Poems on Affairs of State :: :: University of Virginia Library

A Dialogue between Father Petre and the Devil.

F. P.
Oh, are you come? 'Tis more than time;
Your Tardiness is no small Crime;
All our Designs are at a stand,
They've got again the upper hand;
Yet like true Jesuite, I have wrought
My Charge up to the Point I sought,
Both Sense and Reason quite or'ethrown,
For those we deal with must have none.

D.
Is this a Conquest to relate,
Worthy a Jesuitic Pate?
I have more Trouble with you had,
Than all the Orders I have made:
Beside, I joyn'd in the Design
One, whose fell Malice equals mine;
One so ambitiously inclin'd,
Of such an uncontrouled Mind,
That, let the Gulph be ne're so deep,
Or Pyramids prodigious steep;
If in th'Extreams thou can'st disclose
Any that does her Will oppose;

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(Tho' on just Grounds) they meet their Fate
In violent—unbounded Hate.

F. P.
I did not call you to discourse,
We must do something now by Force:
Our whole Society is sham'd,
And we in our first Founder damn'd.
Did I, tho' to my Souls Perdition,
Add things more black than my Commission,
Gaining Belief among the Great,
Who forc'd upon themselves the Cheat?
While the good Man I kept at th'Oar,
No Gally Slave e're labour'd more;
Nor durst I let him pause upon't,
Lest, if he thought he shou'd recant;
With puzzling Notions still possess'd him,
At once tormented and caress't him;
Hood-wink'd the Pilot that shou'd steer us,
With our infallible Chimeras.

D.
Boast not as if you'd Conquest won,
You've started much, and nothing done;
Your Order, wheresoe're they came,
Have set whole Kingdoms in a Flame:
Nor Hell, nor Rome, can give you thanks
For acting thus a mad Man's Pranks.
Did I not always to you preach,
The English wou'd you over-reach?
They'l be convinc'd e're they believe,
Not pin their Faith upon your Sleeve;
Your publick Chappels have o'rthrown us,
Our very Proselytes disown us;
And face about to th'other Side,
Exclaiming 'gainst the Roman Pride.

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F. P.

What, do you now complain of me,
For over-acting Villany?
I still consulted you in all,
Did daily for your Conduct call:
And tho', 'tis true, I nam'd the Saints,
Yet 'twas to you I made my Plaints.
I own, about the French we fail'd,
But in the Irish we prevail'd:
Propose once more, and I'l obey't,
It shall be done if you but say't:
You know, in such a holy Juggle,
My seared Conscience ne'r did boggle:
We must not flag, or sit down here,
That wou'd declare Remorse or Fear,
Which Jesuits do more decline,
Than e're the Rechabites did Wine.
But I have something to impart,
Which does oppress my tender Heart,
And made me now invoke you hither,
Tho' 'gainst your Principles, to gather
The truth of some important Queres
Most needful in this dubious Series.

First, if it in you Pow'r does lye,
Tell me what Death I'm doom'd to dye:
I dare not hope 't must be in Bed,
That suits not with the Life I led:
But if I must be hang'd and quarter'd,
Let me be canoniz'd and martyr'd,
With holy Harcourt, and his Fellows,
Like them be Sainted at the Gallows.

The next thing I desire to learn,
(If you the Secret can discern,

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If Truth does in your Bosom lye,
Which were indeed a Mystery.)
Let me in private understand,
Both when, and where, the Dutch will Land.
And last, I do this Favour crave,
Since I have ever been your Slave;
Unfold the mystic Book of Fate,
And read me England's future State,
Who next shall to the Throne succeed,
The English or Italian Breed.

The Devil answering, laugh'd outright:
Wou'd I these Secrets bring to light,
I shou'd not half that Harvest gain,
For which I've taken all this Pain:
Nor wou'd I, if I cou'd, reveal
That which my Interest bids conceal.
Yet I will answer thee in part,
Since I've an Interest in thine Heart;
The first, peculiar is to thee,
For which thou need'st not trouble me,
'Tis what thy self did long foresee.
Nor is it reason to believe
Thou shou'd'st the Mobile deceive:
But whether Martyr, or a Traytor,
Thy Ballad will be Truth's Relator,
The other two will be made plain,
When Belgic Lions cross the Mane.
This said, the Devil left the Father,
The Meaning of his VVords to gather,
And vanish'd from him down the Stairs,
VVhile he proceeded in his Pray'rs.