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 |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
Emblem X. The general Consultation for promoting the Roman Catholick
Religion, &c.
|
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
38
Emblem X. The general Consultation for promoting the Roman Catholick Religion, &c.
Which of these two does most deserve the Rope,Grand Father Devil, or grave Father Pope?
39
Great men are not always wise, neither do the aged understand Judgment.
JOB, Chap. 32. v. 9.
Pop.
Twice most successfully we have prevail'd,
And in the direful projects have not fail'd;
Good Omen of a future sure success,
Murder and fire foreshews Romes happiness.
Dev.
You need not fear, what ere you undertake
Shall prosper, though you made the world a stake.
Rapine, and Blood, Rebellion for a Throne
You may command, as vertues of your own.
Where the nice Conscience doth not contradict,
Who dare repine at pains which you inflict?
Into your hand such mighty pow'r is giv'n,
Supreme on earth, till you are snatch'd to Heav'n;
Where cloath'd in Sun-beams in that blest abode,
You shall usurp the Title of a God.
Pop.
Best and most blest, thou Romes eternal friend
My bosome-Saint, on whom my joys depend,
My Minion of delight, my darling Child,
My all that ever nature gave, that ever smil'd
To see my universal foes beguil'd.
Dev.
From the deep caverns of the vast Abyss,
Where crowds of Hereticks with endless hiss
Groan, and repine they shun'd the way to bliss:
With dismal roarings they the deep invade,
And curse the Wounds their ignorance have made.
Now they too plainly find, and too late see
They lost Eternity in slighting thee.
Ranging amongst this damn'd and dismal crew,
In a lone corner far from any view,
Silent as night, and pensive as a Dove,
I saw a soul just hurry'd from above,
Reeking in Blood, and mangled in such sort,
It rather mov'd my pity than my sport;
40
And found—
He was a Catholick from Tyburn sent,
A Roman too, none of the meanest fame;
Had not his Nation blasted half his name.
He was of Gallia, eager for desire,
And was the first which London set on fire.
Hubert the Martyr, Sir, it is I mean.
Pop.
Release him quickly from his dismal den;
Send streight a thousand Masses to the Cave,
And shew him there is bliss beyond the Grave.
If they should fail, my pardon without doubt
Will quickly fetch this first French Martyr out:
More to reward him for the pains he took,
Let him be Canoniz'd a Saint, and look
You set him down a Martyr in my book.
Dev.
It shall be done; but yet before I go,
The business of the North I fain would know.
The last great fire has yet but warm'd their Blood,
It must boil o're, before the Mass be good.
Pop.
It shall; although in such a weighty cause
My nice and foolish Conscience bids me pause:
'Tis something ill to burn a Royal Throne.
Dev.
It is no crime, Sir, to destroy your own.
The flames do only in your birth-right rage,
And England's yours, Sir, by Inheritage:
St. Peter gave it to the See of Rome;
Then you that are his Vicar sure may doom
Death and Damnation on deserters still,
And burn the Rebel-pile, when ere you will.
Heav'n did not erre when it destroy'd the world,
But since in private parts confusion hurl'd.
He that first made, may first of all undo,
And so by the same reason, Sir, may you.
Things grounded thus are put beyond dispute;
He cannot sin, whom Heav'n doth institute.
Pop.
I am convinc'd; let all in ruine roul:
He first destroy'd the body, I the soul.
Nip in the bud the fruit that springs so well,
And make a Massacre to pleasure Hell.
41
I've fouud out Agents to perform your will,
Men that to gain Salvation, only kill;
A sort of Saints, who think they merit grace,
When any Royal Image they deface;
Nurs'd up in Blood, to Murder they're so quick,
They'l bless that hand which kills an Heretick.
Provincial Whitebread has an active soul,
And is most fit the weaker to controul;
Cardinal Howard shall possession take,
And as your Legate Royal Orders make.
Coleman and Harcourt, Father Conyers, all
Shall give their ayds till it to ruine fall.
If they should fail, Groves with an Irish crew
Shall burn down Southwark, Sir, to pleasure you;
Blundel in Wapping shall maintain a fire;
The Strand and Westminster, if you desire,
Shall fry in flames, and in vast smoaks expire.
Besides, some other Jesuits of trust
I have, that will to your great Cause be just;
Manag'd by these, with policy extream,
We'll quickly make your Holiness Supream.
Pop.
It shall be so, give our Commissions out,
Disburse our money too, to clear all doubt;
Seal my blank Pardons in such num'rous swarms,
That they may be secur'd from endless harms.
For any sin, forgiveness I decree;
Murder, and Rapine, fire, and Perjury,
Are Crimes I can with as much ease forgive,
As the Omnipotent can bid man live.
Dispatch these streight, 'tis dang'rous to delay;
When Consternation blinds 'em in the day,
A little matter sweeps 'em all away.
What dark Debates and strange Results are here!
Nothing but horror dwells within thy spheer.
Thy products, Rome, are like thy Counsels dire,
Nothing proceeds from thee but blood and fire.
Thy nostrils burn, and the black sulphrous flame
Strives to kill those who not adore thy name.
What can Religion be, or what the scope?
How can we think or have but any hope
Of good, from such a Devil, such a Pope?
Nothing but horror dwells within thy spheer.
Thy products, Rome, are like thy Counsels dire,
Nothing proceeds from thee but blood and fire.
Thy nostrils burn, and the black sulphrous flame
Strives to kill those who not adore thy name.
What can Religion be, or what the scope?
How can we think or have but any hope
Of good, from such a Devil, such a Pope?
| The Protestants Vade Mecum | |