A Guildhall elegy, Upon the FUNERALS of that Infernal Saint John BRADSHAW President of the High Court of justice.  
COme sour Melpomene and ill-looked Clio,  
Help me to grieve while that I fetch an hi ho  
From th'very bottom o' my drooping breech,  
To solemnise the death of this horseleech,  
So full of blood that he e'en burst with anger,  
To think that he could fuddle it no longer.  
And now rehearse his virtues, O ye Muses  
Whom nobody (I'll warrant you) accuses.  
And first his Justice, pictured like a Spinster  
Weighing of thread, was well known at Westminster,  
Where he was President of that highest Court,  
That had no Law neither Precedent for't.  
What havoc did he make of Kings and Princes,  
Just as a proud Stone-horse that kicks and winces  
In his new trappings, so he clothed in Scarlet  
As all men say, seemed a most glorious Varlet.  
His Justice was as blind as his Friend Milton,  
Who slandered the King's Book with an ill-tongue.  
He was not partial, favoured not the mighty,  
Nor King, nor Duke, nor Earl, nor Lord, nor Knight a,  
His Sword was keen, a very desperate cutter,  
With it he durst 'gainst Olliver to mutter,  
But Nol was wroth (and would had heard the vogue,  
Of all the People) swore he would hang the Rogue;  
But then my Muse had been in such a dump,  
As at this present is this dissolved Rump  
His courag'es' next, for in his own defence,  
He was courageous even to impudence,  
A virtue lately deemed Cardinal,  
Needful as Jacks are to a Harpsical;  
He and his Needham, Peter's and John Canne,  
Wholly engrossed it—  
His temperance next, sure he was no wencher  
As I can bear, unless while he was Bencher  
He kept a private bordello in Gray's inn,  
Who highly now may vapour of his raising,  
Wine he difpised, blood was his pleasing drink,  
He was a well-bred Scythian I think.  
His charity succeeds, 'twas wisely great,  
Since all his cunning Alms and Gifts did treat  
For life, expecting every hour like Cain  
By the next obvious person to be slain.  
His Table free, the reason lies at door,  
The Cook would poison him, but not the poor.  
He was a zealous holy miscreant,  
Either for Turk, or Jew, or Termagant.  
A comprehensive, and capacious soul  
Was all, yet nor Red Herring, Fish or Foul.  
And now a Quill plucked from the vultures wing  
That feeds upon Prometheus hither bring,  
His mercy to emblazen, come you Furies  
From th' Stygian sooted River that impure is,  
Your baleful dress put on that we may see  
The true resemblance of his lenity,  
Behold his pity and compassion yearn  
Like th' jaws o'th' Monster in the Fens of learn  
At all that came before him; see his bowels  
Pricking within him, as they were spur-rowels.  
How did he wrest and force the Law with Art,  
I wot in favour and o'th' Prisoners part!  
He did not overrule both truth and reason,  
With th' Courts Nonsensical and surly Treason:  
Not cruel he! his hands and heart did bleed  
Continually, and did always need  
A source, a sprinkling would not serve the turn,  
No blood contented him, but in an urn.  
The Scythian Queen could only fill his wish,  
That blood presented in a deep broad dish.  
And now thou'rt gone, the worst Caligula  
That at one blow didst three Kingdoms slay!  
Where shall I hide thee in perpetual night,  
That neither Name nor fact may come to light;  
The centre reels and staggers at thy dust,  
As if some Ravishers it suffered lust,  
Hell will not silent keep its chiefest crime.  
The Grave will presently throw up thy slime,  
Return then whence thou cam'st to th' Parliament,  
That House of darkness, thy encouragement;  
And may a bar be ever on those doors,  
Till Vengeance come and pay thine and their Scores.  
Sic hilariter luger. O. P.