MY Pangs thicken so fast upon me, that although I have Midwiv'd my self of many little Shams, it's my fear I shall cry out for Madam Ce­lier at last: but alas! She's incastrate, and St. Bridget knows when we shall have the benefit of her skill.

Well! I was still afraid I should burst with Ignoramus's, and this last Bout in the Baily has giv'n me so strong a Fit, that I must beg the use of your Beads for me. Certes, that Heretick Care has Influenc'd them. But how unhappy are we! all the Jurors Coats are Drabdeberry, and Impenitrable; so close that we cannot pick one hole in 'um.

And the misfortune is, that we are like to lose our poor Friend Whip-Cat, for since the good Wives Pusses have forsaken his House, a new Plague is come to him; the Rats and Mice have gathered on him in such Legions, that they have devour'd the whole Stock of Parmisant he bought in Holland: so that 'tis fear'd he must take another Voyage to new store himself; or put Madam Joanna to the charge of getting him a Pot of Extreme-Unction, as she did for Capricorn.

And the unlucky Whigs have inlarged their Dominions into the very Bowels of the Church, so that scarce a Divine of Sence or Honesty in the Church of England, but is as Incredulous of a Protestant Plot, as themselves.

Our Evidence too are so bemir'd, and stuck in the Bog, that the very Boys hiss'd 'um, and they had been certainly thrown into Fleet-Ditch, had not the Proverb sav'd 'um, which says, He that's born to be Hang'd shall never Drown.

Booth they say's in Pimlico, and for fear of Martial Discipline, is gone to his Colours in the King-Bench; though 'tis thought his Name was never on the Captains List.

Narrative drew his Sword, and swore, Damm him, to the Rabble; upon which occasion, an unlucky Baggage brought me this Epigram by the Penny-Post.

[Page]Oh! the intolerable Charge we have been at to bury this Cursed Plot, for Masses, Pardons, Evidences and Perjuries! And still it stinks so damnably, that it nauseates every Passenger. Curle on all Romish-Bulls! I thought their Horns had been strong enough to have toss'd all Protestant Princes out of their Thrones before now: but vae nobis! the Hereticks stand their ground: and here's the Plague, the English Gentry can't be prevail'd upon to truck away their Title to the Abby-Lands on so slender a security as the Popes Broad-Seal. Well, Bro­ther, What shall we do? we have had so many Con-stults already, that its cer­tainly in vain to call another: and for those Consecrated Heads that are in New­gate, though when they were out they design'd to give Laws to Kingdoms, yet now we see they are like Witches in Custody, their power forsakes them.

But the great Plague of all is, our own Party begin to laugh at our Artifices, and more then that, some of 'um clapt at the Hieroglophicks wherein the Pren­tices exposed us on Queen Besses Night: and have not stuck to say, We were no better than so many Apes, Baboons, and Mimmicks.

And it vexes me consoundedly to think how I shall answer for all the transpo­sing of my Wit and Railery upon Tap-skin, &c. with which my Weekly Labels do so Crawl, that there's Littera Scripta in the Case; and I fear the Salamancha Sermon will be turn'd upon us, and an Epitaph upon the Tridentine be Inscri­bed to our Memories.

And is this at last the Reward we are to meet with after the expence of our slender Wits, and Fortunes in the Service of Holy Cause? Ungratefull World! must we after all our Merits be made Pendulums to tell the Rabble what time of day 'tis? How glad would we be if we might but commute for the Dicipline of having our Noses grubd against the Grate, and Skins soundly Claw'd, and curri­ed? Alas! there were some Relief in this, and we might come off, as some of our Dear Sisters do, from the Dancing School behind St. Brides, with sore Backs, and bra­zen Faces. But Fate alas! has another Game to play with us: This is evident by the Omens that have of late befallen us. For, as for thee, Heraclitus, thy risible Faculty hath quite lest thee, and instead of laughing, thou dost Grin the most wretchedly, thou dost already look like one of our Fathers that hath been strung up by the Left Ear a day or two in the Sun. And poor Roger's Fiddle is cursedly out of tune, all the small Catlings are broken, nothing but the two big­ger strings left, that make the lamentable sound of O hone! O hone!

What think'st thou can be the meaning of these dismall Prodromes? I fear the curs'd presage of 'um, for already I have so perfectly received the very form of Hanging into my consideration, that sometimes I am feeling in my Pocket for a piece of Silver to give Ketch at the dead lift. But prethee, if thou art yet able to set Pen to Paper, let me have thy Opinion of the most effectuall means (if there be any) to prevent these direfull Catastrophes. But anon I intend to meet thee at the Constult at the Wonder. Vale ✚ Vale ✚ Vale ✚.