A CORDIAL FOR ENGLAND, OR A CHARACTER OF TRUE BRITAINS: Together with a Narrative and Recital of all POPISH PLOTS in ENGLAND since the Days of QUEEN ELIZABETH.
And a PROPHESIE of ROMES DOWNFAL, by a Loyal Britain. Nemo sibi nascitur.
WE love our Mony, and we love our Blood,
We value neither for our Countrys good;
Mars and Apollo both conjoyn'd in one▪
Will say an Ajax and a Hector strong.
In time of Peace we'll fight by Englands Law,
And when in Field, we'll fill their hearts with aw
That dare oppose us with an open face,
They're all dead men unless they quit the place:
We'll neither quarrel, duel, swagger, swear,
We will be patient, for we Britains are;
We will be Lambs in time of publick Peace,
And when in Field, we'll Lions rage increase:
When as we come to hewing, hacking work
We'll neither fear the French, the Pope nor Turk,
Nor any other Instruments of Hell,
That would contrive our Land and Laws to sell.
Base Pensioners they are, who under ground
Combine to smite us by a dang'rous wound.
The Head is very sick, our Body too
Is in an inward Hecktick; what shall's do?
Let's call a good Physician speedily;
He's able, upright, and he'll seek no Fee;
To save his Patients Life is his desire,
And for his pains he will not much require:
And rather then the Patients Life should go,
He'll buy the Cordial, he's a friend, not foe:
Then call him quickly, call him; come, I pray,
I fear me much I'm near a Critick day.
There's many Symptoms, and there's Omens too,
Of a most sad Distemper that doth grow:
Tis ready for to seize the Vital Seat;
When once it seizes, then it is too late.
Oh Englands Clergy! look about you now,
You are the men that have great work to do:
Tis not your work you do, fat Flocks to fleece;
When once the Fox gets in beware the Geece.
And we for our parts, that Souldiers are,
Will of our Work and Duty have a care.
And tho the FLOWER o'th Flock is gone away,
Yet men remain that can fight in array.
And God Almighty bless us, blast our Foes,
And give Success and victory over those
That do combine and plot to take away
Our sacred Soveraigns Life without delay,
And Protestant Religion desire
Quite to extirpate and raze out by fire;
And great Dissentions which they daily raise
Within the Church of England, seeking praise,
They'l plot in England in the open Sun,
And Massacres in Ireland they have done:
They thirst for Blood, and long to see one night
Of stabbing Skean-work English to affright.
Revive, Oh England! cheer thy heart agen.
Thy old Commander marches in the vann,
And he can quickly put thy foes in fear,
When once he bringeth up his Knocking rear:
And though at present, we, in forlorn hope,
Shall see a day of terror to the Pope.
And to all those that plot, combine, and lye
In wait for Blood, to spill it secretly.
Oh God of England rise, awake agen,
In days of old we have thee glorious seen.
In Eighty eight they did invade our Land,
The Spanish Ships Armadoes did Command;
They came on boldly to the very Coast,
And in a full career they hop'd for roast:
But God Almighty put them all in fear,
And with his Fire-ships did scatter vann and rear:
He rais'd up brave Conductors, Englishmen,
That made the Spaniards homewards go agen;
All this was done in Queen Elizabeths days,
To God Almighty England give the praise.
And in King James's time did they contrive
To blow up mortal men while yet alive;
But Heaven forbad the Stroak, and turn'd the blow
Unto their final fatal overthrow.
And in the time of Charles the First our King
Mighty combustions on the Land did bring;
They stirr'd up Fathers wrath against the Son,
And almost was the Nation quite undone
By Civil Wars, which they fomented so,
As laid poor England all in blood and wo,
And sent our Gracious Prince, of blessed memory,
By fatal blow into eternity.
When this was done Prince Charles, our present King,
They sent into Exile, ah cursed thing!
But God was good, and brought him back again;
And now the Crown doth on his Head remain:
This was not all enough, but into Court
These Monsters creep agen to make some sport.
And while this Toad in Bosom warm doth lye,
It soon begins to plot conspiracy.
So deep their Plot was laid, so under ground,
So dark, so hellish was th' intended wound,
By Poyson, Pistol, and by Silver slug:
But Heaven defeated this their fatal Drug;
And while the Horse was eating a few OATS
His griping belly filled was with Bots;
And thus the Plot came out; and truth it was,
Though now there is no Plot: so let it pass;
'Tis no great matter, Jesuits and Priests
May sit on rotten Eggs; Curst be their Nests:
And tho the House of Lords and Commons have
Voted a hellish Plot; yet still they wave
The Name of Plot; it is a cursed thing;
But had almost to ruine brought our King.
All this is nothing, there is yet no fault,
Tis not so bad to steal as to be caught:
And though the Fact be plainly prov'd on Tryal,
Their Faces can persist in bold denyal.
What can his Holiness and Rome devise,
Such cursed things as Plots, all are but Lies;
And we poor Martyrs dye expos'd to scorn,
Yet are as innocent as th' child unborn,
Alas poor men! they're gone, much wrong they had
Coleman and Plunket, many more as bad:
But silence now! they're dead; silence, I pray,
They'll never plot agen, I'll boldly say;
Yet nevertheless, if Pluto could but grant
These Martyrs leave, they'd play another prank;
They'd find a Sham-Plot, if it could be found,
That should lay England level with the ground:
And though they dye, they are resolv'd, like men,
To wish success unto the Plot agen:
They dye in Faith, that Wasps are yet behind.
That will the self same Plot and Project mind.
And this is comfort to their wicked brest,
They sent poor Godfrey before them to rest.
The King and Kingdoms Martyr sure was he;
England he sav'd alive, although he be
Now dead, yet still he lives, and speaketh still,
Avenge my Blood on them that did it spill.
Alas! what mean you? Do not charge men so▪
It was not they, but his own Sword did do
The Execution; upon Primrose-hill
After he strangled was, they prove it will
And will you not believe it, Hereticks
And Infidels, you're men out of your wits.
Now England judge, I pray you, men most wise,
Come near, and view the Cradle-babe that cries,
His Name is Plot, compare well, and see
Which is his Father, Pope or Presbytry:
The former hath his limbs, his hands, his face;
Yet must the latter bear the Brats Disgrace:
'Tis no new thing indeed; for every Whore
Will lay her Bastard at anothers door;
But Lord have mercy on us; must not we
That guiltless are deny this Bastardye:
No, no, the Whorish womans Word is very great,
And 'tis enough; she says you did the feat:
But Heavens forbid that Protestants should be
Abused by a Whore that's all pocky.
And send our King a Solomons heart, to make
A Judgment just, who shall this Bastard take:
And make her an example to all Whores,
Who lay their Bastards daily at mens Doors.
Lord God Almighty wake, arise, I pray,
And send to dawn that clear Sun shining day,
When Kings and Kingdoms all shall joyntly hate
The Scarlet Whore, and bring upon her pate
The Vengeance written long ago, foretold
And prophesied in former days of old:
And when this Work is done, Lord take the praise,
And to thy self a Generation raise,
To serve thee in a glorious Gospel-day.
When all the world shall walk in one good way.
And though I dye and never live to see.
Let God fulfil this ancient Prophesie.
My Countrys Friend Jacob Sontley.