IN Wistocke, a verie an­cient place in Deuon­shire, distant from Plim­mouth some tenne miles, dwelt a worshipfull Gen­tleman, called Maister Fites, who hauing longe time beene married without anie children, had at length, for a blessing to his expecta­tion, a Sonne: whome after he had brought vppe in lavdable rudimentes, as well besee­med a careful father, as if his aged yeares hadde seene the hope of his owne posteri­tie, hee perfourmed the course of Nature, leauing large possessions to his young heir, (being as yet in his Minoritie) of whom the world hoped nothing but a fruitful ripenes, of so towardlie a springal, his comelinesse [Page]of personage increasing with his yeares, and his descretion with his personage: he was in his nonage a Ward vnto sir Arthur Gorge, a worsh. knight. He took to wife the daugh­ter of sir Wil. Courtney, a man grac'st with all perfection of an honorable mind. A man louing his countrey, and for his worthie ca­riage, iustly beloued of his country: neither did this his faire daughter degenerate from the auncient stocke of her father, of whose praise (since vertue chieflie commendeth it selfe) I cannot sufficiently speake, neither in setting forth of it, can I bee deemed partiall, since her deserts exceed the measure of par­tialitie: for as she was a modest maiden, so being married she gaue euident proofes of a vertuous wife. But her young husbande sir John (although not then knighted) little re­garding the happines of so rare a bedfellow, followed such errors as youth councelled, & follie led him into; truth it is, if his actions had beene equally agreeable to his person, or his guiftes of mind, as plentifullie besto­wed, as the naturall lineamentes of his bo­die, he hadde beene the compleate mirrour [Page]of an accomplisht Gentleman.

But it is commonly seene, where God in­dueth vs with more special tokens of fauor, weby our owne pronesse to vicious iniqui­ty, deface his Image, and euermore indeuor to pollute his benefits with our wicked trās­gression; jt was well said;

This was too trulie verified in sir Io. Fites, who a while after fell into the carelesse race of a dissolute life, and althogh by the often instigation of his tender harted wife, he was many times withdrawne from sundrie temptations of lewd retainers, yet hadd not the countenance of his better friends, and their friendly perswasion counsailed him, doubt­lesse he had fallen into misfortune, ere mis­fortune had been ready for his fall. Manye friends and wel-willers he hadde, whose ac­count might of right challenge the rancke of gentilitie and reputation.

Amongst manie, to (whom in the links of perfect friendshippe, he was ingaged) one gentleman most especiallie in all rightes of [Page]loue and reguarde, tendered him, (and as it seemed) was as much of him againe respe­cted, his name was maister Slanning, a wor­shipfull Esquire and a proper Gentleman, of goodlie liuing, and deserued credite, of whom most men could but speake wel, since of almen he was generalie reputed wise and courteous. This Gentleman euer inwardlie affected Sir John Fites, so that the Countrie noted them (for firme and mutual loue) to be vnfained friends, and so indeed they wer, vntil mishap (euer fatal to sir Iohn his pro­ceedings) crossed their affectionat associati­on with this mischance.

Meeting on a time at Tauestocke (neere which S. Iohn dwelt) at dinner with manie of their neighbors and friends, with great varietie of merriments, and discourse, they out stript the noon-tide: Amongest other their table talk, S. Iohn was vanting his free Te­nure in holding his land, boasting that hee held not a foot of any but the Queen in En­gland; to whome maister Slanning replied, that although of courtesie it were neglected yet of dewe and common righte, hee was [Page]to pay him so much by the yeere for some small Land held of him, the rent beeing by reason of friendship long time intermitted. Vpon which wordes, Sir Iohn (grounding his occasion vpon choller, and heating that choller with disdaine and pride) told him with a great oath, hee lyed: & withall, gaue fuell to his rage, and reines of spight, to the vniustnes of his anger, offering to stab him.

But Maister Slanning, who was known to be a man of no lesse courage, and more cur­tesie, with a great knife that hee had, war­ded the hazard of such threatnings, vppon which grew both multiplication of wordes, and increase of hatred on both sides; vntill by the fayre mediation of theyr friends thē present, they were accorded to a fained re­conciliation: so that in briefe, after a while, Maister Slanning priuately with his man de­parted homewards.

Long had he not ridden, but commaun­ding his man to walke downe his horses in the way, himselfe the whiles taking the greene fieldes for his more cōtented walke, looking backe, hee might beholde Sir Iohn [Page]Fites with foure more galloping amaine af­ter him. Which sight, as it coulde not but breede doubtfull and fearefull suspition, so could it not but bee a great amazement to Maister Slanning, who little thought on the desperate plot of so vicious a minded blood­sucker.

Sir Iohn no sooner drewe neere him, but Maister Slanning assuring himselfe of his purposed malice, and most malicious drift, asked him the occasion of his comming: to whom Sir Iohn (in the rude language of scorne and wrath) made aunswer, he would now reuenge himselfe for his disgrace, and so at once they fell all vpon him, who with as determinate a resolution defended him­selfe, beeing indeed a man of an vndaunted spirit. And seeing before his face shame im­pudent, and hope of lifes securitie, altoge­ther desperate, he with as bold stomacke as a wounded dying man, stoode vppon the guarde of his owne ablenesse, vvhiles Sir Iohn beeing prickt on by the bloody vrging of one Crosse his man, grewe to be handned in his butchery: so that one cōming behind [Page]Maister Slanning with a blowe, (guided by the hand of a villaines hart) strooke him on the head, who falling and staggering back­ward, was by Sir Iohn run through the bo­dy, leauing his liuelesse carkasse a monu­ment of terrors, to affright the guiltie con­sciences of vnmercifull homicides: but as the one is hastning to the graue, so is the o­ther making preparation for flight to escape death, not shame.

Great was the lamentation that the coun­try made for the death of so beloued a gen­tleman as Maister Slanning was. As for Sir Iohn. hee soone got himselfe away, leauing the fulmouth'd report of infamous rumour, to rumour abroade, the report of so infa­mous a deed: but as for his wife & mother, (vertuous Gentlewomen) the torment of theyr sorrow, is easier to be imagined then felt: who in the anguish of theyr greefes did pennance for his rashnesse, and in the zeale of theyr prayers, laboured for his harty con­trition.

Hee for the space of a yere, or neere there about liued in Fraunce, of whose carriage [Page]there, it is to bee coniectured that it was no otherwise then indifferent, yet can I not ex­cuse him in this his exile for a penitent con­uertite, howsoeuer the worlde generally deemed the best: But in his absence, the good Gentlewoman led a widdowed lyfe, and by as many means as the procurement of her woorthy freendes could effect, or her owne industry labour, shee got some hope of a promised pardon, vpon which after a twelue monthes absence Syr Iohn returned home, with a seeming likelihoode of repen­tant sorrow for his former misdeede, shew­ing outwardly euident promises of new re­formation and amendement, as seeming a mortified man for his trespasse past, and as­suring farre better hopes to come.

In thys meane tyme he had procur'd for his more quiet content, at least a repriuall, if not a pardon, but with thys prouiso, of his good behauiour euer after. There awhile he lyued welcommed of all, curteous to all, and therefore of all welbeloued: but as it is commonly seene, a man naturally hardned in ill, can hardly amende his deformity of [Page]wickednes, with cūning of dissembling pre­tended glosse, so afterward chaunced with thys man, who in continuance of tyme, did not onely proceed in vnlawful courses of a­buse, but would oftentimes glory in his for­mer execrable fact, & beeing now in a man­ner prest, in the high-way of all abhomina­tion, he began to roote his thoughts to plot nothing but mischiefe, insomuch as first, he by little and little lothed his lawful bed, tur­ning his pleasures to lawlesse desires, ney­ther could the sweete remembrance of his wiues earnest affection, with draw him from consorting himselfe with loose prodigals.

A lamentable sight it was to see a man of his rancke, place, and calling, to be so vainly carried away with following the depraued humours of light company: neyther could the intreaty of Freendes, the perswasion of his allyes, the counsel of his wel-wishers, nor the cōmon scandall of the world, make him blush at his own follyes. Strange it was that a man beeing so forewarned, should not be forearmed, for his owne harmes could not make him beware, neyther could the great­nes [Page]of Gods fauour shewed to him, enforce him to consider the foulenes of his former offences detestation, and conforme his after age to a more serious meditation of the infi­nite benefites bestowed vpon him, but the longer hee liued, the worse he liued.

At what tyme his excellent Maiesty our King, (after his coronation,) was pleased to honor our English Gentlemen with that auncient rewarde of true deserts, woorth Knighthoode, it likewise pleased his royall Grace amongst many of all Shires through­out his Realme to inuest in that order thys Sir Iohn Fites, who vnder this title of honor thought to maske his deeds of vice, & vvith the very sounde of Knight, to boulster out the community of his ryots: insomuch as wheras before he was forward he was now both forward, & bold: forward to attempt, bolde to iustifie, any vniust wrong that his loose behauiour should vnder goe. Nowe began hee to thinke that the world should wink at his impieties, his credit and knight­hoode was a sufficient priuiledge. Now be­gan hee to entertaine into his society, (as as­sociates) [Page]men both of dissolute & desperate fortunes, amongst whom was one (as ring­leader to the reachlesse content of his pam­pered desires) named cōmonly Lusty Iacke, one whose meanes were indeede meane, whose good qualities altogether none: but for that as many as knowe him, knowe him without description, the sequell shall testifie the honesty of his conuersation.

This lusty Royster beeing by Sir Iohn ea­sily accepted, and for a more speciall grace that hee had in dooing ill, admitted into his society, suncke so far into his lyking, as that hee was not himselfe without this his com­panion: insomuch as that Towne of Taue­stocke, though otherwise orderly gouerned with sobriety, & wisedome of graue Magi­strates, was thereby infected, with the beast­ly corruption of drunkennesse. Sir Iohn by his own inclination apt, and by his retained copesmates vrged, persueered the more, to run head-long into such [...], as vile sensuality and pleasures inclined into, spen­ding theyr tyme in riotous surfeiting, sur­feyting in abhominable drunkenness being [Page]drunke, they blaspheme and sweare, and in thys theyr blasphemy, they teare the diuine name of their almighty Creator into a thou­sand peeces, neyther regarding hope of re­demption, or dreading feare of damnation, plucking men by night out of theyr bedds, violently breaking windowes, quarrelling vvith Ale-conners, fighting in priuate brab­bles amongst themselues: all vvhich hazard, (eyther of particuler dangers, or common course of Law) could not moue Syr Iohn to breake of his disordered route, but whē they had abused the townesmen, and disturbed theyr neighbors, Syr Iohns ovvn house vvas their safest sanctuary, or receptacle to cloake theyr out-rages: so as it seemed, they liued as in tyme of old the common Outlawes of thys Land dyd, neyther worshypping God nor honouring Prince, but wholy subiect to theyr contents alone.

In such like intollerable courses of abuse, beyond vertue, or gentility, did Sir Iohn e­uer with his accomplices, in all his disorders spend his time, little studying to benefite his Country, by being a profitable member of [Page]the Common-weale, or little reckoning to be a good subiect, by obseruing the peacea­ble statutes of his Prince, but cōtinuing dai­ly to increase the multitude of his riots, hee said with the Poet,

Wine and women bring most men to per­dition, for one is so ineuitably awayted by the other, that a roysting drunkard is most commonly noted for an incontinent leche­rer. This was not falsifyed in Sir Iohn Fites, who so wholy addicted himselfe to all de­testable and vicious defamations, that it sha­med him not (after his distemperatures a­broade) to bring queanes home with him, not esteeming the precious modestie of his vviues bed, and the chast deserts of so vertu­ous a Lady, vvho heereafter may very well serue as a rare patterne to all wiues, (that are vnblest in hauing such husbands) hovve to carry themselues with humility, and winke at it with patience. So did this Lady, vntill her vnthankfull husband (glutted in his owne lust) thought her very presence to be [Page]an obstacle, and bar to vpbrayd his inconti­nence: for which cause (without cause) hee beganne to fall into dislike with her, and at length, would neyther vouchsafe her main­tenaunce, or house-roome, but with words of disgrace turned her out of his doores, not leauing her attended by any to cōduct her.

In thys plight of distresse, the vertuous Lady (seeing, & by experience hauing had too firme a proofe, of the misery of such a husband) could not but thinke herselfe vn­happy, howsoeuer indeede shee in this vn­happines was blest; for by these meanes she auoyded further perrill of death, which hee in his steame of wine, had bin likely to haue offred vnto her. In breefe, beeing thus left to her misfortunes, shee returned to her worthy Father, who with much ioy, recei­ued his distressed Daughter, with a young daughter of hers also: so that herein she was most fortunate, that she was safe, where she might heare of her Knights outrages, but not indure thē. This Lady beeing by him in this wise turn'd away, hee noweknevve himselfe to be the onely maister of himselfe, [Page]and might as he thought now be imbolde­ned to follow his own loosnes. Nowe vvas his owne house without contradiction, or controlement, open to his associates, where nowe (if they please) they may erect a little Common-wealth of many iniquities, and much imputation. His purse they abused, his goods they consumed, and of his person they made a stale to theyr misdemeanors: all feard him, few loued him, neither was his worshippe as much to be reuerenced, as his lewd manners to be abhorred: for con­tinuing and insisting in his licentious, and odious courses, not long before his cōming towards London, being in the heat of his old disorder, he, (beeing backt by his retainers) fell out with an Officer of the Towne, and after vvith many reprochfull words and vp­braydings, that he reuiled him withall, for­getting both himselfe, the person, and the place, hee with many blowes of his dagger. broke his head in such sort, as the man bee­ing carried home, & layd in his bed, it vvas greatly feared, that hee could not escape death: which had it hapned, questionlesse [Page]it had not onely been a great preiudice, but also an indangering to Sir Iohn his own life, who after thys deed, was so farre frō doubt­ting the worst, as that hee little regarding the hatred of his act, stoutly perseuered in the accustimation of his former breaches of all cōmendable carriage. But it is euermore notable, that men ouer whom sinne hath greater predominance, are reserued for more especiall misfortunes, vntill at last, be­ing ouer-ripened, they fall by theyr ovvne rottennesse, which on this wise happened to Syr Iohn Fites.

Maister Slanning after his death left be­hind him for pledges of Gods blessing to­ward him, two sonnes, and one daughter, his heyre beeing inward to a Knight of that Country of good account and credit, which heyre of Maister Slannings, beeing come to yeeres of discretion, vpon aggreeuaunces of his Fathers death, beeing, (as iust reason was) loath to sell his deere Fathers blood, and bearing a minde to reuenge himselfe by course of right, and Law, vpon the but­cher of his Fathers life: knowing that Syr [Page] Iohn had but a conditionall and no speciall pardon, (as Syr Iohn himselfe gaue foorth, and falsly blinded the worlde withall) vsed meanes for his attachement, eyther to pro­cure better meanes, or aunswer the procee­dings of Iustice in that case prouided.

Thys beeing heard of Syr Iohn, (who a­midst his ryots little dreamed on any such incumbrance) it draue him to diuers shyfts, but beeing well befreended, (if his carriage had bin such to haue deserued theyr friend­ships who indeed were his freends) he ha­uing now no hopes, but such as relay vpon theyr credit, for his better discharge vvas driuen to cōsider better of the vneuen race of his life past, assuring himselfe that he was become to the world so rediculous, in him­selfe so faultie, and of his owne ablenesse so insufficient to accomplish his desires, that if hee could not procure a newe and absolute Pardon, the old offence of his, being laid to his charge, and his riots since, likely to be a­grauated by the vulgar knowledge of the whole Country, it would surely put, not onely his reputation, but also his lyfe in [Page]double ieopardy: These reasons well can­celled, feare, not shame, made him hasten some other course to be presently thought on, and in some measure to beware of per­rils to come, though scarce repent his mis­deedes past, Oderunt peccare mali formidine penae, doubt of trouble, not hartie cōtrition, pricketh the wicked to auoyde further lap­ses, when as the loue of vertue maketh the vertuous abstaine from doing euill. So Syr Iohn, seeing how by his inordinate disorders he had impaired his estate, seuer'd himselfe frō his wife, wedded himselfe to wilfull ob­stinacie, abused his neighbours, murthered his freends, cōsorted himselfe with villaines, & caused himselfe to be so odious, as his life was now in new danger, he now thought it behooued him to make freends, and to that intent hee posted toward London, where by the way, (continuall Furies tormenting his minde) ere he came to his hopes, he ended his lyfe. For in his iournying towards Lon­don, an accident of great ruth and pitty hap­ned in thys lamentable sort. Syr Iohn, (har­boring euen in despight of his owne vvill a [Page]guilty conscience in a grieued breast) euen as he rode by the way, often ranne ouer the whole course of his former euil life: and ne­uer til now did he begin to ballance his own rashnes, & to consider the reason of his in­tended iourney, which feares of his, nowe doubting least that worthy Gentleman his Father in law, vrged by the wrongs done to his daughter, would not only deny him his befriending fauour, but also be a plaintife a­gainst his inordinate course of life, (though grounded vpon no certainty but the guilti­nes of his own conceit) he began to fal into a desperate kind of lunacie, as by the sequell of his detestable deede it plainly appeared. For hastning towards London, he appointed his footeman to meet him by the way, who enquiring as hee went for his Maister, met him by hap at Kingstone vppon Thames, where he allighted into his Inne, & hauing supped (as his order was) hee soone be­tooke himselfe to his bedde: but as a man that hath committed some notorious and memorable crime, beeing followed by the Country, flyeth into a large vast house, and [Page]hideth himselfe, at euery creake of the wind feareth the entrance of some searcher, or at euery styr of a rat doubteth the attachment of some officer, euen so Syr Iohn, hauing cō ­mitted the crime of murther, and riot, and flying into the sanctuary of a dispersed and molested mind, was amidst his quiet follo­wed and affrighted, by the officers of ven­geance, guilt, and terror. In his dreames he muttered fearefull wordes, grieuous sighes, & deep-fetcht grones: most fearefull were his visions, and so terrible vnto him, that where hee lay in rest hee suddainly start vp, and called for his horses, intending to post presently away, for that as he said, Sir VVilli­am Courtney, with a number in his company were at hand to apprehend him, neyther could they of the house perswade him to the cōtrary. Moreouer, so strange & dread­full was his owne minde vnto him, that hee would not stay, euer-more crying, that Syr VVilliam was at hand to apprehend him, in­somuch as his gelding being brought him, in the dead tyme of night riding through the Towne, hee met the watch in the streetes, [Page]at the sight of whome he cryed alowd, they were come, they were come: but the watch being by his man more certainlie informed of this his so sodaine malladie, assured him that they were not sir William, but the nei­ghbors of the towne; adding withall, that he need not doubt, for Sir William was nei­ther comming, nor meante to followe him: with whose admonitions beeing somewhat for the time quallified (not perswaded) hee rode ouer Kingston Bridge, towardes Lon­don; but in the waie betweene Kingston & Twicknam, after hee had straied vppon the Heath a long while, at last hee came vnto a Gentlemans house, which stood somewhat out of the waie, and there he knocked, desi­ring that as they were gentlemen, they wold respect a Gentleman, and helpe him to som lodging, and vsed such wordes to perswade therevnto, as that those of the house (the time of the night considered) thought him to haue either had some other companie, entending to rob the house, or else to be o­uerseene in drinke, or some such matter, in­somuch that loath they were to trouble the [Page]house with such a guest, and so sent him a­way as he came, directing him vnto the next towne. When as trauailing vp and down a long time, somtimes in the waie, somtime out of the waie; at laste hee attained about two of the clocke after midnight, vnto a lit­tle Village, called Twicknam, som two miles from Kingston (the towne from whence he laste came) and there by chance, oh cruell chance! hapned to light vppon the signe of the Anchor, (feare and terrour of his cons­cience suffring him to passe no further:) the maisters name of that house, being called Daniell Alley, where he caused his footman to knocke and beate, and knocked himselfe also vntill such time that he had awaked the goodman of the house, who beeing awake­ned, rose vnto the window and demanded who vvas there? Sir Iohn Fight aunswered, Here is a Gentleman, and I want lodging; therefore I pray you open the dore and let me in. The Host of the house replyed, that he was but a poore man, and kept no Inne, but only a victualling house, and that his lodging was verie slender to entertain such [Page]a Gentleman of sort, as he tooke him to be. But the Gentleman sir John Fight answe­red, that the worst bed that was would serue his turne at that time, and that he coulde be content to lie any where. The good-man of the house, in meere comiseration of his case pittieng him, and in tender compassion of his present estate regarding him, opened the doore, let him into the house, set up his gel­ding, caused his wife to arise, and lay a clean paire of sheets vpon their owne bed, and a clean pilow, her self going to bed in another room, with her mayd and children. Novv as soon as sir John came into the house, with­out any farther adoe, hee sent his footeman at that time of the night (being vnacquain­ted with the Way) vnto London, and tolde him that there hee would staye vntill his re­turne. His footeman being wearie, would-faine lodge there also, but hauing no lod­cing and no man being vp at any other Inn, he was constrained to departe, and so hee tooke on his waie to Brainford, wher he lay that night.

Sir Iohn, his gelding set vp, the dores shut [Page]in, himselfe gone to bed, his footman departed with money in his pursse for his expence and all thinges (as it seemed) well, but that the host and his wife obserued a certain wild and stearne looke in his countenance, at last being in bedde, called and knocked for the Hoast of the house to come vnto him, who being come into the chamber (for the good man himselfe had no place to go to bed in) sir Iohn said vnto him, I pray thee mine host sit by me a while: I will, said the goodman, and so fetching his cloake to wrappe about him, returned and sate downe by his bedde side. But the Gentlemans mind being trou­bled, he could by no meanes sleepe, or take any rest, but (oftentimes starting verie sud­denlie as if he had been scard) alwaies hee would be talking of some ydle matter or o­ther, vttering much disiointed talke; as tel­ling the goodman of the house, that he had lyen in a better bed than that was, whereun­to the poore man replyed, in the pleasingst speaches that he could (because hee noted him to looke somewhat wildly) I make no question thereof sir, but surelie I haue no [Page]better at this time, (the bed being sufficient for an honest Man) If I had better your worship should haue it, I am sorrie for your sake that it is no better. Thus would hee often­times speake vnto him. At another time he saide; I am in Minde troubled, I am disqui­eted: Then woulde he turne him from one side to the other. Somtimes he woulde saie that sir William Courtneys men were com to aprehend him: for the goodmans wife of the house lyeng in the next roome, and another Man named Robert Goddart, who was a day-laborer, and lodged in another room adioyning also, heard both his talke and his vnquiet rest.

Thus troubled in mind, and oppressed, (as by the sequele shall God willing, apear) either with the remorcefull thoughtes of an accusing conscience, or with the despairing remembrance of his forepassed euill life, or with the fearefull appearance of that dread full day of iudgement, when all fleshe shall be called to an account for their deeds don, euerie one to receiue according to that hee hath done, either good or evill; or with the [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page]threatninges of Sathan, who visibly (it may be) appeared vnto him, menacing him with eternal damnation for his fourmer wicked­nesse, or with what other dreadfull appari­tion, illusion, apprehension, terror or temp­tation, hee who knoweth all thinges (and none else) certainlie knoweth. Thus I saie, being disquieted, the good-man of the hous remained with him, vntill betweene foure & five of the clocke in the morning; at what time, seeing that the morning was faire and he had businesse to goe about, hee lefte the Gentleman alone, betweene sleepinge and waking (as it were) and softly stealing away, because hee woulde not awaken him if hee could choose, called vnto good-man God­dart (who laie in the Chamber close by) to arise, and so went in to his wife and told her; Wife, I must leaue you with this Gentle­man, for I must goe my selfe forth to work. Nay, good husband do not so, said she; wil you leaue me at home with him alone, and goe forth your self? I pray you do not, for I am afraid of him, methinkes he talks as if he were frantick. Thus did her minde presage [Page]the future mischance, which present after fel out. The good-man answered his wife, if I can get another to worke for me, I will stay at home. By this time, the labourer good­man Goddart was vp and ready, being pre­pared to go mowe some Vetches, and there fore the goodman of the house and he went to fill a bottle of drink to take vnto the field; but as they were together filling the bottle, they heard somthing giue a iumpe. I think said one of them vnto the other, the gentle­man be either leapt, or fallen out of his bed: which wordes they had no sooner vttered, but foorth comes Sir John in his shirt, with his naked rapyer in his hande, his eies loo­king as if they hadde sparkled foorth fire; his countenaunce so terrible and gastly, as that it was of power to haue scarred a mann out of his wittes; and his strength so force­able (as it seemd to them) it was bootles for on or two to withstand him, (for needs must he go whom the diuell driues) the men fear fully gaue back, and he slips out at the back dore and so towards the gate which led out of the street into the back-side, and beeing gon forth of the gate, the men stept into the [Page]backside likewise, wher being, said the good man softlie to the other (the present sighte of his naked weapon, causing a presumption of such a matter) God graunt hee haue not murdered my wife and children; and some made towards the gate, purposing to shutte the gate after him, which he perceiuing, suddenly retires (for his feet were swift to shed bloud) and espyeng the man going to shut the Gate, desperately cried out: Ah villain? Art thou one of them that should aprehend me? Art thou he that shoulde laie holde of me? I will surely kil thee (swearing a blodie oath, if there were no more Men liuing) & therewith suddenly and violentlie ran at the goodman of the house with his Rapier, but feare made the man nimble and swift, for be­fore Sir Iohn could retyre, the goodmanne had closed the gate, and his Rapier point hitting in a little hole of the gate (a fatal hole it was) thrust him quite through the bodie, be tweene his shoulder and his breast, so that the man fell downe presentlie and died, on­lie with a woful noyse and hydeous shrieck, crying out; I am kild. The other man who [Page]was close by him, (but that the gate was shut) might wel haue beene serued with the same sawce likewise: wherefore being struc­ken into such a terrible feare at the death of the goodman of the house as that the scarcely knew which waie hee vvent, euen as the fearefull byrd, which hearing the sounde of the Havkes bels, creepeth into euerie bush, thereby thinking to escape death; euen so, I saie, he runs vppe and downe, to seek som place to hide himselfe, from so furious an Enemie. Sir Iohn Fites, being without the gate, runs rounde about by the pale on the streate side, still raging and rauing in moste terrible manner.

The good-Wife of the house (alas poore soule) hearing the pitteous outcrie and grieuous grone that her dyeng husband made, suddenly all amazed, leapes out of her bed in her smocke, to see what the matter was, and not well knowing on which side of the house the crie was, out she ran on the streat side; where assoone as she was stepped out, she meetes sir Iohn with his naked Rapier in his hand, al on gore with the bloud of hir [Page]husband, wherefore in hope of pitty, from his pittilesse hands, she fell down vppon her knees in her smock, and with hands erected, prayed, Sweet sir spare my life, & shew mer­cie: but hee, as eager and thirstie of bloud, without all compassion, twice thrust at her naked body, twice he missed her, but stil re­enforcing his stroke, thrust againe the third time, and then wounded her greeuouslie in the arme, (yet not mortally) ah happie For­tune, for her three poore infants sake, that she was not sent by his vnluckie haud after their father, and they left destitute of both. Whereupon perceiuing that it booted not to intreat for mercie any longer, she started vp, and swiftly fled backe into the chamber. A man would iudge that he had bloud eno­ugh now, hauing kiled the husband & wōu­ded the wife: but yet was the Deuil so strōg in him, as that not contented therewith, he prickes him on vnto further mischiefe: hee will not be satisfied vnlesse he shed his owne bloud likewise. Wherefore most strangely (espieng a mudde Wall close by) hee takes his rapyer, and laying the hilts thereto, and [Page]the point thereof (void of al pittie) vnto his own brest runs forciblie thereupon, and therewith fell; yet rising againe, and pulling the blade out of his bodie againe he lookes vpon the place to view the wounde, and ha­uing with his eies looked therevppon, and with his fingers handled the same, as woondring at his own courage, he grumbled out this speech, to this effect

[Page]Proude heart, Wilt thou not yeilde? Shall neyther the terror of Justice affright thee? The edge of this steele massacre thee? Nor death it selfe daunt thee? Split, split, and in this onely wound die: That I thy owner, may not liue, to heare the honour of my credite stayned, with these my odious actes.

Thus did he expostulate with himselfe a while, and after this manner did hee deale with himselfe.

Now a man would iudge that the Deuill himselfe should be glutted with bloud, but yet, Sir John, (miserable and wretched man that hee was) takes againe the point of his bloudyed Rapier, and setting it some twoe or three inches from the same place, (what pitty could be expected to bee shewed vnto other, from one who would shew non vnto himselfe) with all his mighte, ranne againe thereupon, goring himselfe quite thorough the body: And yet again, a second time pulling it out (for Sathans mallice is boundles) (Oh worthie courage, had it been in a good cause) he runs into the house after the Wo­man, but his strength fayling him, downe he [Page]falles in the floore of the house, where hee vvas anon (for as yet fevv had the courage to hinder his attempts, were stirring) found wallovving in his owne bloud, like a Pigge that had beene latelie sticked. Oh heauye spectacle! Oh Tragicall and rufull sighte! Pitty it was, if God had so beene pleased, that it had not falne out otherwaies.

NOw tell me, thou that readest; Didst thou euer read a thing more tragical? Didst thou euer looke vppon a more wofull spectacle? Didst thou euer heare of a more horrible, strange, and lamentable fact? Again, if thou enter into a further cō ­sideration of Gods Justice, is it not a suffici­ent warning, to make a man giue himselfe to prayer vnto the Almighty God of heauen, to bee deliuered from the like temptation? Hereby may a man perceue what the worm of a mans conscience (of a guilty consciense and the guilt of murder depressed with des­peration) is. Hereby may al young Gentle men and Gallants, take heed and bee war­ned, that they giue not themselues ouer vn­to [Page]to their lustes, to follow after and lay holde on the least meanes that may be to do euill, and shun such meanes, as might leade them vnto goodnesse. Hereby may wilde heades perceiue what it is to follow luste, drunken­nesse, and excessiue riot, the verie true bad­ges of a dissolute and vnrulie life, and lastly (if God call not to repentance) a wicked & vngodly end. Hereby may al Ruffians and swearing swaggerers (if any sparke of grace remaine in them) bee warned to leaue off their wicked liues, and to turne vnto the most iuste God, least hee in his iustice suffer them to be so tempted likewise. Herby may the Stabbers, and killers of this age, be war­ned to staie their hands, and not to shedde the bloud of Gods saintes (for it is precious in his sight) otherwise hee in his Iustice will giue them ouer to be tempted of Sathan, to be the Butchers of their owne selues, as this man was. But let me now proceed to make an ende of this wofull and heauye Narrati­on.

Neighbors being by this time gathered togither about the house, came in & found [Page]the man of the house quite dead, hauing yeil ded (no doubt) his soule into the handes of his Redeemer. But Sir Iohn Fites not alto­gither dead, but fainting for want of stren­gth, laie tumbling and wallowing in his own gore, (hauing a strong heart, and myghtie courage, but yet willing (as it should seem) to die if he could, vntill that company bee­ing assembled came in, and findinge him in that wofull case, tooke him vp, and carried him into the chamber, and presentlie Sur­geons were sent for to seeke meanes to cure him: but he (as vnwilling now to hear of life as he was before eager of death) woulde by no meanes endure to hear of any Surgeon. But notwithstanding diuers were sent for, as namely, maister Quinsie of Brainford with others: who being come tented the wounds perforce, but he still pulled them out again, alwaies crying out, that he would die, and not liue. Thus hauing done diuers times, at last he was let bloud, and diuers meanes vsed for his recouerie, but all preuailed not, for after he had liued some 48. houres after his hurts, he gaue vp the Ghost.

Vppon the Thursday after, the Coroner sate vpon the man of the house who was al­readie dead, and by verdict there giuen, sir Iohn Fites (alias Fitz) was found guilty both of the mans death, and his own also, if so be he died thereupon. All which notwithstan­ding, because hee was a Gentleman borne, and of good kindred, so much friendshippe was shewed vnto him, in respect of the wor­shipfull stocke from whence he descended, as that hee was buried in the Chauncell at Twicknam,

The Honourable Earle of Northumberland hearing hereof, sent a certaine Gentle­man of his old acquaintance to commende him vnto him, and also to put him in mynd what he had done: how greeuouslie he had offended his maker, in committing so dete­stable murthers, as also in laying vyolente handes vpon himselfe; and withall persvva­ding him to repent, and be content to vse al the best meanes that might be for his reco­uerie, & not to continue in his wicked cours: But all was one with him, he would not liue, but die: only being desired to aske mercie [Page]at Gods hand for his offences, which hum­bly he did; he said that he was sorrie for the death of the poore man whom so desperat­ly he had murdered, and whose wife he had so greeuouslie wounded likewise, leuing 3. wretched infants vpon the mothers hands. And being asked whether he would wilingly giue any thing vnto the poore woman in re­compence of the losse of her husband, hee was contented to bestowe vpon her an hun­dred pounds. But whither he had any thing in his owne power to giue, that knowe not I. For I think if anie thing be giuen, it must proceed from his friends goodwils (and pit­ty but so it should be) and not otherwise.

He would oftentimes after he was woun­ded, crie out vpon sir William Courneyes men (whose daughter he married) that they were come to apprehend him, and that they would blow him vp with their gunpouder: all which, questionlesse proceeded from the guiltinesse of his owne conscience for the wrongs he had doone: and being once de­manded wherefore he killed the poor man, It was not I, said he, that didde it, but one of [Page]my followers, (which thing is note-worthy) He left behind him a daughter, whose ward­ship was presently obtained by an honoura­ble Earle.

Thus gastly death hauing seized vpon his corporall body, we will commit his soul (for albeit his sinnes were great, yet are the mer­cies of God infinitely greater) into the hāds of the Almighty, (for charitye iudgeth the best, and hopeth the beste) in whose king­dome there is nothing but peace.

In the view of these his murthers, there little needeth anye paraphrase, since euerie man that thoroghly considereth of the facts themselues, cannot but in themselues finde them to be most hainous before God, most odious before men. This therefore is the report of his desperat courses in his life time, who as he cannot be any blot at all vnto o­ther his vertuous and wel-deseruing frends, so no question he is no more a griefe vnto other, then a fearefull example vnto all his wicked associates.