POEM ON THE CONDEMNATION OF William Viscount Stafford.  Fantane Religio potuit suadere Malorum. 
Aid me, Apollo, lay aside thy Lyre,  
With Numbers high, yet sad, my Muse inspire;  
In moving strains, assist me to repeat  
A Noble's fall, (would he were Good as Great!)  
Oh Stafford! Stafford! how couldst thou, when Death  
Led in by Time, stood waiting for thy Breath;  
By such ignoble ways and Methods strive,  
To cut off those few Years thou hadst to live:  
Alas! what Bliss couldst thou expect to come,  
(O're-pressed with Age) when Nature's powerful doom,  
Had left thee nought to hope for but a Tomb.  
Why shouldst thou then in such a horrid Cause,  
Turn Traitor to Divine and Humane Laws?  
Ah! how couldst thou, thou, so unnatural be  
To him who was so good, so kind to thee?  
How couldst thou plot 'gainst such a King as he?  
One who had heaped such Honours on thy Head,  
And yet couldst thou, ingrateful, wish him Dead,  
Not only wish him so, but in that strife,  
To act a part that was to take his Life;  
Yet, 'cause thy Blood from noble springs doth flow,  
Would Error and not Malice made thee so!  
Would thou wert overreached, that so the sin  
Might be less thine than theirs that drew thee in:  
Fain would I think it were with thee, as they,  
a Ignis Fatuns leads out o'th' way:  
Too credulous they follow the false Light,  
And bless themselves for such a Guide i'th' Night,  
And think where ere it leads they're still i'th' right.  
And yet at last, (with toil and trouble crossed,)  
They feel the Pain, but find the Labour lost:  
They see the flattering Light o'th' sudden gone,  
And they to their Dispair are left alone  
In Fens, or Brakes, or Floods, to make their moan.  
So thou O'erswayed byth' Pious-seeming Wits,  
Of Hell's chief Agents, (Juggling Jesuits)  
(By specious Arguments, and pious fraud,  
Such as Rome's Pandemonium does applaud)  
Were't in that Hellish Brood drawn in to be  
An Actor in that Dismal Tragedy,  
That boldly aimed at Sacred Majesty;  
But Heaven stepped in and saved the tottering Throne,  
(Just when it could be saved by Heaven alone)  
And all the Plots of Rome and Hell were known.  
All did I say! Ah! no; yet such, so Vile,  
So base, so dire, were found in Albion's Isle?  
As Scythia (where the Sun dares scarce appear,  
Where Horrid Winter brood's,) would blush to hear;  
That those whom Heaven had placed so near the Crown  
With Impious Hands should strive to pull it down.  
Unhappy State of Monarches, who do good,  
Even to those that strive to shed their Blood,  
And they not know it, but with gentle breath,  
Speak those foul Serpent's fair that plot their Death.  
Ah! Stafford! how couldst thou so base become?  
(So false to England! to be True to ROME?)  
How couldst thou Plot his Death who always strove  
Not to Command, but fairly win thy Love?  
Ah! how couldst thou so base and Treacherous prove!  
Couldst thou think Heaven asleep at such a time?  
Or couldst believe it did approve thy Crime?  
Or to such Treasons would Success have given?  
Ah! no; a King's the Substitute of Heaven,  
And Angels are his Guard.  
The Giants so of Old waged War with JOVE,  
Striving by Arms, to win the Seats Above:  
Though Bold, yet vainly, in th' Attempt they fell,  
And for their hoped of Heaven, were plunged in Hell.  
The Dreadful Thunder ruined their Designs,  
And in their torments Heavens just vengeance shines.  
Consider this, Oh! Stafford, and Repent,  
Use well that little time that Heaven hath lent;  
That little time, (for long it cannot be,  
ere thou must enter Vast Eternity.)  
Oh! use it well, let it to Tears be given,  
Be Penitent, and make thy peace with Heaven;  
That when the fatal stroke shall end thy Days,  
Its Mercy and Justice may have equal Praise.  
FINIS.   

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