A NEW SONG,
Of FATHER PFTRE, and the DEVIL.
To the Tune of Flying from Olinda.
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Father Petre.
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PLUTO Arise: Great Master come,
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And if thou canst Avert the Doom
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That's falling on thy Spouse of Rome.
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Devil.
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Lo here I am, my faithful Slave,
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Tell the great Cause thou hast to crave,
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And my Assistance thou shall't have.
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Father Petre.
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All our Proceedings at a stand,
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Our Foes have got the upper hand,
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And ruin'd all our wish't Command:
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Yet I, what Priest cou'd do have done,
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Kept them at distance from the Throne,
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And made clear Sence and Reason none.
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Devil.
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Great is the praise that you have won,
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To have a Plot so well begun,
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By your ill Conduct quite undone:
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Does this become a Jesuit,
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Whom I with Pains and Care made fit
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To breed the mischiefs I beget.
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Did I for this one, with you join,
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To aid you in this great design,
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Whose Pride and malice equal'd mine:
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One whose Ambition I believe,
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Enjoy's the fatal praise to Eve,
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Alone Forbiden Fruit to give.
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Father Petre.
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I needs must own your Aid was great
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to carry on the Holy Cheat;
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But who alas! can hinder Fate:
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All this is nothing but Discourse,
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We must do somthing now by Force,
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'Tis that must be our last Recourse.
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Did I the Popish Weapons draw
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'Gainst Hereticks, and 'gainst the Law;
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Did I not keep the Great in Awe,
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While the Good Man I kept at th' Oar:
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No Gally Slave e're Labour'd more
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To make us Rich and himself Poor.
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Devil.
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You were too Hot, and Rid too Fast,
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Nor Hell, nor Rome can praise your hast,
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Since those you Rid, their Rider cast;
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Your Order wheresoe're they came,
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Have set whole Kingdoms in a Flame:
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But here it seems your heat they Tame.
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Father Petre.
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Wherefore of me are these Complaints,
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Since you I Pray'd to, in my Wants,
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All tho' 'tis true I Name'd the Saints.
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Our Council sometimes has avail'd,
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I ow*n about the French we fail'd,
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But on the Irish we prevail'd.
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We must not Flag, nor sit down here,
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That wou'd declare Remorse or Fear,
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Which ne'er in Jesuits do appear.
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Direct my Conscience any way,
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What I shall Act, do you but say,
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the Devil take me I'll Obey.
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But I've some doubts, I wou'd Impart,
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That much oppress my Tender Heart,
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Which you may Answer by your Art;
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Tell first what Fate will strike me Dead,
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I dare not hope 'twill be in Bed,
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That suits not with the Life I've led?
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If Hang'd and Quarter'd be the best,
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Make me a Saint and Martyr Blest,
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With Holy Harcourt, and the rest;
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Next Englands Fate pray to me Read,
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And who shall to the Throne Succeed,
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The English or Italian Breed.
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Devil.
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Thy own Fate thou hast guest at well,
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If Traytor, thou or Martyrs Fell,
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Thy Ballad to the World will tell.
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The Consequence of t'other draw,
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From the Success of Great Nassaw,
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This said the Devil did withdraw.
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