AN ELEGY ON THE Lord Viscount STAFFORD, BEHEADED this 29th. Day of December, 1680. ON TOWER-HILL.  
A pillar of the fatal Building's down,  
Which Samson Death at last has overthrown;  
And now the whole fatal pile begins to shake,  
And the Phylistian-Lords stout Hearts to ache:  
Dagon's great House, their fell Conspiracy  
To totter and to shake they now do see;  
And every Plotter, Truth and Justice dreads,  
Now Ruine's tumbling on their Impious Heads.  
Long with vain Hopes, they did themselves support,  
And with the Giant Death, they made but sport;  
Their dear delightful plot they still did mind,  
And thought both Death, and Justice still were blind;  
Yes, they are blind, for they impartial are,  
They see not Bribes, and no Man will they spare:  
No more regard the Greatest than the Least,  
Cut down the Guilty Lord, as well as Priest,  
Thus Stafford sell, a pillar of the plot,  
Whose Name must now as in a Dunghill rot,  

And blotted be with Infamy and Shame,  
Once in the English Anuals of great Fame,  
Joined with the title of Great Buckingham.   
Tho' great he was in Glory, and in pride.  
He lost his Head, and on a Scaffold died;  
Stafford of Southwick too, no better sped,  
Who at Bridgwater also lost his Head.  
But something may be said in their Applause,  
For both of them died in a better Cause:  
The First, by th' bloody Tyrant Richard fell,  
The last, by th' Hands of such who did Rebel:  
But our Staffoed, 'gainst whom Justice cries,  
For Treason 'gainst his King, and Country dies.  
Sad is the Exit, I confess for Him  
Whose Birth, and Greatness do enhance his crime:  
When He, whose Honour, Peerage, and Renown,  
Should be Supporters to uphold the Crown.  
Forgetting Honour, Oaths, Obliegements too,  
With traitorous Heart, Rebellion did pursue.  
O! could Religion to such Crimes persuade!  
And all the Rights of Honour, thus invade!  
What frantic Spell on Conscience could intrude?  
What Words of Priests, could Honour thus delude?  
'twas Hell itself, that blinded thus their eyes,  
With Sorceries, in Jesuits disguise,  
Who did persuade it was a Glorious thing,  
To cut the Throat of an Heretic King.  
O let it be into Oblivion Hurled,  
And Banished ever from the Christian World;  
Let that damned Doctrine down to Hell descend,  
With every one that dares it to defend.  
O! poor deluded Stafford, that was brought  
By juggling Priests, to have so damned a thought;  
Who thought by Horrid Crimes to gain Applause,  
advancing what he judged a Glorious Cause;  
For which he durst commit so strange a sin,  
To Kill his King, to bring's Religion in.  
But God who Kings infoldeth in his Arms,  
Kept ours safe from all their Spells and Charms,  
And may his Eyes be open now to see  
The horrid depth of all their Treachery:  
For Stafford now himself could do no less,  
Than th' horrid Plot (so long denied) Confess;  
So plain his Gild did to his Peers appear,  
That filled him with Confusion, Shame, and Fear;  

That he could not like a bold Jesuit die,  
Nor with their Impudence the Truth deny,  
And leave the World with a notorious Lye.   
If pity could be unto Traitors due,  
The World would give it to your Age and You.  
But Justice for Example must be done,  
And Law like living streams, its course must run,  
For where 'tis stopped, it swells beyond its bounds,  
And Kingdoms soon with its undation drowns.  
We hope that Stafford may his Crimes repent,  
And tho' not Here, else where be Innocent:  
When all his Earthly Crimes are purged away,  
And he has better learned how to obey.  
We'll leave his Soul to God, but may he be  
Set for Example of foul Treachery:  
That Traitors by him, their Reward may Read,  
Who still for Murder, and for Treason Bleed.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for T. Benskin, in Green's Rents, near Fleet-Bridge.