A NEW POEM ON THE DREADFUL DEATH OF THE EARL of ESSEX, WHO Cut his own Throat in the TOWER.  By the Emhroyan-Fancy of Anti-Jack Presbyter. 
COme, with a nimble thrust of Rapiered wit,  
(My Muse) now Stab all Traitors, point at, hit  
The Throat of a Self-murtherer, whose fall  
Doth manifest his Crimson Gild to all.  
Led by the Halter to the Stygian Lake.  
Many there be, he to prevent the Stake,  
Or Hemp or Hatchet, took a shorter Cut,  
(As if to d●e were but to crack a nut,)  
To let his Soul fly from its Prison, Body,  
To stepped to— ask his Chronies, How d'ye?  
O pity 'tis that such a Branch as he,  
Should thus deserve so sad an Elegy.  
Whose Loyal Father pawned his life to those,  
Who were the grand Promoters of the Cause.  
So excellent his Father, that t' express  
His Excellencies, seems to make them less.  
" Should I presume to tell his worth, I fear  
" (My Muse) I should subscribe a Murderer.  
" To do't by halves were fair, but 'twould be said,  
" 'Twere only then but Drawn and Quartered.  
My Lord (like Tully's Son) Degenerates.  
A Worm, within his breast most sadly prates,  
Consc'ence (The King's Attorney) stings his heart  
So mortally, that now he dares depart.  
" A wounded soul close coupled with the sense  
" of Sin, pays home its proper Recompense.  
" Could not your active hands had fairly stayed  
" The leisure of a Psalm? Judas has prayed,  
" But later Crimes cannot admit the Pause,  
" They run upon effects more than the Cause.  
Hangman will curse your Feats, 'tis most severe  
To be one's proper Executioner.  
Some do affirm, that 'twixt such Acts and Death,  
One may repent, even at his last breath.  
I fear, there is, (after so foul a Sin,)  
Too narrow a gap to let Repentance in.  
His Death to th' Saints this Doctrine will afford,  
Impatient of being with the Lord  
He was good man: Dearly-Beloved, praise  
His Policy, in shortening his Days.  
" But if the Saints thus give's the slip, 'tis need  
" We look about us, to preserve the Breed.  
" Hence sweep the Almanac: Lily make room,  
" And Blanks enough, for the New Saints to come  
" All in Red Letters: As their Faults have been  
" Scarlet; so limb, their Anniverse of sin.  
Jack Presbyter, I tell the Whoreson, Liar,  
Encomiums that do amount much higher.  
'Tis height of Valour, Fortitude, to kill  
(Not our strong foes, but) a man's self at will.  
Brave active Roman Spirit! Purgatory  
Shall be to thee, for a new Inventory.  
Scylla, Cbaribdis, Python, Acheron,  
Medea's Bull, the Tails of the Dragon,  
Sea-monsters, Serpents, Gorgon's, Centaurs all  
Medusa's, Bugbear-Harpies these I call  
Mormos and Bugs, (as our stout Earl did see,)  
To fright poor Idiots to Morality.  
Cowards do dread the grim pale face of Death,  
Who foiled b' it, are but squeezed out of Breath.  
Give me an Hector greedy of's own blood  
Makes Death to tremble, bids Damnation, 'slud,  
Fears not the Gods, 'tis sin, if they be good,  
If bad, why'ere in awe of them men stood?  
Death, Hell, Damnation and if thou not fearest,  
Jack Presbyter, die thou thus if thou darest.  
Or else learn hence not to aspire too nigh  
The high Prerogatives of Majesty.  
Vive le Roy, let Rebels meet the end,  
If their Repentance may not it prevent.  
FINIS.