Loyal poems and satyrs upon the times since the beginning of the Salamanca plot written by several hands ; collected by M.T.

THE Last Will and Testament OF ANTHONY King of Poland.

MY Tap is run, then Baxter tell me why Shou'd not the good the great Potapski die? Grim death who lays us all upon our backs, Instead of Sythe doth now advance his Ax. And I who all my Life in Broyls have spent, Intend at last to make a fettlement. Imprimis, for my Soul (tho' I had thought To've left that thing I never minded, out) Some do advi e for fear of doing wrong, To give it him to whom it doth belong. But I who all mankind have cheated, now Intend likewise to cheat the Devil too. Therefore I leave my Soul unto my Son, For he, as Wisemen think, as yet hath none.

Then for my Polish Crown that pretty thing, Let Mon—tak't, who longs to be a King. His empty Head soft nature did design, For such a Light and Airy Crown as mine. With my Estate, I'le tell you how it stands, Jack Ketch must have my Cloathes; the K. my Lands, Item. I leave the damn'd Association, To all the wise Disturbers of the Nation. Not that I think they'l gain their Ends thereby, But that they may be hang'd as well as I. Armestrong in Murders and in Whoring skill'd, Who twenty Bastards gets, for one Man kill'd. To thee I do bequeath my Brace of Whores, Long kept to draw the Humours from my Sores. For you they'l serve as well as Silver Tap, For VVomen give, and sometimes cure a Clap. How—d my partner in Captivity, False to thy God and King, but true to me, To thee some heinous Legacy I'de give, But that I think thou hast not long to live. Besides thou'st Wickedness enough in store, To serve thy self, and Twenty Thousand more. To thee (young Gray) I'd some small Toy present, For you with any thing can be Content. Then take the Knife with which I cut my Corns, T'will serve to pare and sharp your Lordships Horns That you may Rampant Mon— push and gore, Till he shall leave your house and change his Whore.

On top of Monument let my Head stand, It self a Monument, where first began The flame that has Endangered all the Land. But first to Titus let my Fars be thrown, For He 'tis thought will shortly lose his own. I leave Old Baxter my Invenom'd Teeth, To Bite and Poyson all the Bishops with. My Squinting Eyes let Ignoramus wear, That they may this way look, and that way swear. Let the Citts take my Nose because 'tis said, That by the Nose I them have always led. But for their Wives I nothing now can spare, For all my Life time they have had their share, Let not my Quarters stand on City Gate, Least they new Sects and Factions do create. For certainly the Presbyterian VVenches, In dirt will fall to Idolize my Haunches. But, that I may to my old Friend be Civil, Let some Witch make them Mummy for the Devil. To good K. Charles I leave (tho faith, 'tis pity,) A Poy son'd Nation, and deluded City. Seditious Clamours, Murmurs, Jealousies, False Oathes, sham storyes, and Religious Lyes. Ther's one thing still which I had quite forgot, To him I leave the Carcass of my Plot. In a Consumption the poor thing doth Lie, And when I'm gon 'twill pine away, and die. Let Jenkings in a Tub my worth declare, And let my Life be writ by Harry Care.

And if my Bowels in the Earth find Room, Then let these Lines be writ upon my Tomb.

ANEPITAPH upon his Bowels.

YE Mortal Whigs for death prepare, For mighty Tapsky's Guts lie here: Will his great Name keep sweet d'y' think! For certainly his Entrals Stink. Alas! 'tis but a Foolish pride To outsin all Mankind beside. When such Illustrious Garbage must Be mingled with the Common dust. Palfe Nature! that cou'd thus delude The Cheater of the Multitude. That put his Thoughts upon the Wing, And Egg'd 'em on to be a King. See now to what an use she puts His Noble great and little Guts. Tapski who was a Man of Wit, Had guts for other uses fit. Tho Fiddle strings they might not be, (Because he hated Harmony) Yet for Black Puddings they were good, Their Master did delight in Blood. Of this they shou'd have drank their fill, (King Cyrus did not fare so ill) Poor Guts cou'd this have been your hap, Sh'rif Bethel might have got a Shap. But now at York his Guts must rumble, Since you into a hole did Tumble.