A Hue-and-Cry AFTER THE PLOT.
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.