A NEVV POEM ON THE DREADFUL DEATH OF THE EARL of ESSEX, WHO Cut his own Throat in the TOWER.
COme, with a nimble thrust of
Rapier'd wit,
(My Muse) now Stab
all Traitors, point at, hit
The
Throat of a
Self-murtherer, whose fall
Doth manifest his
Crimson Guilt to all.
Led by the
Halter to the
Stygian Lake.
Many there be, he to prevent the
Stake,
Or
Hemp or
Hatchet, took a shorter
Cut,
(As if to
die were but to
crack a nut,)
To let his
Soul fly from its
Prison, Body,
To stept to—ask his Chronies,
How d'ye?
O pity 'tis that such a
Branch as he,
Should thus deserve so sad an
Elegy.
Whose Loyal
Father pawn'd his life to those,
Who wee the grand Promoters of the
Cause.
So
excellent his
Father, that t'express
His
Excellencies, seemes to make them
less.
"Should I presume to tell his worth, I fear
"(My Muse) I should subscribe a
Murtherer.
"To do't by halves were
fair, but 'twould be sed,
"'Twere only then but
Drawn and Quartered.
My Lord
(like Tully's Son) Degenerates.
A Worm, within his breast most sadly prates,
Consc'ence
(The Kings Atturney) stings his heart
So mortally, that now he
dares depart.
"A
wounded soul close coupled with the sence
"of
Sin, payes home its
proper Recompence.
"Could not your
active hands had fairly staid
"The leasure of a
Psalm? Judas has pray'd,
"But later
Crimes cannot admit the
Pause,
"They run upon
effects more than the
Cause.
Hangman will curse your
Feates, 'tis most
severe
To be ones
proper Executioner.
Some do affirm, that 'twixt such
Acts and
Death,
One may
repent, even at his
last breath.
I fear, there is, (after so
foul a
Sin,)
Too narow a
gap to let
Repentance in.
His Death to th' Saints this
Doctrine will afford,
Impatient of being with the Lord
He was good man: Dearly-Beloved, praise
His Policy, in shortening his Days.
"But if the
Saints thus give's the
slip, 'tis need
"We
look about us, to preserve the
Breed.
"Hence sweep the
Almanack: Lilly make room,
"And
Blanks enough, for the
New Saints to come
"All in
Red Letters: As their
Faults have been
"
Scarlet; so limb, their
Anniverse of sin.
Jack Presbyter,
I tell the Whorson, Lyar,
Encomiums that do amount much higher.
'Tis height of
Valour, Fortitude, to
kill
(Not our strong foes,
but) a mans self at will.
Brave active Roman Spirit! Purgatory
Shall be to thee, for a new
Inventory.
Scylla, Cbaribdis, Python, Acheron,
Medea's Bull,
the Tails
of the Dragon,
Sea-monsters, Serpents, Gorgons, Centaurs
all
Medusa's, Bugbear-Harpies
these I call
Mormos and
Bugs, (as our stout Earl did see,)
To
fright poor
Idiots to
Morality.
Cowards
do dread the grim pale face of Death,
Who
foil'd b'it, are but
squeezed out of
Breath.
Give me an Hector
greedy of's
own blood
Makes Death to tremble,
bids Damnation, slud,
Fears not the
Gods, 'tis
sin, if they be
good,
If
bad, why 'ere in
aw of
them men stood?
Death, Hell, Damnation and if thou not
fearest,
Jack Presbyter, dy thou thus if thou
darest.
Or else learn hence not to
aspire too
nigh
The high Perogatives
of Majesty.
Vive le Roy, let
Rebells meet the end,
If their
Repentance may not it prevent.
FINIS.
London, Printed for E. Cart, 1683.