EBBA 32198

Huntington Library - Miscellaneous

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POEM
ON THE
CONDEMNATION
OF
William Viscount Stafford.
Fantane Religio potuit suadere Malorum?

Aid me, Apollo, lay aside thy Lyre,

With Numbers high, yet sad, my Muse inspire;

In moving strains, assist me to repeat

A Nobles fall, (would he were Good as Great!)

Oh Stafford! Stafford! how couldst thou, when Death

Led in by Time, stood waiting for thy Breath;

By such ignoble ways and Methods strive,

To cut off those few Years thou hadst to live:

Alas! what Bliss couldst thou expect to come,

(Ore-pressd with Age) when Natures powerful doom,

Had left thee nought to hope for but a Tomb.

Why shouldst thou then in such a horrid Cause,

Turn Traytor to Divine and Humane Laws?

Ah! how couldst thou, thou, so unnatural be

To him who was so good, so kind to thee?

How couldst thou plot gainst such a King as he?

One who had heapd such Honours on thy Head,

And yet couldst thou, ingrateful, wish him Dead;

Not onely wish him so, but in that strife,

To act a part that was to take his Life;

Yet, cause thy Blood from noble springs doth flow,

Would Error and not Malice made thee so!

Would thou wert over-reachd, that so the sin

Might be less thine then theirs that drew thee in:

Fain would I think it were with thee, as they,

An Ignis Fatuus leads out oth way:

Too credulous they follow the false Light,

And bless themselves for such a Guide i th Night,

And think where ere it leads theyr still ith right.

And yet at last, (with toyl and trouble crost,)

They feel the Pain, but find the Labour lost:

They see the flattring Light oth sudden gone,

And they to their Dispair are left alone

In Fens, or Brakes, or Floods, to make their moan;

So thou Ore-swayd byth Pious-seeming Wits,

Of Hells chief Agents, (Juggling Jesuits)

(By specious Arguments, and pious fraud,

Such as Romes Pandemonium does applaud)

Wert in that Hellish Brood drawn in to be

An Actor in that Dismal Tragedy,

That boldly aimd at Sacred Majesty;

But Heaven stepd in and favd the tottering Throne,

(Just when it could be savd by Heaven alone)

And all the Plots of Rome and Hell were known.

All did I say! Ah! no; yet such, so Vile,

So base, so dire, were found in Albions Isle?

As Scithia (where the Sun dares scarce appear,

Where Horrid Winter broods,) would blush to hear;

That those whom Heaven had placd so near the Crown

With Impious Hands should strive to pull it down.

Unhappy State of Monarchs, who do good,

Even to those that strive to shed their Blood,

And they not know it, but with gentle breath,

Speak those foul Serpents fair that plot their Death.

Ah! Stafford! how couldst thou so base become?

(So false to England! to be True to ROME?)

How couldst thou Plot his Death who always strove

Not to Command, but fairly win thy Love?

Ah! how couldst thou so base and Treacherous prove!

Couldst thou think Heaven asleep at such a time?

Or couldst believe it did approve thy Crime?

Or to such Treasons would Success have given?

Ah! no; a Kings the Substitute of Heaven,

And Angels are his Guard.

The Gyants so of Old wagd War with JOVE,

Striving by Arms, to win the Seats Above:

Though Bold, yet vainly in th Attempt they fell,

And for their hopd of Heaven, were plungd in Hell.

The Dreadful Thunder ruind their Designs,

And in their torments Heavens just vengeance shines.

Consider this, Oh! Stafford, and Repent,

Use well that little time that Heaven hath lent;

That little time, (for long it cannot be,

Ere thou must enter Vast Eternity.)

Oh! use it well, let it to Tears be given,

Be Penitent, and make thy peace with Heaven;

That when the fatal stroke shall end thy Days,

Its Mercy and Justice may have equal Praise.

FINIS.
LONDON,
Printed for T. Benskin, in Greens Rents,
near Fleet-Bridge.

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EBBA 32198