A
Hue-and-Cry
AFTER THE
PLOT.
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HAlloo the Plot! where i'st ith' name of Fate?
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Good People! what's become of Seventy Eight?
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'Twas so long since, for all this great ado.
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There's Hopes, as said th' old Crone, it may'nt be true.
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These Years Egyptian Snakes we well may call,
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The've eat the former Heads, and Tails, and all:
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Never before was such an Hydra found;
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Why't has in vain bin Burnt, and Hangd, and Drownd;
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Yet still this Devil of a Plot revives;
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Cats have but Nine, but this has Nine Cats Lives.
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By great St. Coleman first it saw the light,
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But then 'it's ugly shape so much did fright
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The Holy Fathers, that without delay,
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Th' unlucky Bastard must be made away.
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And since to purpose they'd the Business do,
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In Godfreys Breast they Choakt, and Stab'd it too,
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Yet what for a Deaths-wound they meant to give,
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Like an Imposthume pierst but made it Live,
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Then up it got, but yet unhappy still,
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fairly hang'd with Bury, Green, and Hill,
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And then, as soon as his old Friends were Dead,
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By Transmigration into Langhorn fled.
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No wonder if it would not there abide,
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stript and whipt, and sadly mortify'd;
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Huffy with that, it left the Ill-natur'd Elf
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E'ne to be string'd, and gutted by himself.
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Then with the Jesuits at the Bar Harangu'd;
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Then made fine Speeches, and was finely Hang'd.
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Treason as Dogs do Puddings, it did scorn,
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And Dy'd as Innocent as Child unborn.
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Perkt up agen it soon took up it's Station,
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To comfort Wakeman in his Tribulation,
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Grown Sawcy there it Guinnys did not grudg,
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Presto, 10000 li. blew up the Judg,
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Tho' t'was the' unconscionablest Dog alive,
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In Fifteen-Thousand but to leave him five.
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Well George rubbs off to France, but Plots so stout
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play at small Games rather then stand out;
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Grown jolly then with Dr. banisht fears,
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And took a touch or two with brisk Celliers,
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But frighted leaps from Meal-Tubb something sadder,
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A Dow-baked Embryo like her BLOODY BLADDER,
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Hodg took the Lump, and dip't in Holy-Water,
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Wraps it up warm in Wool, and Observator,
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Brings it to Sams, where Crape with wine ecstatick,
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(Who would have thought it,) Christens it PHANATICK
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Plots turned to Puss, will no kind Mortal house her?
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See how she's worried by that Dog-Rogue Towzer.
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A PLOT! the word's a spell, the Crown's undone,
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No Countercharm can save's but Forty one,
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And Forty eight, and Forty one, and then,
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Like Mill-Horse round to Forty eight agen,
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A PLOT! hence with the Bug-Bear, Sirs for shame,
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Sly callow Treasons lurk ith' pregnant name,
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'Tis Sinons Horse; as many Whigs are there
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As in the Dreadful Oxford Army were,
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Thus Roger yelps, as Children build a Town,
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Of Snow or Dirt only to beat it Down,
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No longer idleing here, poor Plot will stand,
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But means to venture for a kinder Land.
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Yet there hopeing to find a little rest
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Hee's hang'd because he will not take the TEST,
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And after all had made the Haddocks bite,
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But that the courteous Gallows claim'd it's right,
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'Twas Conventickler next, but loath to loose
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It's life by falls of Pulpits, Seats, and Pews,
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It Trimmer turn'd, and if you ask for Proof,
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Here's Rogers Ipse Dixit, that's enough.
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'Tis now Informer. If from thence it fall
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It can be nothing but ------ THE DEVIL AND ALL.
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