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. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
Emblem XVIII. The Apprehension and Imprisonment of several Conspirators.
|
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
70
Emblem XVIII. The Apprehension and Imprisonment of several Conspirators.
'Tis but an Index yet, for all shall seeTheir just reward in their Catastrophe.
71
Render unto them a recompence, O Lord, according to the work of their hands.
LAMENTATIONS, Chap. 3. v. 6.
Is't come to this? now all
Your promis'd glories fade!
As angry winds do make the blossoms fall,
And perish in the lap which Nature made:
So will you wither now your Plot's betray'd.
Whirlwinds and storms shall headlong drive
(And each one strive
To scatter) the tempestuous cry;
Like Chaff o'th' ground,
They'l whirl 'em round:
All glad you did your selves undo.
What could you hope, or thought to find,
(In the unruly Concave of your mind)
But sure destruction? nothing good can come
From the pernicious Consult of black Rome;
Whose cursed dictates if you not oppose,
Shall lead you to its dismal Palace, Hell, by th'Nose.
You see th'effect
Of the neglect:
Fetters and Chains,
Nay, endless pains,
Shall clog you here and after death.
Your only hope
Is, that the Rope
Which gently stopt your willing breath,
Shall by the Pope
Be turn'd a holy Relick, and have pow'r
To work a Miracle in half an hour.
And that it would, did the grave Fathers try,
For by a Relick 'tis some ease to dye.
'Tis strange belief,
Nay, stranger yet, to trust
All our Terrestrial substance with a Thief
Makes theft his lust.
Rome too, like them, rather than live in pain,
Will boggle at no sin that brings in gain,
Till the reward which follows them as fast,
Nip all their blossoms in the bud at last.
'Tis for Religion though, not private end,
I take my Brothers life, or kill my friend,
Defile his Daughter, prostitute his Wife,
Deceive the Widow, sow dissention, strife,
With hourly discords fill their days of life.
All's for Religion, and the Churches good
They cry.
Can acts so ill, that have their rise from blood,
Produce the least effects of Piery?
No, Rome's Religion's like Rome's actions, vile;
They Rapine and Murder act, and yet can smile.
Knee-deep they wade in Massacre and blood;
Crimes they find out, Savages ne're understood,
And Romes chief Head declares 'em to be good.
Your promis'd glories fade!
As angry winds do make the blossoms fall,
And perish in the lap which Nature made:
So will you wither now your Plot's betray'd.
Whirlwinds and storms shall headlong drive
(And each one strive
To scatter) the tempestuous cry;
Like Chaff o'th' ground,
They'l whirl 'em round:
All glad you did your selves undo.
What could you hope, or thought to find,
(In the unruly Concave of your mind)
But sure destruction? nothing good can come
From the pernicious Consult of black Rome;
Whose cursed dictates if you not oppose,
Shall lead you to its dismal Palace, Hell, by th'Nose.
You see th'effect
Of the neglect:
Fetters and Chains,
Nay, endless pains,
Shall clog you here and after death.
Your only hope
Is, that the Rope
Which gently stopt your willing breath,
Shall by the Pope
Be turn'd a holy Relick, and have pow'r
To work a Miracle in half an hour.
And that it would, did the grave Fathers try,
For by a Relick 'tis some ease to dye.
72
Nay, stranger yet, to trust
All our Terrestrial substance with a Thief
Makes theft his lust.
Rome too, like them, rather than live in pain,
Will boggle at no sin that brings in gain,
Till the reward which follows them as fast,
Nip all their blossoms in the bud at last.
'Tis for Religion though, not private end,
I take my Brothers life, or kill my friend,
Defile his Daughter, prostitute his Wife,
Deceive the Widow, sow dissention, strife,
With hourly discords fill their days of life.
All's for Religion, and the Churches good
They cry.
Can acts so ill, that have their rise from blood,
Produce the least effects of Piery?
No, Rome's Religion's like Rome's actions, vile;
They Rapine and Murder act, and yet can smile.
Knee-deep they wade in Massacre and blood;
Crimes they find out, Savages ne're understood,
And Romes chief Head declares 'em to be good.
Thus Satan leads the poor decrepit fool,
That scarcely knows she ever had a Soul;
Fills her craz'd head with various mystick toys,
And whispers to her nought but pleasing joys;
Deludes her eyes with a Romantick guile,
Allows her pleasure for a little while;
But her time come, she to a stake is hurl'd,
And then he leaves her to forsake the world:
Her Soul's to him link'd with an Iron Chain,
Which he in Hell loads with eternal pain.
So when you run the utmost of your race,
The Devil leads you to a vile disgrace:
All the reward you'l have for loss of Breath,
The Pope will Canonize you after death.
Thus Romish Saints like Witches are become,
Old and young fools bred up to Martyrdome.
That scarcely knows she ever had a Soul;
Fills her craz'd head with various mystick toys,
And whispers to her nought but pleasing joys;
Deludes her eyes with a Romantick guile,
Allows her pleasure for a little while;
But her time come, she to a stake is hurl'd,
And then he leaves her to forsake the world:
Her Soul's to him link'd with an Iron Chain,
Which he in Hell loads with eternal pain.
So when you run the utmost of your race,
The Devil leads you to a vile disgrace:
All the reward you'l have for loss of Breath,
The Pope will Canonize you after death.
Thus Romish Saints like Witches are become,
Old and young fools bred up to Martyrdome.
| The Protestants Vade Mecum | |