Pocula Castalia The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron] |
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An Anniverse on the fifth of November.
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 | Pocula Castalia |  |
116
An Anniverse on the fifth of November.
You that derive your far-fetch'd Pedigree
From mighty Brute, from th'Son of Saturne He,
Sing Io, Io, and fill the sportfull skies
With songs, for joy you tore them not with cries.
From mighty Brute, from th'Son of Saturne He,
Sing Io, Io, and fill the sportfull skies
With songs, for joy you tore them not with cries.
This is the Day (meant for your Day of Doom)
In which to Babell, rather than to Rome
Your Commons, Peers, your Prince, your Queen, and King
Were all intended a burnt-offering.
The Pyle was built, the sulphurous train was laid
Which had but one Squib of a Nation made;
Had the least spark but lent it breath't had driven
In bright Elijahs Chariot to Heaven
Princes and Prophets; tattred limbs had fill'd
The air, where bloud had in red showers distill'd.
Quick Death had given no time to fear his spight,
The active flame had seiz'd ere had the fright.
The coward Dame had cut threads unprepar'd,
And wounded men ere they could wake to ward.
Who ere were those unfortunate male contents
That of this dire Treason were Instruments,
The Author was that subterranean Fiend
The common Enemy of Man, his end
A scandall and an odium to bring
Upon those People whom their peacefull King
So strongly guards from all his other harms.
And to cast dirt he meant by traytrous charmes
On their Religion, that she might here
As foule as she doth fair in Heaven appear.
The Powder Plot, a Monster Hell did hatch,
Was such, for which no story has a Match.
In which to Babell, rather than to Rome
Your Commons, Peers, your Prince, your Queen, and King
Were all intended a burnt-offering.
The Pyle was built, the sulphurous train was laid
Which had but one Squib of a Nation made;
Had the least spark but lent it breath't had driven
In bright Elijahs Chariot to Heaven
Princes and Prophets; tattred limbs had fill'd
The air, where bloud had in red showers distill'd.
Quick Death had given no time to fear his spight,
The active flame had seiz'd ere had the fright.
The coward Dame had cut threads unprepar'd,
And wounded men ere they could wake to ward.
Who ere were those unfortunate male contents
That of this dire Treason were Instruments,
The Author was that subterranean Fiend
The common Enemy of Man, his end
A scandall and an odium to bring
Upon those People whom their peacefull King
So strongly guards from all his other harms.
And to cast dirt he meant by traytrous charmes
117
As foule as she doth fair in Heaven appear.
The Powder Plot, a Monster Hell did hatch,
Was such, for which no story has a Match.
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