And will this wicked world never prove good? Will Priests and Catholiques never prove true? Shall _Catesby_, _Piercy_ and _Rookwood_ Make all this famous Land to rue? With putting us in such a feare, _With huffing and snuffing and guni-powder,_ _With a Ohone hononoreera tarrareera, tarrareero hone._ 2. ’Gainst the fifth of _November_, Tuesday by name, _Peircy_ and _Catesby_ a Plot did frame, _Anno_ one thousand six hundred and five, In which long time no man alive Did ever know, or heare the like, Which to declare my heart growes sike. _With a O hone_, &c. 3. Under the Parliament-house men say Great store of Powder they did lay, Thirty six barrels, as is reported, With many faggots ill consorted, With barres of iron upon them all, To bring us to a deadly fall. _With a O hone_, &c. 4. And then came forth Sir _Thomas Knyvet_, You filthy Rogue come out o’ th’ doore, Or else I sweare by Gods trivet Ile lay thee flatlong on the floore, For putting us all in such a feare, _With huffing and snuffing_, &c. 5. Then _Faux_ out of the vault was taken And carried before Sir _Francis Bacon_, And was examined of the Act, And strongly did confesse the Fact, And swore he would put us in such a feare. _With huffing_, &c. 6. Now see it is a miraculous thing, To see how God hath preserv’d our King, The Queen, the Prince, and his Sister dear, And all the Lords, and every Peere, And all the Land, and every shire, _From huffing_, &c. 7. Now God preserve the Council wise, That first found out this enterprise; Not they, but my Lord _Monteagle_, His Lady and her little Beagle, His Ape, his Ass, and his great Beare, _From huffing, and snuffing, and gunni-powder._ [8.] Other newes I heard moreover, If all was true that’s told to me, Three Spanish ships landed at _Dover_, Where they made great melody, But the Hollanders drove them here and there, _With huffing_, &c. _A CATCH._ Drink boyes, drink boyes, drink and doe not spare, Troule away the bowl, and take no care. So that we have meat and drink, and money and clothes What care we, what care we how the world goes. _A pitiful Lamentation._ My Mother hath sold away her Cock And all her brood of Chickins, And hath bought her a new canvasse smock And righted up the Kitchin. And has brought me a Lockeram bond With a v’lopping paire of breeches, Thinking that _Jone_ would have lov’d me alone, But she hath serv’d me such yfiches. Ise take a rope and drowne my selfe, Ere Ist indure these losses: Ise take a hatchet and hang my selfe Ere Ist indure these crosses. Or else Ile go to some beacon high, Made of some good dry’d furzon[,] And there Ile seeme in love to fry Sing hoodle a doodle Cuddon. _A Woman with Child that desired a Son, which might prove a Preacher._