THE SATYRICK ELEGIE Vpon the Execution of Master NATHANIEL TOMKINS July the 5. 1643.
To the Citizens of
London.
TIS
Tomkins (glad spectators) whom you see
Hang as the Trophy of your tyranny;
Whose loyall harmlesse bloud is spilt
By, and for you, yet no pale guilt
Dwells in your faces: with dry eyes
You murther, and call't Sacrifice;
I will not say of fooles: but sure no man
Can call such heathen Offerings Christian.
Such bloudy, deep-dy'd Crimson facts
Must not be call'd Apostles acts,
(Though
Case were godfather:) the Dove
Descended on the Sonne of Love,
And not the Kite or Eagle: no such fowle
Must stand as Embleme of a Christian soule.
Though your new Buffe-Divines can draw
Bloud from the Gospell, and make't Law;
(A killing Letter) and can bring
Christ into th' field to kill the King;
When both the Cannon, and the Musket shot,
Proclaim'd you guilty of a Pouder-plot:
Blacker than
Fauxess, and more fell,
Than that you say was hatcht in
Hell.
When to defend them you let flye
At King, Prince, Duke, Nobility.
Tis true you beare a bloudy Crosse, but this
No badge of murther, but Religion is.
And
Walworth's Dagger in your field,
Shewes a Lord Major a Rebell kill'd:
But now he is one, and yet he
And
Walworth weares one Liverie.
For my part, since
Edge-hill, I 'count that we
Live not by right, but onely courtesie.
He that dares smite my King, is more,
Than I dare think, (grand
Seigniour)
And I his vassaile, and my breath
Is his whose nod or frowne is death.
(Brittain) where's now thy liberty! thy walke
Is not thine owne, thy gesture, nor thy talke.
Thou mayst smile Treason now: a look,
If cast a squint upon a book,
Sign'd with
H. E. will strike th'as dead
As Basiliskes, or
Gorgons head.
Isles were Informers punishment at
Rome,
Where they liv'd Exiles) ours is now become
Their Paradice: He that can spye
Malignant in the face or eye,
Is a made man! need nothing feare,
Preferments grow at
Westminster,
For knaves and Sycophants, and such as can
Ruine three Kingdomes to make up one man.
Thus fell brave
Tomkins, rather thus
He hood! as did
Calimachus,
And more, spake dead, (for he did come
A dead man to receive his doome)
Which as he did fore-know, he scorn'd, nor cou'd
Their number, or their malice chill his bloud.
He stood undaunted! nor did feare
The Saw-pit Lord, or Manchester:
Nor yet Sir
Johns bloud-guilty front,
With
Straffords head engrav'd upon't.
Nor the rest of City Iudges that were there
For nothing but to murther and forsweare.
Thus dy'd the Roman
Thrasea,
(Brave man) and thus fell
Seneca.
Both wise, and rich, and fortunate,
Save in his tyrant pupills hate
Nero, who laugh't to see
Rome frie, and sung
Vnto his Harp the flames of
Iium.
You doe the same and worse, for now
A Kingdom's all on fire, whilst you
(Idle and glad spectators) lend
Fresh fuell, lest the fire should spend.
Look to't (thou bloudy City) fast and pray.
London, that this prove not
Acheldama:
From your black doom wee'll this conclusion draw,
You have no Gospell,
Tomkins had no Law.