A LETTER TO THE Lord chancellor, EXPOSING To him the Sentiments of the People, with some Pertinent ADVICE in the Conclusion.  
My LORD,  


I'd Praise your Lordship, but you've had your share  
Of that before, if not too much by far,  
And now a nobler field for Curses are:   
Yet I'll not Curse, but leave you to the crowd,  
Who never balk their rage, but speak aloud;  
In all the Lab'rynths of your Crimes they'l tract ye,  
Worse than ten thousand Furies they'l attack ye.  

We talk not here of Penal Laws or Test,  
Nor how you King of Terrors in the West,  
With more than human Cruelty oppressed  
Those whose Shades now stab through your anxious Breast:   
To these I leave you, each with brandished Dart  
thoroughly revenge his Quarrel at your Heart.  
For me, I'll only let your Lordship see  
How they resent your changed felicity.  
Now may you hear the People as they scour  
Along, not fear to Damn the chancellor:  
The Women too, and all the tender Crew  
That used to pity all, now laugh at you.  
The very Boys, how do they grin and prate,  
And giggle at the Bills upon your Gate!  
Nay rather than be frustrate of their hope,  
The Women will contribute for a Rope;  
And those fine Locks that no blessed Spark might touch,  
On this account catch may, they love my Lord so much.  
Oh for Dispensing now! ah! now's the time!  
Your Eloquence will hardly blanche the Crime;  
And all the turnings of your Proteus-wit,  
With all your little tricks, won't help a bit;  
even that fine Tongue in which your Lordships trust is,  
Now won't, altho' sometimes it baffled Justice:  
No Ignoramus Juries shall perplex ye,  
But with their Billa vera's now they'l vex ye.  
From their dire Claws no hiding hole you find,  
They speak their own now, not a Parties mind:  

Not now as heretofore, when on the Bench  
Flattery and daubing had such Influence,  
And Jefferys for a Gift would with the Laws dispense.   
But granting all our Laws be out of joint,  
Why yet they do not fear to gain the point:  

A High Commission may the Cause decide,  
Your Lordship by a Butcher may be tried,  
When by Commission he is dignified,  
His Power You must not doubt if He be satisfied.   
If this ben't Law,( though we've a President,)  
Your may appeal to the next Parliament:  
But these are such damned Sticklers for the Laws,  
That it is five to one you lose the Cause.  
In troth, my Lord, the Case is very sad,  
Enough to make a wiser Man stark mad.  
But I'll advice your Lordship what to do,  
'Tis plain that they their Madness will pursue.  
They hope to see you soon advanced on high,  
Most sweetly dangling 'twixt the Earth and Sky;  
See reeking balsam from your Breeches dropping,  
And greedy Handkerchiefs the relic sopping;  
Whilst on their heads a crystal shower descends,  
And all their Shoulders o'er itself extends.  

This 'tis they mean, 'tis this they would have done,  
But I would choose 'em ev'ry Mothers Son,  
Troth I'd e'en hang myself, 'tis quickly done.   
If yo've no halter, never make a pother,  
Take but a garter, one's as good as t'oher:  
For Lord! should such a Man as you submit  
To be the public laughter of each grinning Cit!  
Else my Lord take a Razor, never fear,  
And cut your Lordships throat from Ear to Ear.  
'Tis feasible enough, you know who did it,  
And you are valiant, Sir, what need you dread it?  
Cut both the Jug'lar Veins tho' if you can,  
Else they'll say Essex was the stouter Man.   
From the little House over against Tyburn, where the People are almost dead with Expectation of you. I am your Lordships, in any thing of this Nature.   

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1689.