The Protestants vade mecum, or, Popery display'd in its proper colours, in thirty emblems, lively representing all the Jesuitical plots against this nation, and more fully this late hellish designe against His Sacred Majesty, curiously engraven in copper-plates

PSAL. 53. v. 5.

There were they in great fear where no fear was; for God hath scattered the bones of them that encamped against thee, thou hast put them to shame because God hath despised them.

AT length, O Rome, Your Naval force is to this Island come, Fraught with destruction, and with Treasons grown So big, she's monstrous now to every one. Each common soul Hopes to controul. Nothing but death, damnation, or what's worse, A holy Curse They think Breath'd from the mouth of an Infernal Pope, That can revoke Or call a soul, Though ne'r so foul, Ev'n from Hells brink. Lash'd by the fear, just at the latest hour (Although Damnation is not in his pow'r) Produce but Gold, his Holiness shall give Th'Immortal part (Lodg'd in the heart) His word, and that's enough, to live Safe in the bosome of his heavenly Sire: Or else instead, When thou art dead, And leaves no money for the Holy See, Thy soul is damn'd to perpetuity. This, this black Monster's come From blacker Rome,

With all the plagues Hell can it self invent, With an intent To snatch the fruit from the forbidden Tree. Thus Eve deluded by th'Apostate, eat, And curs'd the world in taking of her meat. Methinks I spy, I'th' Northern sky, A strange unusual streak of light, Which to my sight, Seems like a God whirl'd in a flame of fire, Which darting down On her Imperial head that wore the Crown, Told her, the enemy should streight expire. Then swift as thought upon the edge of day He soar'd, and towards Heaven wing'd his way; Our Royal Mistris not the least dismay'd, Call'd all her chiefs, and thus in smiles she said: Behold the scum, The spurious Off-spring there Of bloody Rome, Whose Ensigns play between the tender air, O'regrown with pride, and glutted with renown, Are come to seize upon the English Crown; Their large Armado, like a floating Wood, Resolve to swim here in a Crimson flood. Fagot and fire They still desire, Or any thing that ruine brings; Rome cannot live Unless it give Hells warrant out to murder Kings. They are forbid, and are not to be good; The Devil seal'd it with the Vicars blood: But Heav'n preserv'd me sure to wear the Crown, That I might pull this Romish Harlot down. Drunk with the blood of Martyr'd souls they roam; And all its crue We'll soon undo, And with unusual force o'recome.

Scarce had she spoke, but from her presence went A Chief all fire, Whose looks spoke Ire, And eyes declar'd his dire intent: Prompted by Heav'n he in an instant slew, And with destruction 'mongst the Navy flew: The foaming stage Boyling with rage, And heated with the fire its self did bear, Like yawning graves, Open'd their waves, Sunk some, and toss'd the rest to air.

With care and pains, and with true zeal we should Give thanks in pray'rs, and sacrifice our blood. Should we forget, and not that Off'ring give, In dark and dusky paths the soul would live. Great thanks are due, and greater we must own, When thus through Miracles the way is shown To Heav'n, and to its Empyreal Throne.