A collection of 86 loyal poems all of them written upon the two late plots viz, the horrid Salamanca plot in 1687, and the present fanatical conspiracy in 1683 : to which is added, advice to the carver : written on the death of the late L. Stafford : with several poems on their majesties coronation, never before published / collected by N.T.

A Narrative of the Popish Plot, shewing the cunning Contrivance thereof.

The Contents of the First Part.

How Sir Godfrey is kill'd, his Body they hide, Which brought out in Chair, a Horseback does ride, How Jesuits disguis'd our Houses do fire; How subtly they Plot, & the King's death conspire; Of divers great Lords drawn in to their Bane, An Irish Army, and Pilgrims from Spain.

I.

GOod People I pray, give ear unto me, A Story so strange you have never been told How the Jesuit, Devil, and Pope did agree Our State to destroy, and Religion so old: To murder our King, A most horrible thing! But first of Sir Godfrey of his Death I must sing; For how e'er they disguis'd, we plainly can see, Who murder'd that Knight, no good Christian cou'd be. The truth of my story if any man doubt, W'have witnesses ready to swear it all out.

II.

At Somerset-house, there is plain to be seen A Gate which will lead you into the back-Court;

This place for the Murder most fitting did seem, For thither much People be freely resort: His Body they toss'd From Pillar to Post, And shifted so often, t'had like t'have been lost; To watch with dark-lanthorns the Jesuits did go, But no ways distrusted our honest Bedlow. The truth of my story, &c,

III.

Lest such close Contrivements at length should take air, When as his dead Body corrupted did grow, They quickly did find an invisible Chair, And set him on Horse-back to ride at So-hoe: His own Sword to th'Hilt, To add to their Guilt, They thrust through his Body, but no Blood was spilt; T'have it thought he was kill'd by a Thief they d d mean, So they left all's Money, and made his Shoes clean The truth of my story, &c.

IV.

To shew now th'excess of Jesuitical Rage, They this Loyal City to ruin would bring, 'Cause you Citizens are so religious and sage, And ever much noted as true to your King: T'your Houses they go With Fire and with Tow, Then pil••er your Goods, and 'tis well you 'scape so;

Y'have seen how they once set the Town all in flame; Yet 'tis their best Refuge, if we believe Fame. The truth of my story, &c.

V.

By Bedlow's Narration is shown you most clear, How Jesuits disguis'd into Houses will creep; In a Porter's or Carman's Frock they appear, Nay, will not disdain to cry Chimney sweep; Or sell you Small-Cole, Then drop in some hole A Fir-ball, or thrust it up by a long Pole. But I now must relate a more tragical thing, How these Villains conspir'd to murder our King.

VI.

At the' White-horse in April was their main Con∣sult, Where a Writing these Plotters wickedly frame; The Death of our Sov'reign was the result, To which at least Forty all signed their Name: They would not do that In the place where they sat, Trusty Oats must convey't from this man to that; To make sure work, by Poison the deed must be done,

By a long Dagger, and shot from a Gun▪ The truth, &c.

VII.

For fear at St. Omers their Oats might be miss'd, They agreed with a Devil t'appear in his place,

In a Body of Air, (believe if you list) Which lookt just like Oats, and mov'd with the same grace; 'Tcou'd Plot, it cou'd Cant, Turn eyes like a Saint, And of our great Doctor no feature did want: Thus hundred did swear they saw Oates ev'ry day. But true Oates was here, and the Devil saw they. The truth, &c.

VIII.

From Father Oliva Commissions did come, To raise a great Army much Treasure is spent; The Old Man did once think to take Post from Rome, For to ride at the Head of them was his intent; But Bell••s' was fit (Who can deny it?) To command in his place, when his Gout wou'd permit; Lord Stafford was proper'st to trust with their pay, Old Ratcliff to range them in Battel-Array. The truth, &c.

IX.

Th' High-Treasures place the Lord Powis did (Men of desp'rate Fortunes oft venture too far;) Lord Peters would hazard Estate, and his Ease, And Life for the Pope too, in this holy War; Lord Ar'ndel, of old So war-like and bold, Made choice of a Chancellors Gown we are told;

All these did conspire with the Lord Castlemain, Who now his good Dutchess will ne'r catch again. The truth of my Story, &c.

X.

Great store of wild Irish, both civil and wise, Designed to joyn with the Pilgrims of Spain, Many thousands being ready all in good guise, Had vow'd a long Pilgrimage over the Main: To arm well this Host When it came on our Coast, Black Bills forty thousand are sent by the Post, This Army lay privately on the Sea-shore, And no man e'er heard of 'em since or before. The truth, &c.

The Second Part.

I.

THe Plot being thus subtly contriv'd, as you hear, To God knows how many this Secret th' fear; impart; Some famous for Cheats, yet their faith they don't To tie a Knave fast they had found a new Art: They swore on a Book, And Sacrament took; But you'l find if into their grave Authors you look, To forswear's no sin (as the Recorder well notes) Nor Treason, Rebellion, nor cutting of throats. The truth, &c.

II.

Still blinded by Zeal, and inveigl'd by Hope, Store of Arms they provide for Fight and De∣fence; The Lords must command as Vice-roys of the Pope And all over England they raise Peter-pence: Their Letters they send By Bedlow their Friend, Or else by the Post, to shew what they intend; Some hundreds Oats saw, which the Jesuits did write, 'Tis a wonder not one of them e'er came to light. The truth, &c.

III.

Pounds two hundred thousand they to Ireland sent, Fifteen thousand to Wakem. for Potions & Pills. Forty thousand in Fire-works we guess that they spent, And at least ten thousand for the foresaid Black Bills; Fifteen hundred more Grove shou'd have, they swore, Four Gentleman Ruffians deserv'd Fourscore; Pious Pickering they knew was of Masses more fond, And for thirty thousand they gave him a Bond. The truth, &c.

IV.

These two, to kill the King by promises won, Had now watch'd for some years in St. James's Park.

And Pickering (who nver yet shot off a Gun) Was about to take aim, for he had a fair mark: Just going to begin't, He missed his Flint, And look in Pan, there is no Powder in't; For which he their Pardon did humbly beseech, Yet had thirty good lashes upon his bare Breech. The truth, &c.

V.

But a sadder mischance to the Plot did befall, For Oates their main Engine fail'd, when it came No marvel indeed if he cozen'd them all, to't; Who turn'd him a begging, and beat him to boot. He wheeling about, The whole Party did rout. And from lurking holes did ferret them out, Till running himself blind, he none of them knew, And fainting at Councel, he could not swear true. The truth, &c.

VI.

To strengthen our Dr. brave Bedlow's brought in, A more credible Witness was not above ground; He vows and protests, whate'er he had been, He wou'd not swear false now for five hundred pound: And why should we fear They falsly would swear, To damn their own Souls and lose by it here; For Oates, who before had no peny in Purse, Discov'ring the Plot, was 7 hundred pound worse. The truth, &c.

VII.

Two Witnesses more were let loose from the Jayl, Though One, 'tis confest, did run back from his word; (In danger of life a good man may be frail) And th' Other they slander for cheating his Lord: T'each one of these men The Jesuits brought ten, To disprove 'em in time and in place, but what then One Circumstance lately was sworn most clear, By a Man who in hopes has four hundred a year. The truth, &c.

VIII.

Besides 'twas oft urg'd, We must always suppose, To murder the King a great Plot there has been; And who to contrive it so likely as those Who Murders and Treasons do hold for no sin? Things being thus plain, To plead was in vain, The Jury instructed again and again, Did find them all Guilty, and to shew 'twas well done, The People gave a Shout for Victory won. The truth, &c.

IX.

'Tis strange how these Jesuits, so subtle and wise, Should all by the Pope be so basely trepann'd, To hang with much comfort when he shall ad∣vise, And go to the Devil too at his command. He may give them leave To lye and deceive;

But what when the Rope does of Life them be∣reave? Can his Holiness, think you, dispense with that pain, Or by his Indulgence raise them again? The truth, &c.

X.

Yet, like Mad-men of Life a Contempt they ex∣press, And of their own happiness careless appear; For Life or for Money not one wou'd confess, They'd rather be Damn'd, than be Rich and live here. But surely they rav'd, When God they out-brav'd, And thought to renounce him the way to be sav'd, And with Lies in their mouths go to Heav'n in a string: So prosper all Traytors, and God save the King. The truth of my Story if any one doubt, We have Witnesses ready to swear it all out.

Concordat cum Recordo

Cl. Par.

The third Part.

Written by a Lady of Quality.

The Plot is vanish'd like to a bashful Sprite, Which with false flashes, ••ools could only fright. The wise, (whose clearer Souls can penetrate,) Find's shadows drawn before Intrigues of State. God bless our King, the Church, and Nation too, Whilst perjur'd Villains have what is their due.

I.

THe Presbyter has been so active of late, To twist himself into the Myster of State, Giving Birth to a Plot to amuse the dark World, 'Till into Confusion three Kingdoms are hurl'd; It is so long since, He Murther'd his Prince, That the unwary Rabble he hopes to convince, With Jingling words that bears little sence, Deluding them with Religious pretence.

II.

Their Scribling Poet is such a dull Sot, To blame the poor Devil for hatching the Plot; The Murther o'th' King, with many things more, He falsly would put on the Jesuits score: When all that have Eyes, Be they foolish, or wise,

May see the sly Presbyter through his disguise; Their brethren in Scotland has made it well known, By Murthering their Bishop what sins are their own.

III.

The Poet, whose sences are somewhat decay'd, Takes Joan for a Jesuit in Masquerade: His Muse ran so fast, she ne'er look'd behind her, Or else to a Woman she would have prov'd kin∣der. His fury's so hot, To Hunt out the Plot, That fain he would find it where it is not, Although I've expos'd it to all that are wise, He has stifled his Reason, and blinded his Eyes.

IIII.

An old Ignis fatuus, who leads men astray, And leaves them i'th the Ditch yet still keeps his way, In politique head first framed this Plot, From whence it descended to Presbyter Scot, Who quickly took Fire, And assoon did expire, Having grave sactious fools their zeal to admire; Who for the same cause would freely fly out, But Plotting's more safer to bring it about.

V.

Here's one for Religion is ready to fight, That believes not in Christ, yet swear's he's i'th right; If our English Church (as he says,) be a Whore, We're sure 'twas Jack Presbyter did her deflowr;

He'd fain pull her down, As well as the Crown. And prostitute her to every dull Clown; To bring in Religion that's fit for the Rabble, Whilst Atheism serves himself that's more able.

VI.

A Pestilent Peer of a levelling Spirit, Who only the Sins of his Sire doth inherit; With an unsteady mind, and Chymerical brain, Which his broken Fortune doth weakly sustain, He lodg'd i' th' City Like Alderman brave, Being fed up with Faction to which he's a slave; He never durst fight, but once for his Whore, Which his feeble Courage attempted no more.

VII.

Another with Preaching and Praying wore out, Inspir'd by th' Covenant is grown very stout; Th' old Cause to revive it is his design, Though the fabrick of Monarchy he undermine: He tortur'd his Pate, Both early and late, I'th' Tower, where this Mischief he hop'd to cre∣ate; But to Countrey dwelling he now doth retire, To Preach to Domesticks whilst they do admire.

VIII.

Another with Head both empty and light, For the good Old Cause is willing to fight;

I'th' Choice of fit Members for th' next Parlia∣ment, He spit out his zeal to the Rabbles content, Whilst his wife in great State Chose a Duke for her Mate, For whose sake a Combustion he needs would create For since his Indulgence allows her a Friend, He'd make him as great as his Wish can extend.

IX.

There's one whose fierce Courage is fal'n to de∣cay (At Geneva inspir'd,) he's much led away; He would set up a Cypher instead of a King: From Presbyter zeal such folly doth spring. He once did betray, A whole Town in a day; And since did at Sea fly fairly away: He had better spin out the rest of his Thread, In making Pot-Guns, which disturb not his Head.

X.

Some others, of Fortunes both disperst and Low, With big swelling Titles do's make a great show; A flexible Prince they would willingly have, That to Presbyter Subjects should be a meer slav; They'd set him on's Throne, To tumble him down, They scorn to submit to Scepter and Crown; And into Confusion, or Commonwealth turn, A People that hastens to be undone.

If such busy heads that would us confound, Were all advanc'd high, or plac'd under ground; W'd honour our King, and live at our ease, And make the dull Presbyter do what we please, Who has cheated our Eyes, With borrow'd disguise, Till of all our Reason they'd taken Excise; But let's from their slavery strive to be free, And no People can e'er be so happy as we.

Upon the Popish PLOT.

Written by a Lady of Quality.

Whether you will like my Song, or like it not, It is the down fall of the Popish Plot: With Characters of Plotters here I sing, Who would destroy our good and gracious King: Whom God preserve and give us cause to hope His Foes will be rewarded with a Rope.

I.

SInce Counterfeit Plots has affected this Age. Being acted by Fools, and contriv'd by the Sage: In City, nor Suburbs, no man can be found, But frighted with Fire-balls, their heads turned round.

From Pulpit to Pot They talk'd of a Plot, Till their Brains were enslav'd, and each man turn'd Sot: But let's to Reason and Justice repair, And this Popish Bugbear will fly into Air.

II.

A Politick States-man, of Body unsound, Who once in a Tree with the Rabble set round Run Monarchy down with Fanatick Rage, And preach'd up Rebellion i'that credulous age; He now is at work, With the Devil and Turk, Pretending a Plot, under which he doth lurk, To humble the Mitre, while he squints at the Crown; Till fairly and squarely he pulls them both down,

III.

He had sound out an Instrument fit for the Devil, Whose mind had been train'd up to all that was Evil: His Fortune sunk low, and detested by many; Kick't out at St. Omers, not pity'd by any. Some Whisperers fix'd him Upon this Design, And with promis'd Reward did him counter∣mine: Though his Tale was ill told, it serv'd to give fire; Despis'd by the wise, whilst fools did admire.

IV.

The next that appear'd, was a Fool-hardy Knave, Who had ply'd the High-ways, and to Vice was a Slave.

Being fed out of Bask in Prison forlorn, No wonder that Money should make him for∣sworn. He boldly dares swear, What men tremble to hear; And learns a false Lession without any fear: For when he is out, there's one that's in's place, Relieves his invention and quickens his Pace.

V.

In a Country Prison another was found, Who had cheated his Lord of One 1000 pound; He was free'd from's Fetters to swear and inform, Which very couragiously he did perform. To avoid future strife, He takes away Life, To save poor Protestants from Popish Knife; Which only has Edge to cut a Rogues Ears, For abusing the People with needless fears.

VI.

Another starts up and tells a false Tale, Which straight he rovoked his Courage being frail: But to fortifie one that needeth his aid, Being tempted with Money, which much doth perswade; He swore he knew all That contrived the fall, Of one, who that day was seen near to White hall: Where he by the Treasurers powerful Breath, More likely by far received his Death.

VII.

A Gown-man most grave with Fanatical form, With his scribbling wit doth blow up this storm:

For Moth-eaten Records he worships the Devil, Being now lodg'd at Court he must become civil. He hunts all about, And makes a great Rout, To find some old Prophecy to help him out: But his friend that was hous'd with him at Fox∣hall, Being joyn'd with his Master still strengthens 'em all

VIII.

Then comes a crack'd Merchant with his shallow Brain, Who first did lead up his stigmatiz'd Train: He since is grown useless, his Skill being small, Yet at a dead lift, he's still at their call. He has pester'd the Press, In ridiculous dress, In this scribling Age he could not do less: But to so little purpose as plainly appears, With pen he had as good sate picking his Ears.

IX.

To end with a Prayer, as now 'tis my Lot, Confounded be Plotters, with their Popish Plot: God bless and preserve our gracious good King, That he may ne'er feel the Presbyters sting: As they brought his Father With rage to the Block, So would they extirpate all the whole Stock: But with their false Plots I hope they will end At Tyburn, where the Rabble will surely attend.