AN ELEGY On the Death of the LORD RUSSEL, Who was Beheaded in LINCOLNS-INN-Fields, On Saturday the 21st. of July, 1683.  
WHat Powers, what Saints, or who shall I invoke  
To Charm the Axe, before the mighty Stroke?  
God's will not do't; for Man 'tis vain to Plead,  
What if Caligula should interceded?  
What if I raise great Nero from his Urn?  
Or he that did th' Ephesian Temple Burn?  
Can Catiline, Cethegus, Mahomet,  
Judas, or Jack of Leyden, do the Feat?  
Will these evade the Stroke that Fate portends?  
No! these are too much Envious to be Friends.  
Who then, my Lord, shall I invoke for you?  
Will Shaftsbury, Luther, or Jack Calvin do,  
Oats, Bedloe, Prance, Dugdale, Turbervile,  
That, with your help, made Monarchy to reel,  
And like t'have turned it to a Commonweal.  
Nor these, my Lord, cannot these Patriots do't,  
That once had Power to bring all things about,  
And cut off poor old Staffords Head to sho'at.  
Then! must the Mercenary Axe proceed,  
Since you've not cheated Catch, as Essex did;  
For which, perchance, there may Disputes ensue,  
Who was the better Subject of the Two,  
He that d●d save Five Pounds, or had his due.  
But these are Feuds I never shall desire,  
Though 'twas not fairly done to cheat th'Esquire;  
I pity Greatness; not because 'tis you,  
But from my Nature, and to Greatness due:  
So th'Miracle be done, I ear not how,  
Whether to Axe or Hall ere they do bow,  
My moderate Zeal would any way allow;  
The most Expedient surely best should please,  
That ridds the Nation of her worst Disease;  
Essex showed some remorse, which fain would be  
Mistaken for an ill-shaped Loyalty.  
Would Monmouth, Armstrong, Ferguson, and Grace,  
Reflect as deeply, they would take his way;  
But who can hope for such a Consequence  
From Natural Fools, and hardened Impudence?  
Those who've raised their Fortunes by their Prince,  
Lived by the warmth of his kind Influence.  
From Pardons and Indulgence, sucked their Breath,  
And now to seek their Great Preservers Death!  
Inhuman Vipers! pass the Prollick round,  
And save your injured Prince two thousand pound;  
Or else cum in, who knows but you may find  
An Ignoramus Jury to your mind?  
Such as once saved your dear Achitophel,  
Which then did Authorize you to Rebel.  
David has been too merciful, 'tis known,  
And may perchance, forgive Young Absalon.  
Now give me leave to call my Fancy in,  
And talk of Russel, where I did begin.  
To what unequal heights didst thou Aspire!  
What was it thou couldst want or couldst Desire?  
Greatness thou hadst, and all the Plumbs of th'Earth,  
Only a Crown, that did not fit thy Birth:  
And how seemed that to thee? a Glorious Thing!  
Which thy own Power did make so Tottering.  
Farewell fond Russell, those may mourn thy fate,  
That hope, like thee, by Treason to be Grea●.  
Essex's despairing factious Hand did do,  
What neuter Catch th'Esquire performed for you,  
And what I hope will follow all your Crew.   

LONDON, Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball, near the Hospital-Gate, in West-Smithfield, 1683.