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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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
Emblem XVII.
Bedloe charged by his Mother to discover, &c.
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| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
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Emblem XVII. Bedloe charged by his Mother to discover, &c.
The Loyal heart doth good effects produce,
And draws a Cordial from a poys'nous juice.
And draws a Cordial from a poys'nous juice.
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Saying, I have sinned, in that I have betrayed the Innocent
blood. And they said, What is that to us? look thou to that.
MATTH. Chap. 27. v. 4.
How have I err'd in hiding of a deed
Makes Nature start, and all my entrails bleed;
Tortures my heart for winking at the Crimes
Will never be forgot in future times!
Seiz'd with Convulsions, and by Fevers torn,
With Aches wrack'd, and by distractions grown
So bad, it makes me wish I'd nere been born:
Since to hide Murder is as great a guilt,
As to be bath'd in blood my self had spilt.
Thus desp'rate man considers his own state,
And grieves at bloodshed when it is too late.
In th'midst of all his phrensie and his pain,
Heav'n shews a Bath to wash him white again.
Prompted to fly from Justice and from death,
He help'd the Nation to prolong its breath.
He quickly left the bloody stage behind,
The Tragick place where Murder was design'd,
But could not leave the Troubles of his mind.
A guilty Conscience doth no ease admit,
Nor can it meet with ought to pleasure it.
Nought but Confusion doth about him move,
And hourly stings are sent it from above.
Cloath'd in distraction 't doth about him roul,
And Hell on Earth is lodg'd within his Soul.
Thus, thus Tormented, he at length is come
To's happy end, but happier Mothers home:
Where when the story of his life he told,
And did the bottom of his heart unfold;
Till then his Treasons such combustions made,
To stir or peep abroad he was afraid.
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To find her Son engag'd in such a Cause:
Like one unnerv'd, she shook in ev'ry part,
And her Eyes spoke the Language of her Heart.
The fiery darts uncessantly she shot,
And her Maternal goodness quite forgot.
At length recover'd of the dire Transport,
She bid him back again unto the Court:
Fall on your knees, lye groveling on the ground,
Offer your life to bath the wrankled wound;
Discover all, hide not one grain within,
Lest it should swell into some other sin:
Unmask the dark Contrivers, let 'em be
Display'd, discover all their villany;
Let your Confession of such candor tast,
That Heav'n may pardon you for what is past:
To lose your life to do the Nation good,
Is the best way you can bestow your blood.
Haste, ere my blessings I do snatch away,
And plant a Curse instead, if you delay,
Whose dire effects will most prodigious be.
Ham curst by Noah, liv'd in misery;
Whilst th'other two, whom blessings he had giv'n
In life and death, enjoy'd perpetual Heav'n.
Besides, the King, the Monarch you implore,
Like Heav'n, forgives, and you can hope no more:
He crown'd with mercy quickly will forgive,
And you'l for ever in his favour live;
But if relentless and obdure you prove,
May Heav'n deny, and thut you from their love.
Scarce had she done, but with as swift a speed
As he before did perpetrate the deed,
He from her presence with her blessing drew,
And swift as thought he to the Palace flew;
Where in an instant he his freedom gave
To be a Convert, and expect a grave.
But our all-good and gracious Monarch soon
Turn'd his dark night into a glorious noon;
Descending full of mercy from his Throne,
He made not Life but Liberty his own.
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Or hide but any spark of Treachery?
Treason's a dangerous Monster in a State,
'Tis the dire Off-spring of Rebellion hate,
And the black issue of unweary'd Fate.
When sin and death conspire, vast ruine springs,
But vaster ruine when they strike at Kings.
A Monarch is compos'd of Sacred Clay,
And nought but Heav'n should close his glorious day:
His glass once run, and all his hours made even,
An Angel's th'Executioner of Heav'n.
Hell may conspire, and send its Agents out;
But being weak to fight, they only scout:
Cherubick guards about the King they spy,
Which makes 'em still despair of victory.
How ere, to pleasure sin and hungry death,
They rob the Murd'rers they have made of breath:
Those swept away, and all depriv'd of hope,
Satan allows him yet a little scope,
Then swoops, and teises on his Brother Pope.
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