Fitz-Harris his FAREWELL TO THE WORLD, OR A TRAITORS Just Reward▪  

Farewell great Villain, and unpitied Lie,  
Instead of Tears drawn from a tender Eye;  
Ten thousand Traitors like Fitz-Harris die.   

Unhuman Monster, to the World ingrate,  
An Enemy to the King, the Church and State;  
Hadst thou been starved, 't had been too kind a Fate.   

His Crimes were horrid, infamous and base.  
Deserves a total extinct of his Race;  
Banish his Name unto some dismal place.   

What's worse than injuring Sacred Majesty,  
For which he suffered on the fatal Tree;  
May all men suffer, when Robbed of Loyalty.   

England may then be glad, with Triumph sing,  
When all her Foes are vanished with a string;  
The Golden Age from Halcion-days will spring.   

Those Wolves that Plot Protestant Lambs to Gull,  
May Heaven obstruct the Engines of their Scull;  
Give them of Tyburn, good Lord, their Belly full.   

Giddy-headed Youths have been seduced of late,  
Beyond their Wits, talk of the Affairs of State;  
Obedience learn to avoid Fitz-Harris Fate.   

Those public Libelers that with Zeal and heat,  
With some unheard of Novelty daily Treat;  
If they write falsely, tie them from their Meat.   

Tell th' Ambitious, their Fools and strive in vain,  
To undermine a Crown, King Charles will Reign:  
To be true and honest, is the safest Gain.   

I hope to see Justice at Tyburn done,  
If so, some hundreds may have Cause to run;  
Give them what they deserve, their Thread is spun.   

Bid proud petitioners, good Advice approve,  
Make an Address and in one Body move;  
With all humility t' gain their Prince's Love.   

I'd sooner lose a Limb, from th' Monument fly,  
Endure the worst of Torments till I die;  
Then willingly deserve my Kings displeasing Eye.   

London, on thee all flourishing joys descend,  
Heaven's bl●ss the Government, and Governors to the end;  
Unanimous to agree, your Sovereign to defend.   

The Man that burned Diana's Temple down,  
Did it on purpose a Villain to be Crowned;  
Mongst Rogues (Damned Rogues) he got Renown.   

How many thousands are there in the Nation,  
Mere Knaves, but Saints, in private Congregation;  
Loves Monarchy, with mental Reservation.   

The Gods rebuke the Error of the Age,  
Let moderation Tumultuous men assuage;  
But hang all those against their King engage.   

Let all dissenting Brothers Love the King,  
To the Church Unite, 'tis a goodly thing;  
With Brethren to agree, and with Te Deum sing.   

Heaven's bless his Majesty, with Plenty, Joy and Peace.  
To all that love the King Heavens give increase;  
Confound his Foes to pray I ne'er will cease.   
Non est Lex j●●●●or ulla Quam Necis Artifficis, Arte perire sua.  
Richard Gibbs, Norwitch.  
FINIS.