his Friends see and know this And yet be advised that nothing's amiss Must this be the Trap then the Devil take it Our Hogs We 've brought to a blessed Market Vpon the Execution of the late Viscount STAFFORD I. SHall every Jack and every Jill That rides in State up Holbourn Hill By aid of Smithfield Rhymes defie The Malice of Mortality And shall Lord Stafford dye forgot He that would needs be such a Sot To dye for love of a damn'd Plot No Viscount no believe it not II. Diana's Temple all in flame Advanc'd th' Incendiaries Name Ruffians and Bauds and Whores and Theives In Ballad Records live new lives And shall a Lord because a Traytor In such an Age so given to flatter Want that which others Saints to him Ne're want to fame them Words and Rhime III. Oh Sir the Papishes you know Have much more gratitude than so For this same Lord that brake the Laws Of God and Man to serve their Cause Shall live in Pravers and Almanacks Beyond what Ballad-Monger makes And some Years hence you 'l see shall work Such Miracles would turn a Turk IV. Blest is that Man that has a Box To save the Saw-dust in that sokes His tainted Blood or can besmeare One corner of his Muckinder Oh! then some Ages hence they 'l cry Lo Stafford's Blood and shed for why For nothing but because he sought To kill his Prince and sham the Plot. V. Now they that dye for crimes like these The Papists send to Heaven with case For they secure 'em safe from Hell Which once believ'd the rest is well A strange Belief that Men should think That were not drunk with worse than Drink That such Rewards as Deifying By Treason should begain'd and Lying VI. The Man that for Religion dyes Has nothing more before his Eyes But he that dyes a Criminal Dyes with a load and none can call Religion that which makes him dream Obduracy can hide his shame VII The Pope may do what he Conjectures As to the business of his Pictures The Colours ne're can hide the Crimes Stories will read to after Times And 't will be found in the Hangman's Hands Will strangely blur the Pope's Commands VIII Had he but shewed some Christmas Gambles And Headless took St. Denis Rambles The Plot had been a damnable thing And down had gon the Scaffolding But 'cause his Lordship this forgot Men still believe there is a Plot. IX Where was St. Dominick asleep Where did St. Frank his Kennel keep That on a business so emergen They did not brisly teize the Virgin To let his Lordship play a Prank Her Grace becoming and his Rank X. But they that Heaven and Earth Command You see sometimes they 're at a stand For truth to tell ye should the Saints Be bound to hear all Fools complaints Their Lives would be as void of mirth In Heaven as formerly on Earth XI Now Balladâ—wise before he 's dead To tell ye what the Sufferer said He both defended and gain-said Held up his hands and cry'd and pray'd And swore he ne're was in the Plot No by his Vicountship God wot XII Come come Sir had it not been better To have dy'd to Death common Debter And that upon your lasting Stone This Character had been alone Here lies a very Honest Lord True to his King true to his Word XIII But those of your Religion Are now a days so damn'd high flown You think that nothing makes a Saint But Plot refin'd and Treason Quaint And Heaven accepts no Offerings But Ruin'd Kingdoms Murdered Kings XIV Now you that knew who were his Judges Who found him Guilty without grudges Who gave him over to the Block And how he sham'd to save the stroak If you believe the Speech he made ye Le'strange and P ton's shame degrade ye XV. Thus us'd all Arts that could cajole You may be sure his silly Soul And were those promises perform'd With which his Conscience they had charm'd Who would betray a Cursed Plot To be when Dead the Lord knows what XVI But if those jolly Promises Do send thee into Little â—ase As certainly they must undo thee What ever Fools and Knaves said to thee Then Phlegeus like in Hell condole And Curse them that betray'd thy Soul XVII Now God preserve our Noble King And bless all them that thus did bring Unto the Block that silly Head That car'd not what it did or said And all good Men may Heaven defend From such a vile untimely End The Lord STAFFORD's Ghost c. FRom Stygian shade lo my pale Ghost doth rise To visit Earth and these sublunar Skies For some few moments I'm in Mercy sent To bid my Fellow-Traytors to Repent Repent before you taste of Horrid Fate Your Guilt confess before it be too late I am not here arriv'd on Earth to tell The hidden secrets that belong to Hell Nor am I sent to publish or declare Who are tormenters whom tormented there For now I know that it is Heavens decree These things to Mortals still shall secrets be Who have fantastick Dreams and nothing know Of what is done above or yet below But I have seen with my Immortal Eyes Things that with horror do my Soul surprize Too late alas too late I see my Sin With strange Chymera's I 've deluded been By a curs'd brood who sounded in my Ear Dye obstinate no Chains of Conscience fear Upon us firmly let your Faith be built We can and do Absolve you from your Guilt And after this you need no more Repent For you a Martyr dye and Innocent O Cursed Men who on Wretches thus Intrude And thus poor Souls Eternally delude Whilst they believe what these deluders say Liâ—e is snatch'd from them and they drop away And falling down by Charon Death they 're hurl'd Into the Mansions of a dismal
that all alone We have terrible Bulls and Pardons for Gulls Holy Water to Scar-crow the Devil With Consecrate Swords take them on our words They shall make the Great Turk be civil We have Saints great store and Miracles more With Martyrs a great many from Tyburn Pretty Nuns that dwell mewd up in a Cell As chast as Night-walkers of Holbourn We have Holy Blood we have Holy Wood A Ship-load or some such matter We have Holy Bones and some Holy Stones Would make an old Ladies Chops water We have Holy Men seen but now and then Monks Abbots and Capuchin Friars With Merits so great they can buy one a Seat In Heaven or else they are Liars Then all you that would sure Salvation procure And yet still live as you list Do but mutter and pray and say as we say And your Catholicks good as e're P We are brisk and free and always agree Allowing our selves to be jolly And the Puritan Tricks of dull Hereticks We count but Fanatical Folly Swearing and Whoring Drinking and Roaring All those are but Venial Transgressions The Murthering of Kings and such petty things Are easily Absolv'd in Confession A little short Penance doth wipe away Sin And there 's an end of all trouble Which having dispatcht you may fall to 't agen And safely your Wickedness double Bring a good round Sum Sins past and to come Shall presently be forgiven But this you must know before you do go The Excize runs high upon Heaven For we have the Price of every Vice Assest at a certain Rate So near at a word we do them afford Not a Penny thereof we can bate But if you 're content a while to be pent And in Purgatory purged A smaller Spell shall preserve you from Hell And keep you from being scourged Though you have liv'd a Devil in all kind of Evil Bequeath but a Monastery And Angels your Soul without Controul To Abraham's Bosom shall Carry Nor need you to fear who have bought Lands dear That were Holy Churches before We 'l lend them for life but for your Souls health At your Death you must them restore Thus Popery you see will kindly agree If you will it but embrace But if you delay there 's somany i' th way That you will hardly get a good place The Critical Time is now in the prime See how Holy Mother does smile And spreading her Arms to preserve you from harms So gladly would you Reconcile To which purpose behold do but tell out your Gold And all things in readiness be For the next Year His Holiness we hear Doth intend a Jubilee You that Pardons would have or Indulgence crave To ROME to ROME be trudging And do not contemn good Advice from a Friend Nor take his Ballad in dudgeon On ROME's Pardons By the E. of R. IF Rome can Pardon Sins as Romans hold And if those Pardons can be bought and sold It were no Sin to adore and worship Gold If they can purchase Pardons with a Sum For Sins they may commit in time to come And for Sins past 't is very well for Rome At this rate they are happiest that have most They 'l purchase Heaven at their own proper cost Alas the Poor all that are so are lost Whence came this Knack or when did it begin What Author have they or who brought it in Did Christ e're keep a Custom-House for Sin Some subtile Devil without more ado Did certainly this sly Invention brew To gull'em of their Souls and Mony too Written by Stephen Colledge the day before he dyed Wrongful Imprisonment Hurts not the Innocent WHat if I am into a Prison cast By Hellish Combinations am betray'd My Soul is free although my Body's fast Let them Repent that have this Evil laid And of Eternal Vengeance be afraid Come Racks and Gibbets can my Body kill My God is with me and I fear no Ill. What boots the Clamours of the Giddy Throng What Antidotes against a poysonous Breath What Fence is there against a lying Tongue Sharpen'd by Hell to wound a Man to Death Snakes Vipers Adders do lurk underneath Say what you will or never speak at all Our very Prayers such Wretches Treason call But Walls and Bars cannot a Prison make The free-born Soul enjoyes it's Liberty These Clods of Earth it may incaptivate Whilst Heavenly Minds are conversant on high Ranging the Fields of Blest Eternity So let this Bird sing sweetly in my Breast My Conscience clear a Rush for all the rest What I have done I did with good Intent To serve my King my Country and the Laws Against the Bloody Papists I was bent Cost what it will I 'le ne're repent my Cause Nor do I fear their Hell-devouring Jawes A Protestant I am and such I 'le die Maugre all Death and Popish Cruelty But what need I these Protestations make Actions speak Men far better than their Words What e're I suffer for my Country's sake Not Cause I had a Gun or Horse or Sword Or that my Heart did Treason e're afford No 't is not me alone they do intend But Thousands more to gain their cursed Ends. And sure of this the World 's so well aware That here it 's needless more for me to say I must conclude no time have I to spare My winged hours fly too fast away My work Repentance must I not delay I 'le add my Prayers to God for Englands good And if he please will seal them with my Blood O blessed God! destroy this black Design Of Popish Consults it 's in thee we trust Our Eyes are on thee help O Lord in time Thou God of Truth most merciful and just Do thou defend us or we perish must Save England Lord from Popish Cruelty My Country bless thy will be done on me Man's Life 's a Voyage through a Sea of Tears If he would gain the Heaven of his Rest His Sighs must fill the Sails whilst some men steers When storms arise let each Man do his best And cast the Anchor of his hopes opprest Till Time or Death shall bring us to that Shore Where Time nor Death shall never be no more Laus Deo S. C. From my Prison in the Tower Aug. 15. 1681. Amen LONDON's Fatal Fall Being an ACROSTICK c. Written as a Second Poetical Diversion the 8 th of September 1666. L o now confused Heaps only stand O n what did bear the Glory of the Land N o Stately Places no Edefices D o now appear No here 's now none of these O h Cruel Fates Can ye be so unkind N ot to leave scarce a Mansion behind L et England then lament and let her keep A dismal day let every Soul to weep T o wash away those Sins that thus provoke E ternal Heavens all-consuming stroke L et Penitential Tears quench out the Fire Y et reigning in our Lusts let that expire E lse we can have no blessed Confidenâ—e N or hopes in Heavens merciful Defence G race
World Where Conscience stands and stares them in the face Shewing a Table of Eternal Brass In which in noted Characters are wrot Their whole lifes crimes which living they forgot With Conscience these have an Eternal strife And Curse the vain delusive Dreams of Life With torment now their crimes read o're and o're And waking see they did but Dream before Too late and than too late what Plague is worse They see their folly and themselves they Curse They Curse themselves because they did believe And doubtly Curse those who did them deceive When to the fatal Scaffold I was brought I said and did what I was bid and laught Tho' Conscience said I did not what I ought Stoutly the Guilt as I was bid deny'd And for the Cause I Rome's great Martyr dy'd I that Religion then esteemed good And gladly would have seal'd it with my Blood Because I then no better understood Let not the World to vain delusions flye I did for Treason not Religion dye Tho' on the Scaffold I would not confess My Ghost alas too late can do no less Let all Complotters warning take by me The World we may delude but God doth see Tho' what we did should never come to light It can't be hid from the Almighty's sight Give God the Glory and confess your Crime Confess your horrid Treason while you 've time Publick Confession shews you do Repent And is the best way to grow Innocent I see too late I have been led astray And by Error far from Truth was led away For that Religion never can be good That would erect it self by Humane Blood I pin'd my self upon anothers sleeve And blindly I did as the Church believe What my delusive Guides did bid me do That I believ'd was Holy Just and True With Zeal I acted and hop'd for Applause Of Men and Heaven in so good a Cause But Oh! I sigh and now my Airy Ghost Shivers to think what Blessings I have lost The broadway to Destruction then I took And Vertues Road my blinded Zeal mistook But you my Friends who yet are left behind Now to your selves and to your Souls be kind Open her Eyes and be no longer blind Pry my sad End do you your Errors find Confess your Crimes before it be too late Confess confess before you yield to Fate Before from Life and from the World you go Before that you descend to Shades below Before your Souls taste of Eternal Woe Truth cannot Dye it stronger is than Death Remains when Mortals have resign'd their breath To amazed Souls with Conscience she appears To aggravate and to encrease their fears Confess her while you live though drawn to Sin Repentance with Confession doth begin Believe no longer that accursed Brood Who on the Necks of Kings have proudly trod Nor him who thinks himself an Earthly God Those Hectoring Jesuits who so Zealous be Who think to Rule the World by Policy Who to the Gallows seem with joy to come To be the Martyrs and the Raints of Rome When Life is fled and they are gon from hence In tumbling down are waked into Sense Where all amaz'd and wondring where they 've bin They howl and cry and wish to Dye agin Beware I say be fool'd no longer here For Rhadamanthus is a Judge severe Hark! I am call'd I must descend below But let me Prophesie before I go See the bright Starâ— which o're your Heads doth shine I can as well as Gadbury Divine What the bright stream of Radient Light doth mean Which every Night so frequently is seen Hear me O Rome though in your Cause I dy'd Nigh is the setting of your Pomp and Pride That Star doth shew that day is near at hand That Rome no longer shall the world command And many Years it hath not now to stand By that bright stream which still points to the East The Everlasting Gospel's Light 's exprest Which just is breaking forth and doth bespeak That its most Glorious Day 's about to break When Peace and Truth and Righteousness shall stand Everlasting Pillars set in every Land And Christ in Power alone the world command Then shall the world shine with Eternal Glory And Perhaps may then leave PVRGATORY The Ghosts of Edward Fitz Harris and Oliver Plunket who were Executed at Tyburn for High Treason c. Fitz Harirs I Groan and Languish to Relate My Countries present Case and State Which now lies under pressures great I have been in my time a Thing That would have done ought 'gainst the King Whereby I Popery in might bring I Boggled not Shams to devise Whereby to charge upon with Lies The Presbyterians Plotting Guise Tho' they in Truth for ought I knew Had naught under design or view But what was Loyal Just and True In order this Sham-Plot to vent I a damn'd Libell did invent 'gainst both the King and Government Plunket Tush Fellow Martyr Tush I say You do what misbecomes your way Rome's Plottings if you do betray For what Man ever think you got A Pardon for being in the Plot That to the last deny'd it not Or ever heard you was there one That was o' th Roman Church a Son But went on as he had begun D' ye think you ever sav'd shall be If you retract not what you say And Holy Church don't justifie I as a Priest pronounce you damn'd You shall be into Hell now Cram'd If you persist in things forenam'd And there in endless Torments lye Whilst all our Rogueries I deny And thereby into Heaven fly Fitz. If Heaven Sir you think to win By persevering in known Sin You will I doubt fall into th' Gin. For if one Crime that unrepented Be damnable how you 've prevented Your Fate I know not but contented Am that you should a Papist dye And so by telling many a lye To Heav'n reach but I Poor I Will make a free and true discov'ry Of what I know at large or by Of this vile Plot which I decry â—ost Heartily confessing that 〈◊〉 truly sorry am for what â—â—ve done t' advance the Romish Plot. â—or now at last I plainly see â—omes Religion's damn'd Heresie â—ept up and carryed on by Cursed Cruelty â—or else how comes it pray about Our Friends to 'th Cause have been so stout Toth ' very last to brave it out 〈◊〉 wonder how you durst presume God's Sacred Name in Mouth t'assume To justifie your Lyes and Rome And thereby weakly to keep up The Credit of your damn'd Pope Tho 't cost you Hell for 't and a Rope I do confess I justly dye For serving you and Popery In Villanies I Blush to say My Judges freely I forgive Being one no way deserv'd to Live No nor the grace of a Reprieve 'T was favour great indeed I think For th' King to give me on the brink Of my sad Fate time e're I sink Wherein I reconcil'd might be To the enraged Diety For Crimes against His Majesty And might my Countries danger tell And
give us Coyn enough we 'l spend the Nations pence These Two-penny States-men all shall down a goodly sight to see To finish all we 'l plunder 'um too such Sons of Whores are We. 5 We 'l build more Universities for there lies all our hope And to th' Crape Gown we 'l cringe and creep supposing 't were a Pope â—y what he will we 'l him believe if true or false it be â—nd while he prays we 'l Drink his Health such Tory Rogues are We 6 What Pimping Whig shall dare controule or check the Lawful Heir We 'l take the Rascal by the Pole and Pox of all his Hair Then here goes honest Iame's Health come drink it on your Knee â—zowns we 'l have none but honest Soâ—ls such Tory Rogues are We. 7 These Crafty Whigs are subtle Knaves to give them all their due And yet we bauk'd the Popish Plot though they had sworn it true For this you know who we may thank But Mum for that yet we Are bound to pray and praise him for 't such Tory Rogues are We. 8 When all these Zealous Whigs are down we 'l drink and fall a roaring And then set up the Tripple Crown 't will Saint us all for Whoreing When we have quite inslav'd 'um all our selves cannot be free Then prithee Devil claim thy own 〈…〉 9 We 'l chuse their Sheriffs and Juries too and then pretend 't is Law We 'l bring more Irish o're to swear 'gainst those they never saw We 'l seize their Charters then they must come beg 'um on their Knee If this won't do we 'l call the French such cursed Rogues are We. On the Death of the PLOT ALas what thing can hope Death's Hand to 'scape When Mother-Plot her self is brought to Crape The teeming Matron at the last is Dead But of a numerous Spawn first brought to Bed The little Shamms Abortives without Legs She laid and hatch'd as fast as Hens do Eggs. But they no sooner peep'd into the Light Than they kick'd up and bid the World good night The Bantlings dyed always in their Cradle And th' Eggs tho' kept in Meal-Tubs still prov'd addle She liv'd to see her Issue go before her And some made Tyburn-Saints who did adore her But what is strange and not to be forgot The Plotters liv'd to see the Death of Plot And O if now he will his Credit save Must raise thee up like Lazarus from the Grave Men who their Sences have do more than think Thee dead when it is plain thou now do'st stink Well fare thee Dead for living thou mad'st work For Heathen Iew for Christian and for Turk For Honest Men and Knaves for Wise and Fool And eke for many a witless scribling Tool Who now sit mute pick Teeth and scratch the Head Now th' Idol-Mother-Plot of Plots is dead But loath these are to believe News so sad And swear they think that all the World are mad But blame them not for being so much vext To lose the Uses of a gainful Text. These swear she 's in an Epileptick Fit And P will bring her out of it Let them think on and their dear selves deceive When I shall see her rise I will believe And not before In the mean time from me Accept for her this slender Elegy I do confess she does deserve the Rhimes Of all the ready Writers of the Times But with wet Eyes they do in silence mourn As if they 'd drown the Ashes in her Urn. But here she lies whom none alive could paint Old Mother Plot the Devil and the Saint A Popish-Protestant Hermophradite An hidden piece that none could bring to Light A Mother and a Monster rare who had A numerous Issue and without a Dad A very strange and an unnatural Elf Who hatch'd brought forth and then eat up her self Who 's Dead and stinks yet whole and will not Was is not now yet ne're shall be forgot An uncouth Mystery of a Medley Fame A Plot a Mother-Plot without a Name FINIS Books Printed for Iohn How at the Sign of the Seven Stars at the South-West corner of the Royal Exchange in Cornhil THe Present State of London The Protestant School-Master being plain and easiy Directions for Spelling and Reading English and an Account of all the Plots Treasons Murders and Massacres committed by the Papists on the Protestants in most Countrys in Europe for near 600 Years Catastrophy Mundi or Merlin Reviv'd with Mr. Lilly 's Hiroglyphicks Romes Follies or the Amorous Fryars a Play 〈…〉 POEMS ON Several Occasions Written by the E. of R. Dr. Wild and others of the Choicest Modern Wits THE SECOND PART LONDON Printed for Iohn How at the Seven Stars at the South-West Corner of the Royal Exchange in Cornhill 1683. Dr. WILD's Poem In nova fert Animus c. OR A New Song TO AN OLD FRIEND From An OLD POET Upon the Hopeful New Parliament WE are All tainted with the Athenian Itch News and new Things do the whole World bewitch Who would be Old or in Old fashions Trade Even an Old Whore would fain go for a Maid The Modest of both Sexes buy new Graces Of Perriwigs for Pates and Paint for Faces Some wear new Teeth in an old Mouth and some Carve a new Nose out of an aged Bum. Old Hesiod's gods Immortal Youth enjoy Cupid though Blind yet still goes for a Boy Under one Hood Hypocrite Ianus too Carries two faâ—es one Old th' other New Apollo wears no Beaâ—d but still looks young Diana Pallas 〈◊〉 all the throng Of Muses Graces Nymphs look Briâ—k and Gay Priding themselves in a perpetual May Whiles doting Saturn Pluto Priserpinâ— At their own ugly Wrinkles Rage and Grin The very Furies in their looks do twine Snakes whose embroâ—dered skins 〈◊〉 their shine And nothing makes Great Iuno chafe anâ—â—cold But Ioves new Misses slighting her as â—â—ld Poets who others can Immoâ—tal 〈◊〉 When they grow Gray their 〈…〉 And seek young Temples where they may 〈◊〉 Green No Palsie â—and may wash in Hypocrene 'T was not Terse Clarret Eggs and 〈◊〉 Nor Gobbets Crown'd with Greâ—k or Spanâ—â— Wine Could make new Flames in Old Ben Iohnsons Vâ—ins But his Attoâ—ps prov'd lâ—nk and languid strain His New Inn so he nam'd his youngest Plaâ— Prov'd a blind Ale-house cry'd down the first Day His own dull Epitaph Here lies Ben Iohnson Half drunken too He Hickâ—upt who was once one Ah! this sad once one once we Trojans were Oh better never if not still we are Rhymes of Old Men Iliack passions be When that should downward go comes up we see And are like Iews-Ears in an Elder-Tree When Spectacles do once bestride the Nose The Poet's Gallop turns to stumbling Prose Sir I am Old Cold Mould and you might hope To see an Alderman dance on a Rope A Iudge to act a Gallant in a Play Oâ— an Old â—luralist Preach twice a day Of 〈…〉 Taylor make a Valiant Knight 〈…〉 of a Iesuite As aâ— Old â—ald-pate such