AN ELEGY ON THE Lord Viscount STAFFORD, BEHEADED this 29th. Day of December, 1680. ON TOWER-HILL.
A piller of the fatal Building's down,
Which
Sampson Death at last has overthrown;
And now the whole fatal pyle begins to shake,
And the
Phylistian-Lords stout Hearts to ake:
Dagon's great House, their fell
Conspiracy
To totter and to shake they now do see;
And every
Plotter, Truth and
Justice dreads,
Now Ruine's tumbling on their Impious Heads.
Long with vain Hopes, they did themselves support,
And with the
Gyant Death, they made but sport;
Their dear delightful
plot they still did mind,
And thought both
Death, and
Justice still were blind;
Yes, they are blind, for they impartial are,
They see not
Bribes, and no Man will they
spare:
No more regard the
Greatest than the
Least,
Cut down the
Guilty Lord, as well as
Priest,
Thus
Stafford sell, a
piller of the
plot,
Whose
Name must now as in a Dunghill rot,
And blotted be with
Infamy and
Shame,
Once in the
English Anuals of great
Fame,
Joyn'd with the title of Great
Buckingham.
Tho' great he was in
Glory, and in
pride.
He lost his Head, and on a
Scaffold dy'd;
Stafford of
Southwick too, no better sped,
Who at
Bridgwater also lost his Head.
But something may be said in their Applause,
For both of them dy'd in a better Cause:
The First, by th' bloody Tyrant
Richard fell,
The last, by th' Hands of such who did
Rebell:
But our
Staffoed, 'gainst whom
Justice crys,
For
Treason 'gainst his
King, and
Country dyes.
Sad is the
Exit, I confess for
Him
Whose
Birth, and
Greatness do enhaunce his crime:
When
He, whose
Honour, Peerage, and
Renown,
Should be
Supporters to uphold the
Crown.
Forgetting
Honour, Oaths, Obliegements too,
With traiterous Heart,
Rebellion did pursue.
O! could
Religion to such
Crimes perswade!
And all the Rights of
Honour, thus invade!
What frantick
Spell on
Conscience could intrude?
What Words of
Priests, could
Honour thus delude?
Twas
Hell it self, that blinded thus their eyes,
With
Sorceries, in
Jesuits disguise,
Who did perswade it was a Glorious thing,
To cut the
Throat of an
Heretick King.
O let it be into Oblivion Hurl'd,
And Banish'd ever from the
Christian World;
Let that damn'd
Doctrine down to Hell descend,
With every one that dares it to defend.
O! poor deluded
Stafford, that was brought
By jugling
Priests, to have so damn'd a thought;
Who thought by Horrid
Crimes to gain Applause,
Advanceing what he judg'd a Glorious
Cause;
For which he durst commit so strange a sin,
To Kill his
King, to bring's
Religion in.
But
God who
Kings infoldeth in his Arms,
Kept ours safe from all their
Spells and
Charms,
And may his
Eyes be open now to see
The horrid depth of all their
Treachery:
For
Stafford now himself could do no less,
Than th' horrid
Plot (so long deny'd) Confess;
So plain his
Guilt did to his
Peers appear,
That fill'd him with
Confusion, Shame, and
Fear;
That he could not like a bold
Jesuit dye,
Nor with their
Impudence the
Truth deny,
And leave the
VVorld with a notorious
Lye.
If
pitty could be unto Traytors due,
The
VVorld would give it to your
Age and You.
But
Justice for
Example must be done,
And
Law like living streams, its course must run,
For where 'tis stop'd, it swells beyond its bounds,
And
Kingdoms soon with its undation drowns.
We hope that
Stafford may his
Crimes repent,
And tho' not
Here, else where be
Innocent:
When all his
Earthly Crimes are purg'd away,
And he has better learn'd how to obey.
We'l leave his
Soul to God, but may he be
Set for
Example of foul
Treachery:
That
Traytors by him, their
Reward may Read,
Who still for
Murther, and for
Treason Bleed.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for T. Benskin, in Green's Rents, near Fleet-Bridge.