The Friars LAMENTING, For his not REPENTING.  
Being a Relation of the life and death of Francis Colewort a Friar, who related a little before his death a threefold Plot of Treason.  
With his Conversion to the Protestant Religion, at Hungerford in Berkshire.  IN DOMINO CONFIDO  printer's or publisher's device 
Printed at London. 1641.   

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Francis Colewort, A French Friar, who related a little before his death a threefold plot of Treason.  
COuntrymen, this Papist that made this doleful Lamentation was a long time a Friar in France, yet borne in England, by name Francis Colewort, his father was a very honest poor man, living in the Town of Hungerford in Berkshire, and a Shoemaker by his Trade; this Francis Colewort was brought up to school till he was fit to go to Oxford, but his father being not able to maintain him there, he waited upon Sir Edward Bristol son and heir into France; now he being a youth of a very pregnant wit, and a pretty scholar, he commenced his two Degrees of Bachelor and Master of Arts in Paris, and it happened that it pleased God to give him over to himself that he became a Friar, and so continued for the space of twelve years; at the last it pleased God to open his eyes that he saw the pit he was fallen into, he became a true Protestant, and came for his own Country, where with grief for the Religion he had so long been blinded with, he even blinded himself with tears, relating the plots of these Papistical Caterpillars, which they had pretended against this Kingdom for a long time. He lived sixty and seven years, and a little before his death, he unfolded many treasons, which I shall after relate.  

The Treasons against our State, which Francis Colewort a French Friar, after he was converted to the Truth, related.  
FIrst, he reported that the Pope of Rome wrote his Letters to the two great Monarches, F. S. that he might incense them against this our State; for whilst we were in safety, he pretended he was not at any quiet.  
Secondly, he, viz. the Pope also wrote Letters to the Emperor that he would join with the two great Monarches, that he might be sure to see, or at least to hear of the utter subversion of our State.  
Thirdly, he said, that there were above three hundred Jesuits and Friars in this Kingdom, all which had taken the Sacrament to do some bloody Design.  
From this may you see the continual Plots which have been hatched against this our State, yet ●●re ever ●ame to any good, and how are we board to praise our God for these Deliverances? I beseech you that ye would ●ll rejoice with me, and praise the great Jehovah, who is the beginning and the end.   

A Friars lamenting, For his not repenting.  

LIke to the purpose, tempest, foot-post, I  
Do play before my storm of misery,  
Or like the Swan who sings just at his death,  
So do I carol out my latest breath,  
Quavers are sighs, and semiquavers tears,  
Grief is the drapason my song bears:   

When first the wanton winds of pear and rest  
Played with my sails, than did my thoughts work best,  
I set such wheels of treasons round, that I  
Thought sure the world drowned in my Tragcedy.  
A powder-plot I had, which all the earth,  
Though it had strived, could not have stopped its birth;  
Yet the allseeing Eye of Heaven saw,  
How much abuse was offered to his Law,  
He cropped my bud of Treason, and the stock  
Withered, and straight became my stumbling block.  
Thus low I lie, without all hope to rise,  
Look here and see, grief doth eclipse mine eyes;  
Whole showers of tears stand ready at the brink,  
And seas of sorrow cause me here to sink;  
I was a man that always thought it good,  
To swim to my desires through seas of blood,  
But see my downfall, I am fallen there  
Where I but late had fixed a subtle snare,  
I like to Haman built a lofty tree,  
Which men thought best t'allot to none but me.  
Ye doleful fears which do surround my heart,  
Which pinch my soul, and to my further smart,  
Confound my senses, swaddling me in thrall,  
To make me hated here in general,  
Which to my frozen lips have utterance given,  
Speak, O speak the command ye bring from Heaven  
Thus much I grasp, and this I understand,  
The latest day is now, (even now) at hand  
What shall I do? I will confess my sin,  
Thence may you read the grief I labour in.   

O, I was one which lived under suspense.  
I nothing studied but to please my sense,  
I trimmed a glorious out side, whilst within,  
I nourished nought, but propagated sin;  
What dared I not? I often drenched my soul  
In Pluto's Lethe, in red murders bowl;  
I durst attempt to pull jove from his throne,  
I did no less, I pulled at Caesar's Crown,  
Caesar's said I? nay here is now more odds,  
I threatened heaven and the thundering gods.  
Seas were at my command, and thence did I  
Threatened Religion press with misery,  
But now behold, my crescent horns are changed,  
And I could wish that I had never ranged,  
My sun of glory's set, and I return  
Down to my humble grave, my peaceful Urn;  
I have no hope, my ebb will never flow,  
But I must stoop to fortune at one blow;  
My Genius tells me I have done great wrong,  
A grievous burden to any doleful song,  
'Tis my ill deeds that now doth blast my praise,  
My star doth fall, without a starlike blaze;  
I once did scorn pity, I had in store,  
Now none will pity, because my worth is poor;  
But I deserve it, I did always prey  
Upon Religion both night and day,  
Just like the Ass clad in a Lion's skin,  
Thus did I act, and enact each day's sin:  
When I look on my fatal misery,  
My thoughts begin to scale the starry sky,  
T'invoke great jove, hope doth me straight ways spurn,  
Decreeing fates have clapped me in my Urn:  
Thus may you see what 'tis to bow and creep  
To idle idols, how most men do leap  
To see my downfall, and I must confess,  
That in their joy consists my happiness;  
For those that suffer here below, I'll prove,  
Have less to answer fore our God above.  
Lord grant me patience, now I come to thee,  
No Saint shall now once intercede for me;  
Forgive me Lord for those sins which are past,  
I'll leave the Pope, and come to thee at last,  
And on my knees I beg from thee O God,  
That thou wouldst spareit by all revenging rod,  
I'll kneel no more to Saints, not I, not I,  
I feel the smart, I'm gripped with misery,  
But now I sue for this same very thing,  
That I may have pardon from my earthly King,  
He whom I hated cause he was too good  
To live among us, O my soul for food  
Doth almost faint, pray for my safety all,  
Although you laugh to see a sinner fall,  
So shall ye have my prayers to great jove,  
That the great King of kings would show you love.    

Postscript.  
What do ye spit forth Verse, or piss out Prose  
Or drop conceits from forth your fruitful nose  
That thus you sell a Copy for a board,  
Nay by Apollo first give't for a—  
Each verse I make, makes me to twist my face,  
To pick my nails, almost an hour's space,  
Before invention can to me present,  
The forming of one pleasing compliment.  
And faith before this Stump-foot silly Gull  
Shall rake my brains to spend upon a Trull,  
I'll throw my ink away, and make my brains  
Forswear to write such underprized strains,  
I'll take my leave, and do what you shall please,  
If you take counsel 'twill be for your ease,  
Go down to th' Parliament with your new print book,  
Let them your good intentions quite orelook,  
O, 'twas bravely done to set down your own praise,  
But then by way to shorten your days,  
Your Mercuries forsake you, so do your Hawkers,  
Take heed of meddling with any more Walkers.   
FINIS.