The PLOT. A POEM.

LAte in St. Germain's Court, the Royal Station
Of the great Jacobite, Lord of Abdication,
Sate great Divan, on a more great Occasion:
Where Crowns, Crown'd-Heads, Power, Empire, Do­mination;
Descents and Vengeance, Transports and Invasion;
Fire, Sword and Battle, Death and Desolation;
Ev'n down to the diminitive Preparation
Of Poyniards, Musquetoons, (sweet titillation,)
Dear Russians, Ambuscades, Assassination,
The whole Rich Magazine of Heretick Damnation,
Were all the high Debates of this grand Consultation.
Here First, for their Divine Illumination,
Behold a Beam of Sacred Revelation,
St. Granvall and St. Ruth's great Inspiration.
Nor did there want a gentler Invocation
Of Fair St. Levaliers bright Coruscation:
All Heav'nly warming Lights to this great Caballation.
Here Female Statesman, at her high Helm-Station,
Great Maintenon, began, in Learn'd Oration,
The Welch Prince Panegyrick Declamation:
Whilst a bent Knee went round, and lowest Adoration.
Behold, she cry'd,—
The little Pillar o'th' great Brittish Nation;
Fair Albions Hopes to endless Generation;
The Peter-stone to her whole Church-Foundation;
His shortliv'd Fathers Glories Consummation.
Wonders she spoke! 'Twas all to Admiration!
Ev'n truths more great than Legend Demonstration;
Up to the very inmost Penetration,
Into the mystick Oracles of his Procreation,
His very Warming-Pan, and Cradles Consecration.
This tender Bud of Brittish Expectation,
That infant Theme her first Initiation,
She now advanc'd to th' loftier Elevation
Of Copes and Crosiers, Tripple Coronation:
Through all the Streams of Sanguin Desperation,
From Blood and Murder, Scarlet Romes Plantation;
Those well known mounting steps to Papal instauration;
From Guido's Lanthorn Light, she mov'd by due Gradation.
Ev'n up to the Divine, Pontifick Radiation.
Great Lewis here, with proudest Exultation,
To give the Fiat to this vast Creation,
Bid the bold J—s, his Pupil Preservation,
Prepare for an immediate Embarkation.
For Honour lay before him, Triumphation,
Drest in her proudest Crimson Decoration;
No less than th' High-noon bright Glorification,
T' his Phosphor Barclay's ruddy morning Lumination.
Great were the sounds, and sweet the Consolation;
For, oh, the tickling dear Imagination
Of Universal Maudlin Reformation!
Despotick Scepters, Absolute Regnation!
Priests, Jesuits, Dragoons, (an inundation!)
Fire, Faggot, the whole Jaccobite Propagation!
A total Heretick Eradication!
All in the golden days of joyful Restauration.
And for our foolish Fears full Dissipation,
Our empty Jealousies Evaporation;
Kind Lewis's wondrous Service, free Donation,
Bound with a solemn Gallick Protestation,
He swore (and with a Stygian Imprecation)
Was far from any mental Reservation,
His own Ambitions utter Abjuration.
Thus Vow'd great Lewis, Mahomet's Transmigration,
The Cresent-Champion for the Cross's Exaltation,
All from his Heart as true as Transubstantiation.
But here Fames Trump must stop—
Here change thy Ayrs, no more thou sweet Musician;
Sing, sad Molpomene, Sobs, Sighs, Contrition,
Woes, Waylings! Some kind melancholy Titian,
Draw Wilds and Ruines; all our vast Ambition,
Laid low in Dust; our poor Plots lost Condition.
For, oh, our Barclay's dear Divine Commission
Lyes quasht: Our hopes all empty Apparition,
And honest poor Jack Ketch, our sorrows last Physitian.
Our Calais Transports for the Grand Decision,
All under an Embargo of Misprision;
A mark for Heretick Bombs, and Williamite Derision.
Nay, our great Jehu J—s, from his Transition
To Albion Shore, for Regal Readmission;
Stroll'd back to Bulloign Cloysters, to petition
The minor Saints, to wail a Jacobite Polititian!
This the Reduc'd Britannia's new Submission?
Instead of our once Glorious Expedition;
Egyptian spoils, and Heretick Division;
Now made their Hiss and Grin (Fates weak tuition!)
Faln from our Laurel Wreaths, t' a rueful Vision
Of Ax, Hemp, Cord, th' whole Tyburn Amunition;
To our whole rampant Cause, a woful Circumcision.
And have we pil'd and heap'd, left no omission
For Roman Givets, Jacobite Provision;
All for one Conflagration? Dire Perdition!
But above all (what's Death the very Repetition,)
Is this our little Warbecks Royal Recognition!
And to conclude our whole Eternal Abdication,
Our thunder-bolt of Fate is the Association.

London, Printed for E. Whitlock, near Stationers-Hall. 1696.

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