JAMES FRANKLIN
A Kentishman of Maidstone, his owne
Arraignment, Confession, Condemnation, and Judgement
of Himselfe, whilst hee lay Prisoner in the Kings Bench
for the Poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury.
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I Am Arraign'd at the black dreadfull Barre,
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Where Sinnes (so red as Scarlet) Judges are;
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All my Inditements are my horrid Crimes,
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Whose Story will affright succeeding Times,
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As (now) they drive the present into wonder,
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Making Men tremble, as trees struck with Thunder.
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If any askes what Evidence comes in,
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O' tis my Conscience, which hath ever bin
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A thousand witnesses: and now it tells
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A Tale, to cast me to ten thousand Hells.
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The Jury are my Thoughts (upright in this,)
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They sentence me to death for doing amisse:
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Examinations more there need not then,
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Than what's confest heere both to God and Men.
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The Crier of the Court is my black Shame,
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Which when it cals my Jury, doth proclaime
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Unles (as they are summon'd) they appeare,
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To give true Verdict of the Prisoner,
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They shall have heavy Fines uppon them set,
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Such, as may make them dye deep in Heavens debt.
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About mee round sit Innocence and Truth,
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As Clerkes to this high Court; and little Ruth
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From Peoples eies is cast upon my face.
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Because my facts are barbarous, damn'd, and base.
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The Serjeants that about mee (thick) are plac't,
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To guard me to my death, (when I am cast)
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Are the black stings my speckled soule now feeles,
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Which like to Furies dog me close at heeles.
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The Hangman, that attends me is Despaire,
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And gnawing wormes my fellow-Prisoners are.
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His first Inditement for Murder.
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THe first who (at this Sessions) loud doth call me,
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Is Murder, whose grim visage doth appall me,
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His eyes are fires, his voyce rough windes outrores,
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And on my head the Divine Vengeance scores:
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So fast and fearfully I sinke to grownd,
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And wish I were in twenty Oceans drownd.
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He sayes I have a bloudy villaine bin,
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And (to prove this) ripe Evidence steps in,
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Brow'd like myselfe: Justice so brings about,
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That black sinnes still hunt one another out:
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'Tis like a rotten frame ready to fall,
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For one maine Post being shaken, puls downe all.
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To this Indictment, (holding up my hand,)
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Fettered with Terrors more then Irons I stand,
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And being ask'd what to the bill I say,
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Guilty I cry. O dreadfull Sessions-day!
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His second Indictment for poysoning.
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ANother, forthwith bids me come to'th Barre,
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(Poyson) that Hel-borne cunning Sorcerer,
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That windes himselfe into a thousand formes,
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And when the day is brightest flings downe stormes.
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This hath an Angels face, a Mermaids tongue,
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And notes of much destruction it hath sung.
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This, is the Coward Sinne, which (like a Pill,)
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When 'tis most gulded, is most sure to kill.
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Whether this Hel-hownd strike at Morne or Night,
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So trecherous, close, and speedy in his fight,
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That Armors all-of-proofe, nor Towers of Stone,
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Can barre his bloody Execution.
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This Snake with the smooth skin hiss'd out my name
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Mongst others more, and venom'd me with shame
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That rancles to the soule. It sayes that I
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(For a poore golden handfull) did defie
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Heaven and Salvation, when I gave consent
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To teare the bowels of an Innocent
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With lingring poysons of themselves too strong,
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But that their working God put off so long;
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That darker deeds (by this) the light may try,
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Which now perhaps in worser bosomes lye.
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To this Inditement holding up my hand,
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(Fettered with Terrors more then Irons I stand)
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And being askd what to the Bill I say,
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Guilty I cry. O dreadfull Sessions-Day!
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His third for raising of Spirits etc.
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IN rushes then a heape of Accusations,
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For all those Godlesse damn'd Abhominations:
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Rais'd by the black Art, and a Conjurers spelles:
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As to call Spirits even from the deepest Hells,
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To fetch back theeves that with stoln goods are gone,
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And calculate nativities: such a one
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Credulity of fooles and women made me,
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And to that glorious infamy betraide me.
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A Cunning man, a Wise man were my stile,
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When I both plaid the Foole and Knave the while.
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Art knew I none, nor did I ever reach
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A bough of learnings tree; what I did teach
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To others, or did practise, it was all
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Cheating, false, apish, diabollicall.
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To this being likewise ask'd, what I can say,
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I guilty cry. O dreadfull Sessions day!
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This Divells coate to my body made I fit,
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Brave was the outside, thrid-bare was the wit.
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His Judgment.
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FOr these thick Stygian streams in which th'ast swom
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Thy guilt hath on the laid this bitter doome;
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Thy loath'd life on a tree of shame must take
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A leave compeld by Law, er'e old age make
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Her signed pass-port ready. Thy offence,
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No longer can for daies on earth dispense
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Time blot thy name out of this bloody roule,
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And so the Lord have mercy on thy soule.
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