Sir THOMAS OVERBURY'S Vision.  
With the ghosts of Weston, M●. Turner, the late Lieutenant of the Tower, and Franklin.  
By R. N. Oxon.  
— In poenam insectatur & umbra.  
PRINTED FOR R. M. & T.I. 1616.   

SIR THOMAS OVERBURY'S Vision.  
WHen poison (O that poison and foul wrong,  
Should ever be the subject of my song!)  
Had set loud Fame upon a lofty wing,  
Throughout our streets with horrid voice to sing  
Those uncouth tidings, in each itching ear,  
How raging lust of late, too soon did bear  
That monster murder, who once brought to light,  
Did slay the man whose vision I recite:  
Then did th' inconstant vulgar day by day,  
Like feathers in the wind, blown every way,  
Frequent the 
a Gild ball.  Forum, where in thickest throng,  
I one amongst the rest did pass along  
To hear the judgement of the wise, and know  
That late black deed, the cause of much woe:  
But from the reach of voice too far compelled,  
That beast of many heads I there beheld,  
And did observe how every common drudge,  
Assumed the person of an awful judge:  

● description ●f the vulgar.  Here in the hall amidst the throng one stands  
Nodding his head, and acting with his hands,  
Discoursing how the poisons swift or slow  
Did work, as if their nature he did know:  
An other here, presuming to outstrip  
The rest in sounder judgement, on his lip  
His finger lays, and winketh with one eye,  
As if some deeper plot he could descry:  
Here four or five, that with the vulgar sort  
Will not impart their matters of import,  
Withdraw and whisper, as if they alone  
Talked things that must not vulgarly be known;  
And yet they talk of nought from morn till noon  
But wonders, and the fellow in the moon:  
Here some excuse that which was most amiss;  
Others do there accuse, where no crime is,  
Accusing that which they excused anon,  
Inconstant people, never constant known:  
Censure from lip to lip did freely fly,  
He that knew nothing, with the rest would cry,  
The voice of judgement; every age shall find  
Th' ignoble vulgar cruel, mad in mind:  
The muddy spawn of every fruitless brain,  
Daubed out in ignominious lines, did stain  
Papers in each man's hand, with railing rhymes  
'Gainst the foul Actors of these wel-knowne crimes:  
Base wits, like barking curs, to bite at them  
Whom justice unto death shall once condemn.  
I that beheld, how whispering rumour fed  
The hungry ears of every vulgar head  
With her ambiguous voice; night being come,  
Did leave the Forum and returned home;  
Where after some repast, with grief oppressed  
Of these bad days, I took me to my rest:  
And in that silent time, when sullen night  
Did hide heavens twinkling tapers from our sight, 
A description of midnight.   
And on the earth with blackest looks did lower,  
When every clock chimbed twelve, the midnight hour,  
In which imprisoned ghosts free licence have  
About the world to wander from their grave;  
When hungry wolves and wakeful dogs do howl  
At every breach of air, when the sad owl  
On the house top beating her baleful wings,  
And shrieking out her doleful ditty, sings  
The song of death, unto the sick that lie  
Hopeless of health, forewarning them to die:  
Just at that hour, I thought my chamber door  
Did softly open, and upon the floor  
I heard one glide along, who at the last  
Did call and bid me wake; at which aghast  
I up did look, and lo, a naked man  
Of comely shape, but deadly pale and wan,  

Sir Thomas Overbury's ghost.   
Before me did appear, in whose sad look,  
As in the map of grief or sorrows book,  
My eye did read such characters of woe,  
As neither paintings, skill, nor pen can show:  
With dreadful horror almost stricken dead  
At such a sight, I shrunk into my bed,  
But the poor Ghost to let me understand  
For what he came, did waft me with his hand,  
And sorrows tears distilling from his eyes,  
His poisoned limbs he showed, and bade me rise,  
Which fearful I, not daring disobey,  
Rose up and followed, while he lead the way  
Through many uncouth ways, he led me on  
Over that Towers fatal hill, whereon  
That scaffold stands, which sithence it hath stood  
Hath often licked up treasons tainted blood:  
Thence over that same wharf, fast by whose shores  
From London's bridge the prince of rivers roars,  
He in a moment's space by wondrous power,  
Transported me into that spacious Tower,  
Where as we entered in, the very sight  
Of that vast building, did my soul affright:  
There did I call to mind, how o'er that gate,  
The chamber was, where unremorfefull fate  
Did work the falls of those two 
〈◊〉 and 〈…〉  Princes dead,  
Who by their foes were smothered in their bed.  
And there I did behold that fatal green,  
Where famous Essex woeful fall was seen:  
Where guilty Suffolk's guiltless daughter jane  
The scaffold with her noble blood did stain:  
Where royal Anne her life to death resigned,  
Whose womb did bear the 
〈…〉  praise of women kind:  
And where the last 
〈…〉  Plantagenet did poor  
Her life out in her blood, where many more,  
Whom law did justly, or unjustly tax,  
Past by the sentence of the bloody axe:  
And here as one with sudden sorrow stroke,  
The Ghost stood still a while, with doleful look  
Fixed on the ground, and after sad sighs given  
With eyes and hands uplifted unto heaven,  
As calling them to witness of his woe,  
In sad complaint, his grief he thus did show.  
Great God of heaven, that pitiest human wrongs,  
To whom alone revenge of blood belongs;  
Thou, that upon the wings of heaven dost ride,  
And laughest to scorn the man, that seeks to hide  
And over-burie guiltless blood in dust,  
Thou knowst the pains of my empoisoned ghost;  
When men more changing then th'inconstant wind,  
Or do not know, or knowing wilful blind,  
Will not behold dead Overbury's grief,  
But think his loss no more than loss of life▪  
(Ye friends unkind and false) that after death  
Do let your friendship vanish with the breath  
Of him that's dead, and think since truth begun  
To try my cause, more satisfaction done  
Then all my wrongs require; give ear, and say  
When I have told my grief, if from the day  
That man's first blood to heaven cried out of earth,  
For vengeance against the first man's eldest birth  
Until this time; if man for life so lost,  
More justly may complain, than my dead ghost.  
I was (ay me, that I was ever so)  
Beloved in court, first step to all my woe:  
There did I gain the grace of Prince and Peers,  
Known old in judgement, though but young in years;  
And there, as in this kingdoms garden, where  
Both weeds and flowers do grow, my plant did bear  
The buds of hope, which flowering in their prime  
And May of youth, did promise fruit in time:  
But lust, foul lust did with a hand of blood  
Supplant my plant, and crop me in the bud:  
Yet to myself had I my counsels kept,  
Or had I drowned my cares in rest, and slept,  
When I did break my quiet sleeps, and wait  
To serve a false friend, and advance his state,  
I had not met with this inhuman wrong,  
But might perhaps have happy lived, and long.  
Did ever fortune pinch him with constraint?  
That little wealth I had, supplied his want:  
Did ever cares perplex his feeble brain?  
What wit I had, his weakness did sustain:  
Did ever error make him do amiss?  
What wisdom I had learned, was ever his:  
My wit, my wealth, and wisdom with good chance,  
In his great honours May game, lead the dance.  
I do not falsely boast the gifts of mind,  
Best wits can judge, my Wife I left behind  
Unto the world, a witness may remain,  
I had no dull conceit, no barren brain:  
But as a dog that at his prey doth ame,  
Doth only love the water for his game,  
Which once obtained, he playing then no more,  
Shakes off the water when he comes on shore:  
So my great Friend, no friend, but my great Foe,  
Safe swimming in that way which I did show,  
Through dangers waters after honour's game,  
Did shake me off when I had gained the same.  
Vain man, too late thou dost repent my wrong,  
That huge great sail of Honour was too strong  
For thy great boat, wanting thy friend to steer:  
In this, thy weakness and my worth appear:  
O hadst thou kept the path by me begun,  
That other impious race thou hadst not run:  
In ways of vice thy steps I did not guide,  
Only for virtue Ouerburie died:  
But had in gratitude no further gone,  
I had not wailed with many a piteous groan  
These poisoned limbs; O how will future times  
Blushing to hear such execrable crimes  
Believe report, when then it shall be said,  
Thou wast that man, that man that me betrayed,  
That savage man, that wanting means or heart,  
Or rather both to meet with my desert,  
Too cruel didst devise to stop my breath,  
To end thy care, and my dear life by death:  
Death, oh no death, but thousand deaths in one,  
For had it been but mere privation  
Of loved life, my grieved Ghost had fled  
Without such pain and anguish to the dead:  
O wretched foes! why did ye take delight  
To excercise your hate with such despite  
Upon a guiltless man? what had I done?  
But that ye might, when as ye first begun  
Your tragic plot, and did my life await,  
With single death have satisfied your hate?  
Was it, ah was it not enough to give  
One poison first, and then to let me live?  
Till ye did please to give an other, then,  
An other, and an other; but as men,  
All made of flint, to laugh my plaints to scorn,  
And scoff at me, while I alas did mourn:  
When in my chamber walls, the very stones  
Sweat drops for tears to hear my grievous groans;  
As senseless, they would sympathize my woes,  
Though my sad cries were music to my foes.  
Let ages past until the world's first day,  
Show all records of antic times, and say  
If ever any did by poison die,  
That at his death had greater wrong than I.  
It was not one days space, nor two, nor three,  
In which those cruel men tormented me:  
Month after month, they often did instill  
The divers natures of that baneful ill  
Throughout these limbs; inducing me to think,  
That what I took in Physic, meat, or drink,  
Was to restore me to my health; when all  
Was but with lingering death to work my fall.  
Oh how my Ghost doth quake, when it surveys  
This fatal house, where I did end my days!  
And trembles, as it suffered now again,  
Only to think upon that woeful pain;  
When the slow poison secretly did creep  
Through all my veins, and as it went, did sweep  
All ease with pain, all rest with grief away,  
From every corner of my house of clay:  
Then did I loath my life, but could not die,  
Sometimes to God, sometimes to men I cry  
To give me ease of my tormenting hell,  
Whose pain no pen can write, no tongue can tell:  
In vain my tongue thou vtterd'st forth my cries  
To wicked men, with teare-tormented eyes;  
In vain mine eyes in you the tears did stand,  
While I to heaven for help did lift my hand;  
In vain my hands were ye stretched forth to heaven,  
My time was set, my life to death was given:  
Tongue, eyes, and hands did often plead in vain,  
Nothing but death could ease me of my pain:  
And death at last to my desire did yield,  
Who with such furious force did take the field  
T'assail my soul, that against his matchless might,  
In greater torment never man did fight;  
With poisoned dart he at my life did strike,  
The venom seizing on me vulturelike,  
With torment tore my entrails; thence did run  
Into my veins, and boiling there begun  
A fresh assault, which being a while withstood  
By nature's force, at last did seize my blood:  
Then victor-like, possessed of every part,  
It did assail my yet not yielding heart,  
The souls chief seat, where having vanquished all  
The powers of life, while I to God did call  
For grace and mercy, after sad sighs given  
With grievous groans, my soul fled hence to heaven.  
O thou sad monument of Norman yoke,  
Whose great foundation he, whose conquering stroke  
Did stoop our necks to Norman rule 
e Out of a ●●●●ster book of the acts of the Bishop of Rochester in 〈◊〉 survey.  first laid,  
Look thy records of those, to death betrayed  
Within thy fatal chambers, and there see  
If any murdered, lost his life like me.  
Those royal roses of Plantaginest,  
Which that white boar of 
f Richard the third.  York, that bloody beast  
Hath rooted up, within those walls of thine,  
In death felt little pain compared to mine:  
Thou knowest that 
g Henry the 〈◊〉.  King, son to that kingly Knight,  
Beneath whose sword in agincourt's great fight,  
France fell upon her knees, thy flore did stain  
With his dear blood, by bloody Richard slain:  
Thou didst look on, when Clarence blood was shed,  
And didst behold, how he poor Duke half dead,  
Yet bleeding fresh, in Malmesie-but was drowned,  
Whose body sithence never could be found:  
Thou sawst when 
h 〈…〉  Tirrels bloody slaves did smother  
This kingdoms uncrownd King, and his young brother:  
Those princely babes of York, thou heardst them cry,  
When they betwixt the sheets did strangled die;  
But to their pain death did swift end assign,  
Thou knowst their griefs were not so great as mine.  
'Twas not for nought, that thy first bvilder's hand  
Did temper 
i 〈…〉  blood with burned lime and sand,  
So to conglutinate thy stony mass,  
And bring the Conquerors will and work to pass:  
Well may it be, thy walls with blood were built,  
Where so much guiltless blood hath since been spilled.  
But here an end of all my pain and woe,  
Death shuts up all our greatest griefs, for so  
All men would think; but past all thought of mind,  
My greatest grief, alas, is yet behind.  
Oh why should fiercest beast of all the wood,  
When he hath slain his foe, and licked his blood,  
End hate in death, and man with man in strife,  
Not end his malice with the end of life?  
Can they be men and lords of beasts, that bear  
Their Maker's image, and will yet not fear  
That ill, which beasts abhor in brutish mind?  
Men, O no men, but monsters against kind:  
Such monsters were my tyger-hearted foes,  
Who unremorseful of my forepast woes,  
When from their cruel hands my soul was fled,  
Did with their tongues pursue me being dead;  
And yet not dead, for heaven such grace doth give,  
My soul in heaven, my name on earth doth live:  
My name, as great Apollo's flowering bay  
Looks green when winter clads the earth in grey,  
Did flourish, blown upon by fames fair breath,  
In every eye, long time before my death;  
When my proud foes of great and glorious name,  
Were blasted by the breath of foul defame:  
At good report, that on her golden wings  
Did bear my name, their tongue like adder-stings  
Did shoot foul slanders poison, so to spill  
The same with foul defame, as they did kill  
My body with foul death, that men might loathe  
My living name, and my dead body both,  
False rumour, that mad monster, who still bears  
More tongues about with her, than men have ears,  
With scandal they did arm, and sent her out  
Into the world, to spread those lies about;  
That those loathed spots, marks of their poisoning sin,  
Which died with ugly marble, paint the skin  
Of my dead body, were the marks most just  
Of angry heavens fierce wrath for my foul lust:  
O barbarous cruelty! oh more than shame  
Of shameless foes! with lust to blast my name,  
When wonder 'twas, heavens judgement did not seize  
Their wanton bodies, with that great disease,  
Since death to me by poison they did give,  
That they in am'rousiolity might live.  
Now when false rumours breath throughout the court  
And city both, had blown this false report,  
Many, that oft before approved my name  
With praise for virtue, blushed, as if the shame  
Of my supposed vice, thus given forth,  
Did argue their weak judgement of my worth;  
My friends looked pale with anger, and my foes  
Did laugh, to see too light belief cause those  
That loved me once, to loathe that little dust  
I left behind me, as a lump of lust.  
O most inhuman wrong! O endless grief!  
O sad redress! where sorrows best relief  
Is but dead hope, that help may chance be found  
With those that live, to cure my credit's wound:  
For this, my restless ghost hath left the grave,  
And stole through covert snades of night, to crave  
Thy pens assistance, (O thou mortal wight)  
Whose mournful Muse, but whilom did recite  
Our Britain Princes, and their woeful fates  
In that true (Mirror for our Magistrates.)  
O let thy pen paint out my tragic woe,  
That by thy Muse all future times may know  
My stories truth, who hearing thy sad song,  
At least, may pity Overbury's wrong.  
This said, the grieved ghost with sighs did cease  
His rueful plaints, and as in deep distress,  
Under the Tower's gate with me he stood,  
This accident befell on Thames great flood.  
South by this house, where on the wharf fast by  
Those thundering Canons ever ready lie,  
A dock there is, which like a darksome cave  
Arched overhead, le's in Thames flowing wave,  
Under whose Arch, oft have condemned men,  
As through the Stygian lake, transported been  
Into this fatal house, which evermore  
For treason hoards up torturing racks in store:  
At landing of this place, an iron gate  
Locks up the passage, and still keeping strait  
The guilty prisoners, opens at no time  
But when false treason, or some horrid crime  
Knocks at the same, from whence by laws just doom,  
Condemned men but seldom back do come:  
(whatever thou art may chance to pass that way,  
And view that place, unto thyself, thus say;  
God keep me faithful to my Prince and state,  
That I may never pass this iron gate:)  
There in the dock the flood that seemed to gape,  
Did suddenly give up a dreadful shape,  

Weston ghost.   
A man of meager looks, 
The description of Weston.  devoid of blood,  
Upon whose face deaths pale complexion stood;  
Of comely shape, and well composed in limb,  
But slender made, of visage stern and grim;  
The hairs upon his head and grisly beard  
With age grown hoary, here and there appeared;  
Times iron hand with many a wrinkled fret,  
The marks of age, upon his front had set:  
Yet as it did appear, untimely death  
For some foul fact had stopped his vital breath  
With that great shame, which gives offence the check,  
The fatal rope, that hung about his neck:  
Trembling upon his knees in great affright,  
When he fast by beheld the poisoned Knight,  
He humbly fell, and with sad grief oppressed,  
Wring his hands, and beating on his breast,  
While sorrows drops upon his cheeks did run,  
To utter forth these words, he thus begun.  
O worthy Knight, behold the wretched man,  
Who thy sad Tragedies first scene began,  
Through whose each act, unto this last black deed,  
With bloody mind, unblessed, I did proceed:  
My hands, alas, did mix the poisoned food,  
Which kindled cruel fire in thy blood;  
Mine ears did hear thy lamentable groans,  
When the slow-working-poyson wracked thy bones;  
Mine eyes without one drop of sorrow shed,  
Beheld thee dying, and beheld thee dead;  
For which both hands, eyes, ears, and every part,  
Have suffered death, and conscience bitter smart.  
I was that instrument, alas the while,  
By thy great foes instructed to beguile  
Thy lingering hopes their mighty state did whet  
Me on in mischief, and their bounty set  
A golden edge upon my dull consent,  
At once to work thy fall, and their content.  
The doctrine of that Whore, that would dispense  
With subjects for the murder of a Prince,  
Taught me that lust and blood were slender crimes,  
And he that serves his turn, must serve the times.  
Oh had I never known that 
k Doct. Turner.  Doctor's house,  
Where first of that Whores cup I did carouse,  
And where disloyalty did oft conceal  
Rome's frighted rats, that over seas did steal;  
My thoughts perhaps, had then not given way,  
Thy life for gold with poison to betray.  
But ye that do, and who do not condemn  
My black offences? when ye think on them,  
In such imaginations, ponder too  
What with weak man, the power of gold may do.  
Ye servile sycophants, whose hopes depend  
On great men's wills; what is the utmost end  
At which ye aim? why do ye like base curs,  
Upon your Patron fawn? why like his spurs,  
Will ye be ever ready at his heels,  
With pleasing words to claw him, where he feels  
The humour itch? or why, will ye so wait,  
As to lie down and kiss the feet of state?  
And oft expose yourselves to wretched ends,  
Losing your souls to make great men your friends?  
Is it not wealth ye seek? and doth not gold  
Ingenuous wits ofttimes in bondage hold?  
The stout sea-rangers on the fearful flood,  
That hunt about through Neptune's watery wood,  
And o'er a thousand rocks and sands, that lie  
Hid in the deep, from pole to pole do fly;  
Who often, when the stormy Ocean raves,  
Fights with fierce thunders, lightnings, winds and waves,  
Having but one small inch of board, to stand  
Betwixt them and ten thousand deaths at hand,  
Expose themselves to all this woe and pain,  
To quench the greedy thirst of golden gain.  
O strong enchantment of bewitching gold!  
For this, the Sire by his own son is sold,  
For this, the unkind brother sells the brother,  
For this, one friend is often by an other  
Betrayed to death; yea even for this, the wife  
Both sells her beauty, and her husband's life:  
And I, ay me, for this did work thy fall  
By poisons help, having this hope withal,  
That great men's greatness, would have borens out  
My crime, though known, against all dangers doubt.  
But now too late, my wretched ghost doth prove,  
That his allseeing eye from heaven above,  
To whom black darkness self, is far more clear  
Than the bright sun, makes guiltless blood appear  
Out of our deepest plots, to murders shame,  
Though greatest men do seek to hide the same.  
Ye hapless instruments of mighty men;  
Ye sponges, whom the hands of greatness, when  
That they by you have wiped out the spot  
Of that disgrace, which did their honour blot,  
Do squeeze so long, until that ye be dry,  
And then as needless things do cast ye by:  
Where one of these your service would employ,  
Our makers heavenly image to destroy,  
By violence of death in other men,  
Thereby with blood to satisfy his spleen:  
O do not trust the hopes of such a man,  
Nor think his policy or power can  
Hoodwink allseeing heaven, nor ever drown  
The cry of blood, which brings swift vengeance down.  
When many men, but one man's life will spill,  
Their lives for his, heaven evermore doth will.  
Offend in murder, and in murder die,  
No crime to heaven, so loud as blood doth cry.  
In other wrongs, when man doth man offend,  
We restitution may in part pretend:  
But where the wrong is done by murders knife,  
No price for blood the Law says, life for life.  
The eye of wakeful justice, for a season  
May seem to wink at murders bloody treason;  
Yet from the hour of so black a deed,  
The worm of conscience on the soul doth feed▪  
And dreadful furies, whose imagined sight  
In every place, doth horribly affright  
The guilty man, pursue the steps that fly,  
While swift-winged vengeance makes the hue and cry  
justice to me did seem to sleep a while,  
And with delay did all my hopes beguile;  
But in short time now in my riper years,  
When graver age on my grey head appears,  
Death and reproach attached my life and name,  
To bring me to my grave with greater shame:  
To you therefore that hunger after gold,  
To you, whom hope of great men's grace makes bold  
In any great offence, henceforth let me  
For evermore a sad ensample be.  
This said, he sighing shrunk into the flood,  
And in a moment's space, an other stood  

Mist. 〈◊〉 ghost   

The description of Mist. Turner.  In the same place; but such a one whose sight  
With more compassion moved the poisoned Knight:  
It seemed that she had been some gentle dame,  
For on each part of her fair bodies frame,  
Nature such delicacy did bestow,  
That fairer object oft it doth not show:  
Her crystal eye beneath an ivory brow,  
Did show what she at first had been; but now  
The roses on her lovely cheeks were dead,  
The earth's pale colour had all overspread  
Her sometimes lively look, and cruel death  
Coming untimely, with his wintry breath  
Blasted the fruit, which cherrie-like in show  
Upon her dainty lips did whilom grow:  
O how the cruel cord did misbecome  
Her comely neck, and yet by Laws just doom  
Had been her death: those locks like golden thread  
That wont in youth t'enshrine her globe-like head,  
Hung careless down; and that delightful limb,  
Her snowwhite nimble hand, that wont to trim  
Their tresses up, now spitefully did tear  
And rend the same: nor did she now forbear  
To beat that breast of more than lily white,  
Which sometimes was the lodge of sweet delight:  
From those two springs where joy did whilom dwell,  
Griefs pearly drops upon her pale cheeks fell,  
And after many sighs, at last with weak  
And fainting voice, she thus did silence break.  
Thou gentle Knight, whose wrongs I now repent,  
Behold a woeful wretch, that did consent  
In thy sad death: for I, alas therefore  
By gold my servant did suborn to poor  
That death into thy cup, thy dish, thy diet,  
Whose pain too long did rob thy ghost of quiet:  
Yet neither thirst of gold, nor hate to thee  
For injuries received, incensed me  
To seek thy life; but love, dear love to those  
That were my friends, and thy too deadly foes:  
With them in Court my state I did support,  
Ah, that my state had never known the Court!  
Virtue and vice I there together saw,  
But like the spider, I was taught to draw  
Fowl poison, where sweet honey might be had,  
And how to leave the good, and choose the bad:  
At last, through greedy going on in sin  
Made senseless, by degrees I did begin  
To rise from great to greater, till at last  
Mine own sins did mine own destruction haste.  
O heavy doom! when heaven shall so decree,  
That sin in man the plague of sin must be.  
But here let chastest beauties when they blame  
My follies most, and blush to hear my shame,  
Remember then best beauties are but frail,  
And how that strongest men do oft assail  
Our weakest selves; so may they pity me,  
And my sad fall may their forewarning be.  
Ye tender offspring of that rib, refined  
By Gods own finger, and by him assigned  
To be a help, and not a hurt to man;  
How is it possible your beauties can  
Be pure from blemish, treading such vain ways  
As now you do in these profaner days?  
Must flesh that is so frail still fear to fall,  
And ye the frailest flesh not fear at all?  
Can ye, ah can ye, with vain thoughts to please  
Your wanton souls, on ivory beds of ease  
Spend precious time, and yet suppose in this  
Ye do no ill, nor think one thought amiss?  
Can ye to catch the wandering thoughts of him  
Whom ye affect, deck every dainty limb,  
Powder your hair, and more to please the eye,  
Refresh your paler cheeks with purer die,  
Lay out your breasts; and in the glass thus dressed,  
Observe what smile, or frown becomes ye best?  
And yet not fear heavens judgement in the end,  
At least in this, not think ye do offend?  
Can ye on wanton meats to move desire,  
Though of yourselves too full of Paphian fire,  
Feed every hour, and when hot blood begins  
To hurry you unto those horrid sins,  
That spots your beds, your bodies, and your names,  
Blot your black souls with many greater blames?  
And yet not think, ye do deserve heavens hate,  
At least to turn, do think no time too late?  
O do not soothe yourselves in these foul crimes,  
Hear not the tongue of these enchanting times:  
Your too much idle ease, which opes the gate  
To vicious thoughts, I know is counted state:  
Upon your curious pride and vain array,  
Fond men the name of cleanliness do lay:  
Your lust whose sparkles, in your eyes do shine,  
On wanton youth, is called love divine:  
Thus they that would for each foul fault excuse you  
And turn your vice to virtue, do abuse you.  
But be ye not so blinded, look on me,  
And let my story in your closets be  
As the true glass, which there you look upon,  
That by my life, ye may amend your own.  
Observe each step, when first I did begin  
To tread the path, that lead from sin to sin,  
Until my most unhappy foot did light,  
In guiltless blood of this impoisned Knight:  
After I had in Court begun to taste  
Of idle ease, I daily fed so fast  
Upon false pleasure, that at last I did  
Climb Citharaeas hill, like wanton kid  
In fertile pastures playing; nought did fear me,  
I thought that roaring Lion would not tear me.  
Two darling sins, too common and too foul,  
With their delights did then bewitch my soul;  
First pride arrayed me in her loose attires,  
Fed my fond fancy fat with vain desires,  
Taught me each fashion, brought me over-seas  
Each new devise, the humorous time to please:  
But of all vain inventions, then in use  
When I did live, none suffered more abuse  
Then that fantastic ugly fall and ruff,  
Daubed o'er with that base starch of yellow stuff:  
O that my words might not be counted vain,  
But that my counsel might find entertain  
With those, whose souls are tainted with the itch  
Of this disease, whom pride doth so bewitch,  
That they do think it comely, not amiss:  
Then would they cast it off, and say, it is  
The bawd to pride, the badge of vanity,  
Whose very sight doth murder modesty▪  
Ye then detesting it, they all would know,  
Some wicked wit did fetch it from below,  
That here they might express by this attire  
The colour of those wheels of Stygian fire,  
Which prides plunged offspring with snake-powdred hair,  
About their necks in Pluto's Court do wear.  
Thus pride, the pandar to luxurious thoughts,  
Did guide me by the hand through those close vaults,  
That lead to lusts dark chambers, dark as night,  
The eyes of lust do ne'er abide the light.  
But here perhaps some curious dame, who knows  
No good, but what her outward habit shows,  
Will judge my true complaint, as most unjust,  
In that I call her pride, the band to lust:  
But had her body windows in each side,  
That each one might behold her heart of pride,  
There might one see the cause, why she doth trim,  
Trick up, and deck defects in every limb;  
And having seen the same, may justly say,  
Her loose attire doth her loose mind bewray.  
Of this the sad effects of yore were seen  
In Lady 
k 〈…〉  Alfrith, sometimes England's Queen,  
Whose Lord Earl Ethelwald, at first held dear  
To her affection: when that he did hear  
That his great Sovereign, royal Edgar, he  
Whom eight Kings rowed upon the river Dee,  
Unto his house did purpose to repair,  
Knowing his dearest Lady wondrous fair,  
And the King young and wanton, did desire  
That she would lay aside her rich attire,  
And choosing meaner weeds, her art apply  
To dim that beauty which did please the eye:  
But she, inconstant Lady, knowing well,  
That beauty most set forth, doth most excel;  
As precious stones when they are set in gold,  
Are then most fair and glorious to behold;  
Arrayed herself in all her proud attire,  
To set victorious Edgar's heart on fire:  
Who caught like silly fly into the flame,  
At sudden sight of such a dainty dame,  
To cool the heat of his lust-burning will,  
Her wronged husbands guiltless blood did spill.  
With pride thus tasting of that wanton cup  
Which lust did give me, I was given up  
To loose desire: which brutish sin, since here  
In its own shape it may not well appear,  
Lest it offend all modest eyes and ears,  
I only do lament with my true tears:  
Yet give me leave, in some few words to tell  
This wanton world, into what horrid hell  
Of wicked sins, foul lust did make me fall,  
That unchaste youth from lust I may recall.  
As every evil humour, which is bred  
In human bodies, covets to be fed  
With that ill nutriment which doth increase  
The same, until it grow to some disease  
Incurable; so did my loose desire  
In vain delights, seek fuel for the fire  
So long, until (ay me) unto my shame  
It did burst forth, and burn me in the flame.  
I left my God t'ask counsel of the devil,  
I knew there was no help from God in evil:  
As they that go on whoring unto hell,  
From thence to fetch some charm or magic spell,  
So over Thames, as o'er th' infernal lake,  
A wherry with their oars I oft did take,  
Who Charon-like did waft me to that Strand,  
Where Lambeths' town to all well known doth stand;  
There Forman was, that fiend in human snape,  
That by his art did act the devils ape:  
Oft there the black Enchanter, with sad looks  
State turning over his blasphemous books,  
Making strange characters in blood-red lines:  
And to effect his horrible designs,  
Oft would he invocate the fiends below,  
In the sad house of endless pain and woe,  
And threaten them, as if he could compel  
Those damned spirits to confirm his spell.  
O profane wretches! ye that do forsake  
Your faith, your God, and your own souls, to take  
advise of Sorcerers, again to find  
Some trifle lost; why will ye be so blind  
On some base beldame for lost things to fawn?  
To gain whose loss, ye leave your souls in pawn.  
Too many, too much wronged by the time,  
Do think this great idolatry no crime;  
But let them mark the path which they do tread,  
And they shall see, that in it they are lead  
From hope and help, to hurt and all annoy,  
From him that made, to him that doth destroy.  
But without mercy here, let no stern eye  
Look on my faults; alas for charity,  
Let all with pity my offence bemoan,  
Since that it was not my offence alone:  
The strongest soon do slip, as I did fall,  
For woe is me, I was seduced to all.  
Ye that detest my now detected shame,  
And think that ye shall never meet the same,  
Think how the friendship, and the ancient love  
Of some great Lady long enjoyed may move:  
And think with that, how much the rising state  
Of some great man, my sex might animate:  
I was not base, but borne of gentle blood,  
My nature of itself inclined to good,  
But worms in fairest fruit do soon breed,  
Of heavenly grace best natures have most need.  
Just heaven did suffer me, as I begun  
To hasten on from vice to vice, and run  
Myself in sinful race quite out of breath,  
That sin at last might punish sin by death:  
For when those wantoness, whose unjust desire  
Had urged me on so far, that to retire  
I knew was vain, as I before to lust  
Had been a minister, so now I must  
join hands in blood, which they did plot and study  
O who would think that womenkind were bloody!  
But when our chastity we do forego,  
That lost, what then will we refuse to do?  
This did that Roman proud 
m 〈◊〉 anna● 〈◊〉  Scianus know,  
Who hating Drusus as his deadly foe,  
And basely seeking to betray his life,  
Did first allure fair Livia Drusa's wife  
To poison her own Lord, that in his stead  
The base Scianus might enjoy his bed;  
Who raised by Caesar from ignoble place,  
In Livia's lustful eye did find more grace  
Than Drusus, Caesar's son, a manly youth:  
O who knows how to feed a woman's tooth!  
In mischief I went on, and did agree  
To be an actor in thy Tragedy,  
Thou injured ghost; yet was I but a mute,  
And what I did was at an others suit:  
Their plots I saw, and silent kept the same,  
For which my life did suffer death and shame;  
For see, ah see, this cord about my neck,  
Which time sometime with precious things did deck,  
Revenge hath done, and justice hath her due,  
Let none then wrong the dead, let all with you  
O gentle knight, forget my great offence,  
Which I have purged with tears of penitence:  
For thousand living eyes with tears could tell,  
That from my eyes true tears of sorrow fell:  
Then judge my cause with charitable mind,  
Who mercy seeks with faith, shall mercy find.  
This said, she vanished from before our sight,  
I think to heaven, and think, I think aright.  
She gone, the poisoned ghost did seem with tears  
To chide her fate: but lo, here strait appears  

〈…〉.   
An other in her place, 
The description of Sir ●arius ●●lo●●●, the late Lieutenant of the Tower.  who seemed to be  
When he did live, some man of good degree  
'mongst men on earth; one of so solemn look,  
As if true gravity that place had took  
To dwell upon; his person comely was,  
His stature did the meaner size surpass;  
Well shaped in every limb, well stepped in years,  
As here and there appeared by some grey hairs.  
When first he did appear, with woeful look  
He viewed the Tower, and his head he shook,  
As if from thence he did derive his woe,  
Which with a sigh he thus begun to show.  
O thou sad building, ominous to those  
Whom with thy fatal walls thou dost enclose,  
For thee, I hapless man, as for the end  
Of my desire, did falsely condescend  
Unto that plot, by others heads begun,  
Through which in thee such wrong was lately done.  
Thou that didst poisoned feel thy foes despite,  
See here the ghost of that unhappy Knight,  
Which whilom was Lieutenant of this place,  
Though now a wretch, thus haltered with disgrace.  
I was, alas, what boo●s it that I was,  
Of good report, and did with credit pass  
Through every act of my lives tragedy,  
Upon this world the stage of vanity,  
Till the last scene of blood by others plotted,  
Concluding ill, my name and credit blotted.  
I must confess I did connive at those  
That were the ministers to thy proud foes,  
Closely employed by them thy life to spill  
By secret poison, though against my will:  
Fear of their greatness, and no hate to thee,  
Enforced my coward conscience to agree.  
When first to me this plot they did impart,  
O what a tedious combat in my heart,  
Unto my soul did feelingly appear,  
betwixt my sad conscience, and a doubtful fear:  
Fear said that if I did reveal the same,  
Those great ones great in grace, would turn the shame  
Upon my head, but conscience said again,  
That if I did conceal it, murders stain  
Would spot my soul as much for my consent,  
As if at first it had been my intent:  
Fear said that if the same I did disclose,  
The countenance of greatness I should lose,  
And be thrust out of office and of place;  
But conscience said that I should lose that grace  
And favour, which my God to me had given,  
And be perhaps thrust ever out of heaven.  
Long these two champions did maintain the field,  
Till my weak conscience at the last did yield▪  
O let those men that do condemn my fear  
And folly, most in their remembrance bear,  
What certain danger stood on either side  
As I should pass, and how I should have died  
In either way, at least with some great fall  
For ever have been crushed: and think withal,  
How prone our nature is in fear, to rest  
Upon those seeming hopes that promise best.  
I speak not this to mitigate my sin,  
O no, I wish my fall may others win  
From the like, fear, and that my life may be  
A precedent to men of such degree,  
To whom authority doth think it fit,  
The trust of such a function to commit.  
Let such men to remember still be moved,  
That which by sad experience I have proved;  
'tis good to fear great men, but yet 'tis better  
Ever to fear God more, since God is greater:  
If Gods good Angel had imprinted this  
Into my thoughts, I had not thought amiss;  
Nor I, unhappy I, should have consented,  
But all this mischief I had then prevented.  
Here some perhaps will think the former race  
Of my sad life, t' have been debauched and base,  
Because at last it had so base an end;  
But for ourselves, might modesty contend  
In opposition, I might justly say,  
How many now live glorious at this day,  
Whose honour greater stains do daily spot,  
Then any which my former life did blot:  
Yet those my crimes which did my God offend,  
For which his finger did point out this end,  
Unto my life I'll show, though to my shame,  
That others as from death may fly the same.  

Note.  My Father, from whose life my breath I drew,  
When sick upon his bed he lay, and knew  
That at his door of flesh death's hand did knock,  
And did perceive weak nature would unlock  
To let him in, did with his blessing give  
This charge to me; that I while I did live  
Should never seek for office at the Court,  
But with that means be left my state support:  
With reverence his will I did obey,  
Until (O that I might not tell the day)  
In which I did with greedy eye affect  
That place in this great Tower, without respect  
To my dead Sires behest; yet since it was  
A touch to conscience, on I would not pass  
Until by some I was resolved amiss,  
That as in other things, so I in this  
Which in itself was of indifference  
And lawful unto others, might dispense  
With my obedience to my Father's will,  
And that mine own intent I might fulfil:  
Yet one there is (O ever may he be  
Beloved of heaven for his great love to me)  
Who by the light of truth did show the way  
Which I should go, but I did not obey:  
Ambitious mist did blind my weaker eyes,  
I thought by this preferment I should rise;  
Yet no desert but gold did gain me grace,  
Mine own corruption purchased me that place:  
For brib'rie in the soul a blemish makes  
Of him that gives, as well as him that takes,  
And bribing hands that give, must guilty be  
Of their own want of worth: for who, but he  
That in himself the want of merit finds,  
Will be the bawd to base corrupted minds?  
Ye, that neglect performance of the will  
Of your dead parents, thinking it no ill  
To disobey their precepts, now in me  
The curse of disobedience ye may see:  
And ye whose golden fingers, as in sport,  
Like lime-twigs catch at offices in Court,  
In which obtained ye ever after live  
Corrupt in mind, to gain what ye did give;  
Behold, untimely deaths disgraceful come  
About this neck, my bribing hands reward.  
Before this sudden, and unlooked for fa●e  
Did fall thus heavy on me, when my sta●e  
Did flourish among men, to mind I call  
An accident of note which then did fall. 
Note.   
Bewitched with love to that too common vice  
In this our age, of hazardy and dice,  
I losing once my coin (for few thereby  
Have ever gainers been) did wish that I  
When I again did use the dice, might come  
To die this shameful death, which by the doom  
Of righteous heaven, again I using game,  
As I had wished, to me unlooked for came.  
Vain gamesters that too commonly use  
Strange deprecations, when ye do abuse  
Yourselves in game, by my sad fall take heed,  
And let your word be ever as your deed;  
Lest your hand meet mine in the self-same dish,  
For heaven doth often hear when men do wish.  
But of no sin had my most sinful soul  
Been ever sick, yet this one sin most foul,  
This act of poison, to my house a stain,  
With future times for ever shall ramaine:  
The die of blood on murderer's hand doth stay,  
No tears, no time, can wipe the same away;  
But if true tears of sorrow may with you,  
(As all true sorrows tears with heaven may do)  
Move pitiful regard of my sad fall,  
Ye then remembering how I fell withal,  
Will out of charity, with lesser blame  
Censure my fault, when ye shall hear the same:  
Thus quit by death from doom of Law, and heaven  
Out of free mercy having me forgiven,  
Let all calumnious tongues their malice cease,  
That so my soul may ever live in peace:  
O let the world abate her sharpened tongue,  
And since I have done penance for thy wrong  
Thou wronged Knight, what can thy ghost now crave?  
Grieve thee no more, go rest thee in thy grave:  
Thy foes decline, proud Gaveston is down,  
No wanton Edward wears our England's crown▪  
This said, he vanished; and an other stood  
In the same place, midway above the flood,  

The description of 〈…〉   
Whose strange demeanour with amazement struck 
The description of 〈◊〉.   
Us that beheld him; for with startled look,  
And hair stiff standing, as a man aghast  
He stared upon the Knight, from whom in haste  
Into the flood he would have shrunk away,  
Had not, I think, that fury forced his stay,  
Which while he lived his guilty soul pursued,  
Till he his own offence had freely show'd.  
A man he was of stature meanly tall,  
His body's lineaments true shaped, and all  
His limbs compacted well and strongly knit,  
Nature's kind hand no error made in it;  
His beard was ruddy hew, and from his head  
A wanton lock itself did down dispread  
Upon his back, to which while he did live  
Th' ambiguous name of Elfe-locke he did give:  
And now fantastic frenzy, as before  
When he did live, did seem to vex him sore;  
The shameful rope which 'bout his shoulders hung,  
Hither and thither carelessly he dung,  
And as a caitiff of that cursed crew,  
Whom sad despair doth after death pursue,  
Howling and yelling, while the tears did run  
Down by his cheeks, at last he thus begun.  
Since that sly serpent of soule-slaying-sin,  
Which feeds upon the guilty mind within  
Each wicked breast, doth force me to reveal  
Unto my shame, what I did long conceal:  
Give ear, ye cursed Atheists all that been,  
Ye unbelieving dogs in shape of men,  
That think the name of God and his great Law,  
But things devised to keep the world in awe,  
Who mock the times last dreadful day to come,  
Which at the length your wicked deeds shall doom:  
And ye blasphemous Exorcists, that are  
With Pluto's factors so familiar  
Here upon earth, that ye each day do deal  
For transportation of blind souls to hell:  
Whom fools do wisemen call, give ear to me,  
And in my wretched fate your follies see.  
I was (ay me, that still I was not so)  
When April buds of youth themselves did show  
Upon my chin, a Student in the Law,  
From which fantastic thoughts my mind did draw  
To the more pleasing study of that art  
Of Physic, to the which though little part  
Of learning gave me help, yet strong desire  
To know that worthy science, set on fire  
The fond affection of my forward will,  
To search the secrets of that noble skill:  
But he who from that faculty shall fall,  
To which inevitable fate did call  
Him at the first, forsakes that happy way,  
Which he should go, and hapless runs astray:  
Diseased with vanities fantastic fi●tes,  
Which ague-like doth vex our English wits,  
Who think at home all homely, and do plough  
Deep furrows upon Neptune's watery brow,  
From foreign shores to bring the worst of bad,  
And in exchange leave there what good they had;  
The seas I passed to help out my weak skill  
In th' aromatic Art, but O the ill,  
Which there our ignorant English oft do find,  
Did first corrupt my uncorrupted mind:  
O vain conceit of those, that do repute  
In every Art the most admired fruit  
Of any brain; if of domestic wit,  
But base and trivial, if compared to it  
Of foreign heads, that only us can please,  
And such hath been our England's old disease:  
There did I find, O never had I found,  
Murders close way to kill my foe, the ground  
Of that devise (thou wronged Knight) whereby  
Thou most untimely wert enforced to die:  
There was I taught, with vain words to command  
The spirits from below, who still at hand  
Will ready be, as seeming to obey  
Those soule-blind men, whom they do most betray.  
Thus having, as I thought, my mind enriched  
With deepest knowledge, and with pride bewitched,  
To blow that vain blast on the trump of fame,  
Which through the world I thought might bear my name,  
I back returned for England, there to show  
That wondrous skill, which I would seem to know:  
There as the Fowler doth with whistle call  
The silly birds, until they hap to fall  
Into his net; so did my name each day,  
Once blown abroad, lead simple fools away  
From helpful heaven, to seek advise in hell,  
And there for toys themselves and souls to sell:  
But in this path long thus I did not tread,  
Which down unto the house of death doth lead,  
Before that old sly serpent did begin  
T'entice me, to that self-accusing sin  
Of horrid murder, showing me the way  
By art of poison, closely to betray  
What life to death I would, nor did he leave  
Until my soul he did so far bereave  
Of every feeling sense, that wicked I  
Did closely poison her, that used to lie  
In mine own bosom, that she being dead  
Might to me living leave an empty bed:  
After this fact, that to my guilty soul  
It might not as it was, seem ugly foul,  
My subtle foe did whisper in my ear  
These seeming happy news, how fame did bear  
My name upon her wings, with loud report  
Of my strange deeds as far as to the Court;  
Where having been employed, I with all skill  
Applied myself to please; no damned ill  
I did refuse, not making any doubt  
While greatness wings did compass me about.  
Forman that cunning Exorcist and I,  
Would many times our wicked wits apply  
Kind nature in her working to disarm  
Of proper strength; and by our spells would charm  
Both men and women, making it our sport  
And play, to point at them in our report.  
Thus fatted with false pleasure for a while,  
Still with good hope of hap, I did beguile  
Myself in all employments, till at last  
Thy death (thou injured Knight) did with it hast  
My unexpected fall: I was the man,  
That did prepare those poisons, which began  
And ended all thy pain, which I did give  
Unto that man, 
〈…〉  who did attendant live  
On thee in thy distress, who since that time  
Was he, that first did suffer for this crime.  
O what a sudden change of cheerful thought  
To sadness, self-accusing conscience brought  
After this bloody deed: before all ease  
Did seem to wait on me; for what could please  
Which I did want? that idol gold, which all  
Or most men closely worship, seemed to fall  
As thick upon me, as the golden shower  
That fell on Danae in the Dardin Tower.  
Swimming in streams of false delight, and pricked  
With pride and self conceit, at heaven I kicked:  
The names of God, and Maker, I did sleight  
As bugbear words the childish world t' affright:  
I did impute the spheres eternal dance,  
And all this all, to nature and to chance;  
But all men laugh my follies unto scorn:  
For who so blind, will say being mortal borne,  
He hath a reason, and will yet deny  
The same to this Universality,  
Of which, alas, he is the lesser part:  
As who should say, his feet, his hands, his heart  
Might well be wise, and he himself a fool,  
Such is the wisdom of th'atheistic school.  
The eye of heaven, from whom no heart can hide  
The secret thoughts, my close intents espied;  
And when I did with most inventive brain,  
devise to wipe away my conscience stain,  
And thy sad death most closely to conceal,  
Heaven forced myself, mine own self to reveal:  
The shadow of the dead, or some foul fiend,  
Or fury, whom revenge did justly send  
To punish me for my detested sin,  
With snaky whips did scourge my soul within;  
Forbidding me my rest, or day, or night,  
Till I had brought mine own offence to light:  
For which condemned unto that shameful end  
Of strangling torment, still the frantic fiend  
Did follow me unto my lives last breath;  
As was my life before so was my death.  
This said, he vanished, and with him that night  
The vision ending, our empoisoned Knight  
Thus spoke: O England, O thrice happy land,  
Who of all Isles most gracefully dost stand  
Upon this earth's broad face, like Venus' spot  
Upon her cheek; thou only garden plot,  
Which as an other Eden heaven hath chose,  
In which the tree of life and knowledge grows:  
Happy in all, most happy in this thing,  
In having such a holy, happy King;  
A King, whose faith in arms of proof doth fight,  
Against that seven-headed beast, and all his might:  
A King, whose justice will at last not fail,  
To give to each his own in equal scale:  
A King, whose love dove-like with wings of fame,  
To all the world doth happy peace proclaim:  
A King, whose faith, whose justice, and whose love,  
Divine, and more than royal, him do prove:  
O thou just King, how hath thy justice shined  
Upon my injured ghost, which being confi'nd  
From hence for ever, never had, unless  
Thy justice had been great, obtained redress.  
If earnest pray●rs wi●h heaven may aught avail,  
And earnest prayers with 〈◊〉 do seldom fail;  
Let all good men lift up 〈◊〉 ●earts with me,  
That what I beg, of 〈…〉 granted be.  
If ever heart with wicked ●●●ught, shall aim  
To harm thy State, let heaven reveal the same:  
If ever hand lift up with violent power  
Shall seek thy life, heaven cut it off that hour:  
If ever eye of treason lurk about,  
Or lie in wait for thee, heaven put it out:  
If heart, hand, eye, abroad or here at home,  
Shall plot against thee, never may they come  
To their effect, as they have ever been  
So may they be; and let all say, Amen.  
Here my dream ended, after which a while  
Soft slumber did my senses so beguile,  
I thought the Towergate was o'er my head,  
Until I wake and found myself in bed;  
From whence arising, as the wronged Knight  
Had given in charge, this Vision I did write.  
FINIS.