Religious Villainy, An ELEGY on the Execrable Murder of King CHARLES, I.  
THough to contemn all Laws Religion be,  
And though to be a Christian's Heresy;  
Though it be a Crime for any to be good,  
And he's no Saint that's not Baptised in blood.  
Though to be no Traitor Treason be,  
And to be Loyal be Disloyalty,  
Though it be Justice Innocents' to kill,  
And Meritorious Royal Blood to Spill,  
For which 'tis Death to grieve; yet who but he,  
'Twixt whom and virtue's an Antipathy,  
Such an unparalleled Butchery that hears,  
Does not resolve into a flood of tears,  
Which even unto Tyrant's Urns are due, but when,  
The best of Princes and the best of Men,  
Thus slaughtered is, it claims from Loyal Eyes,  
Full Seas to waft him into Paradise,  
In Spite of Fate then pay this Tribute due,  
To him was yours and Virtues Sovereign too,  
Nor let your Tears know bounds in such a fall,  
The Grief and Loss are Epidemical,  
You whose malicious Charity at first, 
Londoners   
These Vipers hatched these towering Serpents nursed,  
Let your much want of him instruct you in  
The greatness of his Loss and of your Sin,  
And let those Scorpions teach you the vast odds,  
Betwizt the Rule of Men and Reign of Gods,  
Unheard may you their Clemency invoke,  
Uneased, unpitied bear your purchas't yoke,  
As is your Reformation be your Peace,  
Since thus the Land's restored thus troubles cease,  
Deluded fools that with so vast expense,  
Have bought your Ruin, sold your Innocence,  
Contracting to yourselves a guilt so high,  
Will damn your yet unborn Posterity,  
These are your tender Conscience Men who dare  
to act, what others do with horror hear,  
No more let baffled Histories now tell,  
How Caesar in the treacherous Senate fell,  
No more let France of Henrys Fate complain,  
This deeper die makes pale that crimson stain,  
These, thy lost honour, Catiline, redeem,  
Whose foul designs now fair and pious seem,  
Thy modest wishes durst not aim so high,  
As such transcendent Acts of Villainy,  
The bashful plotters of this black design, 
Presbyterians.   
To Ruin England with own Fatal Mine,  
So much the horror of their guilt did fright,  
They durst not Act without the Cloak of night,  
But these triumphing Saints do glory in, 
Independents.   
As much the show, as acting of their Sin,  
Nor shame to exhibit to the blusing Sun,  
A Sight ne'er seen since first his Race begun,  
The Murder of a Prince whose grand offence,  
Was Virtue and a settled Conscience,  
Nor doth his Death Suffice, our just Laws must:  
Pimp for these Cannibals in human Lust,  
And Justice the Protectress of the Earth,  
Must be the Midwife to this Monstrous Birth,  
Thus while they seemingly would blot his Fame,  
They scandalise that most Religious Dame,  
A Court unheard of therefore thy Create,  
To make complete their Antipodian State,  
Where Wolves (as grand delinquents) Lambs present,  
And Traitors do arraign the Innocent,  
Where Pluto's Mercenaries do wrest the Laws,  
To make them serve a most prodigious cause,  
And belch from their blasphemous mouths, pretence  
Of crimes against his sacred Innocence,  
Replies to it would spoil the new Courts credit,  
All must be granted true because they said it,  
Wherefore they do provide he should not use  
Defence, 't would criminate those that did accuse,  
But to determined Sentence they proceed,  
The frontless Pageant told him he must bleed,  
Necessity required that the should die  
A victim to that upstart Deity,  
Which blood carousing Idol could not rest  
Content with any offering but the best,  
Though baited with such obloquys as laid  
Their hated crimes upon his guiltless head,  
Though bold faced Treason had usurped his Throne,  
And robbed him off all Crowns save that alone,  
Of Martyrdom; though pride were grown so high,  
he's still a King, Preserves one Sovereignty,  
No Rebel passion durst arise to bring  
Stains on his undeserving suffering,  
With meekness great as Innocence he dies,  
A Royal and immaculate Sacrifice,  
No fear nor sorrow he, but 'twas for them,  
Deceitful, proud, Ambitious, bloody Men,  
Nor could the last Act of this Tragedy  
Shake his inviolable Constancy,  
Nor his unconquerable Patience quell,  
Whose Charity such injuries did excel,  
But what their guilt not suffered them to crave,  
His pardon he unsueed too freely gave,  
Thus he o'ercame their malice and expressed  
Himself victorious although oppressed,  
Yet does their Hellbred fancy find no end,  
But would unto his memory extend,  
But Rebels do your worst, what you deny,  
His Fate contemning Virtues shall supply,  
And what already is become your shame,  
His glorious Death shall balm his wounded Name,  
Whose grateful memory shall as lasting be  
As time, or as your loathsome Infamy,  
Whose growing names equal to his shall rise,  
That turned the Temple to a Sacrifice,  
Nor shall those Pyramids fall being built with good  
men's bones, and clemented with guiltless blood,  
His Lustre ne'er shall fade but shine in spite,  
Of your contrived mists and Hellish night,  
Such Graces as were his are too divine  
For Lies to spot or dark Cells to confine,  
The glorious Lamps a while deprived of light,  
Breaks forth again and doth appear more bright,  
Afflicted Virtue so doth higher swell,  
And spices bruised yield a more fragrant smell,  
You worthily enslaved, see here your lot, (Londoners●  
And bless you with the freedom you have got,  
But howe'er, that change can but small safety bring,  
That's founded on the Ruin of a King  
Whose worth to tell, in vain let any try,  
No Pen but his could write his Elegy.   

LONDON, Printed for R. Moor, and are to be sold by Walter Davis in Amen Corner. 1683.