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. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
Emblem XX.
Langhorn in Newgate.
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| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | The Protestants Vade Mecum |  |
78
Emblem XX. Langhorn in Newgate.
Scourge his rebellious outside here on earth,Forgive all sins committed since his birth,
With holy water wash his crimes away,
For upon earth he has not long to stay.
79
And when ye spread forth your hands, I will hide mine
eyes from you: yea, when you make many prayers I
will not hear; your hands are full of blood.
ISAIAH, Chap. 1. v. 15.
How vile and loathsome is thy fatal place,
This gaping womb, this Chamber of Disgrace!
Look on the dismal comforts of this Cave,
And then compare 'em to a loathsome grave;
Then view thy fear'd and blacker Soul within,
And then if possible repent thy sin:
Think on the tender mercies of thy King,
And let his goodness some Confession bring;
Think on the Nation, and thy native seat,
And there (although condemn'd) do something great.
Let not thy loaden Soul opprest with care,
Sink, nor its burthen load thee to despair.
Nor let the smooth delusive Jesuits tale
(That flatters till h'as hang'd thee) yet prevail.
Think he but preaches to secure his own,
Lest thou discov'ring, he might too be known.
Be not so blind to think you ever can
Have (when condemn'd by God as well as man)
Equivocating Reservations there,
That staff of your Religion more then pray'r.
There's no defending, all's too plainly known,
And your black crime before the Bar is thrown;
No, rather purge thy Soul, and let it be
Made light, to soar up to Eternity.
It will not move; he is obdurate still,
And turns his Reason off, to serve his Will.
He mask'd in zeal, the beaten path doth move,
In acting Crimes to merit Heav'n above.
H'as been a Rebel to his God and King,
Which will without dispute Salvation bring!
Heav'n mnst be throng'd if all they say be good,
Incorrigible Thieves that deal in Blood,
Prostitutes, Cheats, with perjur'd Priests, and Monks,
(If by their Crimes they have but cram'd their Trunks)
Traytors, Blasphemers, and a sordid rout
That Hell (had they not Souls) would vomit out.
If they've acquir'd but Gold, and that Gold giv'n
His Holiness, he'll send their Souls to Heav'n.
But this hard-hearted and obdurate man
Will merit more, if possibly he can.
He's doing Penance, besides Abstinence,
And wheals his shoulders for his hearts offence.
These stripes must do it: 'faith 'tis very civil,
To be thus disciplin'd for doing evil.
Hard-hearted Priest, you'd discipline, I see,
Were he just lanching to Eternity.
He has not long before the fatal day,
When Justice is to snatch his life away;
Then hissing Snakes that 'mongst the Fairies roul,
Shall watch to seize on thy Immortal Soul.
This gaping womb, this Chamber of Disgrace!
Look on the dismal comforts of this Cave,
And then compare 'em to a loathsome grave;
Then view thy fear'd and blacker Soul within,
And then if possible repent thy sin:
Think on the tender mercies of thy King,
And let his goodness some Confession bring;
Think on the Nation, and thy native seat,
And there (although condemn'd) do something great.
Let not thy loaden Soul opprest with care,
Sink, nor its burthen load thee to despair.
Nor let the smooth delusive Jesuits tale
(That flatters till h'as hang'd thee) yet prevail.
Think he but preaches to secure his own,
Lest thou discov'ring, he might too be known.
Be not so blind to think you ever can
Have (when condemn'd by God as well as man)
Equivocating Reservations there,
That staff of your Religion more then pray'r.
There's no defending, all's too plainly known,
And your black crime before the Bar is thrown;
No, rather purge thy Soul, and let it be
Made light, to soar up to Eternity.
It will not move; he is obdurate still,
And turns his Reason off, to serve his Will.
He mask'd in zeal, the beaten path doth move,
In acting Crimes to merit Heav'n above.
H'as been a Rebel to his God and King,
Which will without dispute Salvation bring!
80
Incorrigible Thieves that deal in Blood,
Prostitutes, Cheats, with perjur'd Priests, and Monks,
(If by their Crimes they have but cram'd their Trunks)
Traytors, Blasphemers, and a sordid rout
That Hell (had they not Souls) would vomit out.
If they've acquir'd but Gold, and that Gold giv'n
His Holiness, he'll send their Souls to Heav'n.
But this hard-hearted and obdurate man
Will merit more, if possibly he can.
He's doing Penance, besides Abstinence,
And wheals his shoulders for his hearts offence.
These stripes must do it: 'faith 'tis very civil,
To be thus disciplin'd for doing evil.
Hard-hearted Priest, you'd discipline, I see,
Were he just lanching to Eternity.
He has not long before the fatal day,
When Justice is to snatch his life away;
Then hissing Snakes that 'mongst the Fairies roul,
Shall watch to seize on thy Immortal Soul.
Since disobeying Heav'n's a heinous crime,
How can we hope, that sin from time to time,
Run on egregiously, and turn not back,
But mend our pace when we should go more slack?
Though Blood, nor Sacriledge, nor Perjury,
Nor Rape, nor Theft, nor horrid Blasphemy,
Are in the scroul, the Table of our deeds,
Yet without true contrition none succeeds;
What can you hope, or your pretences be,
That daily waded into Treachery?
Not a known crime, nor individual sin,
But hourly waits to have an entrance in.
Incorrigibly to the fact you run,
And triumph in the mischief you have done;
With hardned hearts most impiously you come
T'accept a Popish Crown of Martyrdome.
How can we hope, that sin from time to time,
Run on egregiously, and turn not back,
But mend our pace when we should go more slack?
Though Blood, nor Sacriledge, nor Perjury,
Nor Rape, nor Theft, nor horrid Blasphemy,
Are in the scroul, the Table of our deeds,
Yet without true contrition none succeeds;
What can you hope, or your pretences be,
That daily waded into Treachery?
Not a known crime, nor individual sin,
But hourly waits to have an entrance in.
Incorrigibly to the fact you run,
And triumph in the mischief you have done;
With hardned hearts most impiously you come
T'accept a Popish Crown of Martyrdome.
| The Protestants Vade Mecum | |