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 |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
Emblem XIV. The Dogging and Killing of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey.
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| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
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Emblem XIV. The Dogging and Killing of Sir Edmundbury Godfrey.
For blood they hunt, and after blood they fly,Their Beaks and Tallons speak their villany;
Like Owls they lurk, and tremble at the light,
But pash the prey, when favour'd by the night.
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These six things the Lord hateth, yea, seven are an abomination
unto him. A proud look, a lying tongue,
and hands that shed innocent blood; an heart that deviseth
wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in
running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh
lies, and him that soweth discord amongst Brethren.
PROV. Chap. 6. v. 16, 17, 18, 19.
As in a Desert ravenous Bears do roam,
And seek for prey to feed their Cubs at home;
So these black Monsters on destruction run,
Scorning to be in villany outdone.
Like them, they range with a desire unknown,
And all to snatch a Monarch from his Throne.
Cloath'd in destruction, the Tempestuous will
Can never be allay'd till it doth kill.
The foaming Billows higher mount and higher,
As if to mix with Clouds they would aspire.
With thundring Eccho wave doth wave engage,
And all the Ocean is o'recome with rage.
Th'Incestuous Womb aloud doth tyrannize,
Till Ships whose very tops have touch'd the skyes,
And Men do all become a Sacrifice.
When thus appeas'd, she ceaseth to be foul,
And her large Billows do more calmly roul.
But thou, O Rome, could'st never glutted be,
Though all the world did tast thy Treachery:
As often as thy dark Conspirers kill,
Thou dost ungorge, and never hast thy fill.
Thy Womb's so vast, the dark Abyss that's curs'd,
Cannot hold Blood enough to quench thy thirst.
Thus tender Lambs become the Lyons Prey,
And Romish Wolves do snatch our Saints away.
See how they follow him from place to place,
And dog his steps, each private corner trace:
The sent is strong, they follow him for blood,
And Rome, whose Dictates cannot be withstood,
Has warranted the action to be good.
Now b'ing arriv'd near to his fatal end,
He is Accosted by a seeming friend,
Who in confusion tells him, that too soon,
Unless he went, some mischief would be done:
Two men are fighting, and blood must insue,
Unless prevented by their seeing you.
He nothing doubting that he was betray'd,
Nor thinking on the snare which Rome had layd,
Follows this Judas to the fatal place,
And met his destiny too swift a pace.
He wing'd with zeal, did to'rds his Murth'rers fly,
But little thought he made such hast to dye.
Too soon he found what was decreed by Fate,
And griev'd, alas, when it was much too late.
Scarce was he come before the Murth'rous crew,
Romes rav'nous Eagles on his body flew;
Headlong they hal'd him, with unusual speed,
And in a private corner did the deed.
Nor sated with the pains he did endure,
They broke his Neck, to make the act secure.
And seek for prey to feed their Cubs at home;
So these black Monsters on destruction run,
Scorning to be in villany outdone.
Like them, they range with a desire unknown,
And all to snatch a Monarch from his Throne.
Cloath'd in destruction, the Tempestuous will
Can never be allay'd till it doth kill.
The foaming Billows higher mount and higher,
As if to mix with Clouds they would aspire.
With thundring Eccho wave doth wave engage,
And all the Ocean is o'recome with rage.
Th'Incestuous Womb aloud doth tyrannize,
Till Ships whose very tops have touch'd the skyes,
And Men do all become a Sacrifice.
When thus appeas'd, she ceaseth to be foul,
And her large Billows do more calmly roul.
But thou, O Rome, could'st never glutted be,
Though all the world did tast thy Treachery:
As often as thy dark Conspirers kill,
Thou dost ungorge, and never hast thy fill.
Thy Womb's so vast, the dark Abyss that's curs'd,
Cannot hold Blood enough to quench thy thirst.
Thus tender Lambs become the Lyons Prey,
And Romish Wolves do snatch our Saints away.
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And dog his steps, each private corner trace:
The sent is strong, they follow him for blood,
And Rome, whose Dictates cannot be withstood,
Has warranted the action to be good.
Now b'ing arriv'd near to his fatal end,
He is Accosted by a seeming friend,
Who in confusion tells him, that too soon,
Unless he went, some mischief would be done:
Two men are fighting, and blood must insue,
Unless prevented by their seeing you.
He nothing doubting that he was betray'd,
Nor thinking on the snare which Rome had layd,
Follows this Judas to the fatal place,
And met his destiny too swift a pace.
He wing'd with zeal, did to'rds his Murth'rers fly,
But little thought he made such hast to dye.
Too soon he found what was decreed by Fate,
And griev'd, alas, when it was much too late.
Scarce was he come before the Murth'rous crew,
Romes rav'nous Eagles on his body flew;
Headlong they hal'd him, with unusual speed,
And in a private corner did the deed.
Nor sated with the pains he did endure,
They broke his Neck, to make the act secure.
Blood-thirsty villains! think you Heav'n doth sleep,
Or that no guard of Angels it doth keep?
Think you because he let this victim fall
A Martyr, that it would preserve you all?
No, hood-wink'd slaves, of men the very worst,
Blinded with zeal, and in Religion curst;
Headlong you range about from sin to sin,
And think not of the Soul that's lodg'd within;
That when 'tis dy'd in such a sea of evil,
Will find no Pope can keep it from the Devil.
Or that no guard of Angels it doth keep?
Think you because he let this victim fall
A Martyr, that it would preserve you all?
No, hood-wink'd slaves, of men the very worst,
Blinded with zeal, and in Religion curst;
Headlong you range about from sin to sin,
And think not of the Soul that's lodg'd within;
That when 'tis dy'd in such a sea of evil,
Will find no Pope can keep it from the Devil.
| The Protestants Vade Mecum | |