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