Tom tell-troth, or, A dialogue between the Devil and the Pope about carrying on the plot

Tom Tell-Troth: OR, A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE DEVIL and the POPE, About Carrying on the PLOT.

DEVIL.

MY dear adopted Heir, mine only Son, Thou that hast fought, and all my Battels won, Inlarg'd my Kingdom, and with Thousand Souls Fill'd up the Cat'logue of my sulphury Rowles; Whose fi'ry Bulls, and bloody Inquisition, Feign'd Purgatory, and thy false Tradition, Beads, Images, thy Relicks, Crucifix, Indulgence, Pardons, and such taking-tricks,

Have more augmented my Infernal Host, Than Pagan-Rome her self could ever boast, And damn'd more Souls, than Hereticks e're lost. This to thy glory I acknowledg—

POPE.

Grand-sire of Popes, 'tis kindness thus to own What duty we thy Nose-led Sons have shown. That Letter which I lately did receive From thy dark Court, did me such courage give, (Which I had answer'd (Sir) but for this Reason, So many of our men of late for Treason Have ply'd old Charon so, that he did swear, Go and be damn'd your self, d'ye think I care To be your Porter? I must tend my Fare.

D.

Is he so flusht? I shall abate his fee.

P.

And well you may, since 'tis encreas'd by me.) That welcom Packet (you may it believe) To me, I say, did such new vigour give, As had not that mysterious English Monster, Which Popes or Devils ne're could truly conster, Who all our Policies do circumvent, That many-headed Beast call'd Parliament, Cross'd my designs, Englands admir'd Prince Had fall'n a sacrifice to thee long since. But since your Devilship is pleas'd to come In person, to your lower Court at Rome, My zeal's blown up to such an heat, nay flame, That I resolve it (in the Devils name) Neither to stop or stay, I'le take no rest Till I have once more fir'd that Rebel nest Of Hereticks; and if my Jesu'ts falter, I will my self provide them each an Halter. Had not base Cowardise appear'd our foe At White-hall, Windsor, and New-market too Our work, I'am sure, had not been now to do: But since they are so fearful of the Rope, They shall expect it from their Father Pope.

The next occasion that doth happen fair, He that shall slip it, i'faith, I'le send him where He shall do penance for his pannick fear.

D.

Heroickly resolv'd, I like it well: But how will you go forward, can you tell?

P.

That I expect from you; but the old Mask I think will serve till we have done our task.

D.

What mask is that, my Son?

P.

Religion.

D.

Right, This mannag'd well, with policy, and might, Will do the business: wrest it as you please, This way, or that, to give the Actor ease. Make it a Shooing-horn, that will eas'ly draw Any thing on, and make it seem a Law. A Stalking-horse, whereunder you may lurk, Till you've accomplish'd your intended work. 'Tis a brave guil••ed Mask that blears the eye, And makes a lye seem truth, and truth a lye. You've put it on already, use it well, And expect aid from all the powers of Hell.

P.

I hope, most Infamous Apollyon, You will be pleas'd to see how we go on; And new inspire us with Ignatian zeal, To make such Rents as none shall ever heal.

D.

Doubt not my utmost aid, for 'tis the Pope And his Adherents are the only hope I have on earth; 'tis by your heads and hands My Kingdom in the world so strongly stands. Besides, if you consider well how I Have taught you to equivocate and lye, Then to confirm it by the Sacrament, You've little cause to doubt my male-intent. A thousand ways I've shewn you how to gull The cred'lous multitude, and do you—?

P.

Nay, pray, Sir, be not thus enrag'd, that I Ask the assistance of your pollicy. Preceding Popes have by tradition told What you by them, and for them did of old.

And I confess (dear Father) you have done As much for me as e're you did for Son. For which, I vow, I will not fail to sac're Those dues to you, I owe unto my Maker; And dayly more endeavour Art and Powers T' assure you (Sir) I am obliged yours: Yet am I but a passive instrument In your wise hands, to perfect your intent. The Conquests that I win, belong to you, And I hold it just, to give the De'il his due, And truer Trojans, Sir, you have but few.

D.

I am appeas'd.—Observe now what I say, Till all obstructions lying in our way Be beaten down, my Scepter cannot sway.

P.

Name what they are, Sir, and the Devil take me If I don't do't, unless my Imps forsake me, Which I don't fear, for they have plighted troth To be thy faithful drudges and mine both: And no reserves shall serve, that they can mint; If Devil cheat Devil, then the Devils in't: Equivicate they may with Hereticks, But not with thee or me, who know their tricks. Thy counsel therefore Great Abaddon—

D.

First set on work your Engines, to prevent That ador'd Idol, called Parliament; Hells greatest envy, Popery's mortal foe, Popes plague and pest, and Rome's eternal woe. These must not sit, for they'l be laying ope All our ambushments, and sinister scope: See this be done, and then there is no doubt, But we shall yet bring matters brave about.

P.

But grant they do, if we the Members chuse, Our party by it then can nothing lose.

D.

But that's a devilish hazard, if we shall; 'Tis sufer, therefore, there be none at all.

P.

Agreed, and to this end, in us, I'le see That nothing shall be wanting.

D.

Nor in me.

Next, I advise, you speedily depose Him, whom th' Almighty his Vicegerent chose: Let not that Bugbare, Idol, name of King, Into your spirits any terror bring. He is Heretical declar'd;—'tis good To get his Crown by shedding of his blood, 'Tis our great loss that He so long hath stood. Then England's Gloyr, King and Parliament Destroy'd, we cannot fail of our intent, To pull down Laws both Civil and Divine, And in their room to set up yours and mine. A cunning cheat, the Church and State to mend By killing Him that should them both defend.

P.

St. Coleman good success unto it send.

D.

This done, to Trap again, and with that game, Cutting won't be amiss, that so the flame May ne're extinguish'd be, but by a flood Of the accursed Hereticks heart-blood. And to this end, see you an Army fix, That you ben't bafl'd as in Sixty six, And do your work by halves—

P.

Each man shall strive who shall burn and kill most, And I will pray, the Devil take the hindmost.

D.

It shall be so; and so adieu.

P.

Nay, stay, And think if you've not somewhat more to say.

D.

What is the Shipping you should set on fire?

P.

'Tis well remembred, my mischievous Sire.] A little of that i'th' Thames, at Chatham too, Would greatly weaken our Imperial foe, And to our Friends, the French, huge service do. 'Tis well you stay'd, What more?—

D.

Justice corrupt with Bribes; you see the bait Is pleasing, and if large, is taken strait. Make rents in Church, fire the Non-Con's zeal, And Con's 'gainst him, till they each other peal. Preach up the Ceremonies now, and when You know 'twill tickle, Preach them down again.

Sometimes the Bishop you must stile Divine, That under those alone the Church doth shine: That all Fanaticks, and their false opinion, Are wholly mine, and set up my Dominion. Sometimes Iohn Presbyter commend, and cry, They are the Preaching, Gospel Ministry. Then for Plebeans, you'll do very well, To banish from their minds all fear of Hell. Far from the guilt take punishment of sin, And love to God will not restrain 'em in. This to do better, take away the Law, Give them the Reins, force not, but slyly draw; The Law being ta'ne away, sin is not known; And so the game is up, the day your own. Stile grossest sins, slips of infirmity, And Christian duties, false Idolatry. Tell them that Christ hath dy'd, there needs no more But bare belief, the rest may pass oth'score. That Heaven's their own by Letters-patents granted; And there's no sin can damn the Covenanted▪ And I believe a small Arithmetick May count the number that to God will stick. How like you this my Son?

P.

Like it Sir? 'Tis like thy self, adored Lucifer.

D.

Once more farewell, for I must to my Vault, Where I have some already for this fault.

P.

Nay, Father stay, by mentioning your Cell Or Vault, where you and your Companions dwell, A secret you have brought into my mind, I fain would be resolv'd in: be so kind To tell how Langhorn, Coleman, Gavan, Grove, With th'rest do like our Purgatory Stove? Do they not cry that they were all betray'd, And curse the Feast too, now the Reck'nings paid?

D.

Son, I would tell, but if it comes to light, It is enough our Vassals all to fright, To make them tack about, and leave us quite.

And save their Souls by a full confession, Which these have lost by damn'd equivication. Hark then, my Darling Son, put close thine ear, For I must only whisper it, for fear Some Heretick should chance to over-hear.

P.

I listen, Father, with my greatest care.

D.

Such is their carriage Son (the truth to tell) They make thy Purgatory a meer Hell. They're so inrag'd to see themselves defeated, And flaming-mad to think how they are cheated Of soul and body both, they vex me more Than half the damned that I had before. Hark, methinks I hear them! hark— Coleman, Langhorn, Gavan, &c. O horrid folly! where were our wits, our faith, To credit him, who lies what e're he faith! Ah! Popish zeal, which we before thought right, Proves now the Devil turn'd to an Angel bright. O had we but one hours reprieve from Hell, To fetch him there, that taught us to Rebel; With Father Pope, and all his smooth-tongu'd tools, Who made us bloody Traytors, Knaves and Fools; Whose curs'd Indulgence, Absolutions, Bull, Do silly Souls thus into mischief gull. Let's break our Chains and fly into the World, And pull down him, that hath us hither hurl'd; Lay ope the Plot, the people undeceive, That never man may Papist more believe. Wee'l tell the King what danger he is in, Although they swear, and swear, and swear again, Wee'l tell the Duke too, whither he is going To his eternal ruine and undoing. We will inform each Protestant we meet, Of every disguis'd Priest that walks the Street. There's not a Romish Factor in the Nation, But we'l disclose him fully, and his station: Bring them to Tyburn, and fill Charon's Boats, Fuller than Bedlow hath, or Dr. Oates.

Thus with one mouth your Holiness they Curse, Threaten those things, yea, and Ten thousand worse, Could they get out.

P.

And will you let them go, To ruine all our fair designs?

D.

No, no, Never fear that, my Son, do thou but hast All the rest thither, and I'le keep them fast, Till thou thy self come to them at the last. Where Popes, and Jesuits, and all the crew, Which greatly hath enlarged been by you, Together shall lye down in infamy, Torment and shame, to all Eternity.

FINIS.