HAlloo the Plot! where i'st ith'name of Fate?
Good People! what's become of Seventy Eight?
'Twas so long since, for all this great ado.
There's Hopes, as said th' old Crone, it may'nt be true.
These Years Egyptian Snakes we well may call,
The've eat the former Heads, and Tails, and all:
Never before was such an Hydra found;
Why't has in vain bin Burnt, and Hangd, and Drownd;
Yet still this Devil of a Plot revives;
Cats have but Nine, but this has Nine Cats Lives.
By great St. Coleman first it saw the light,
But then 'it's ugly shape so much did fright
The Holy Fathers, that without delay,
Th' unlucky Bastard must be made away.
And since to purpose they'd the Business do,
In Godfreys Breast they Choakt, and Stab'd it too,
Yet what for a Deaths-Wound they meant to give,
Like an Imposthume pierst but made it Live,
Then up it got, but yet unhappy still,
'Twas fairly hang'd with Bury, Green, and Hill,
And then, as soon as his old Friends were Dead,
By Transmigration into Langhorn fled.
No wonder if it would not there abide,
'Twas stript and whipt, and sadly mortify'd;
Huffy with that, it left the Ill-natur'd Elf
E'ne to be string'd, and gutted by himself.
Then with the Jesuits at the Bar Harangu'd;
Then made fine Speeches, and was finely Hang'd.
Treason as Dogs do Puddings, it did scorn,
And Dy'd as Innocent as Child unborn.
[Page] Perkt up agen it soon took up it's Station,
To comfort Wakeman in his Tribulation,
Grown Sawcy there it Guinnys did not grudg,
Presto, 10000 li. blew up the Judg,
Tho' t'was the' unconscionablest Dog alive,
In Fifteen-Thousand but to leave him five.
Well George rubbs off to France, but Plots so stout
'Twill play at small Games rather then stand out;
Grown jolly then with Dr. banisht fears,
And took a rouch or two with brisk Celliers,
But frighted leaps from Meal-Tubb something sadder,
A Dow-baked Embryo like her BLOODY BLADDER,
Hodg took the Lump, and dip't in Holy-Water,
Wraps it up warm in Wool, and Observator,
Brings it to Sams, where Crape with wine ecstatick,
(Who would have thought it,) Christens it PHANA­TICK
Plots turned to Puss, will no kind Mortal house her?
See how she's worried by that Dog-Rogue Towzer.
A PLOT! the word's a spell, the Crown's undone,
No Countercharm can save's but Forty one,
And Forty eight, and Forty one, and then,
Like Mill-Horse round to Forty eight agen,
A PLOT! hence with the Bug-Bear, Srs. for shame,
Sly callow Treasons lurk ith' pregnant name,
'Tis Sinons Horse; as many Whigs are there
As in the Dreadful Oxford Army were,
Thus Roger yelps, as Children build a Town,
Of Snow or Dirt only to beat it Down,
No longer idleing here, poor Plot will stand,
But means to venture for a kinder Land.
Yet there hopeing to find a little rest
Hee's hang'd because he will not take the TEST,
And after all had made the Haddocks bite,
But that the courteous Gallows claim'd it's right,
'Twas Conventickler next, but loath to loose
It's life by falls of Pulpits, Seats, and Rews,
It Trimmer turn'd, and if you ask for Proof,
Here's Rogers Ipse Dixit, that's enough.
'Tis now Informer. If from thence it fall
It can be nothing but—THE DEVIL AND ALL.

LONDON, Printed for F. Smith, at the Elephant and Castle in Cornhil.

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