THE satiric elegy upon the Execution of Master NATHANIEL TOMKINS July the 5. 1643.  
To the Citizens of London.  

'tIS Tomkins (glad spectators) whom you see  
Hang as the Trophy of your tyranny;  
Whose loyal harmless blood is spilled  
By, and for you, yet no pale guilt  
Dwells in your faces: with dry eyes  
You murder, and call't Sacrifice;  
I will not say of fools: but sure no man  
Can call such heathen Offerings Christian.   

Such bloody, deep-dyed Crimson facts  
Must not be called Apostles acts,  
(Though Case were godfather:) the Dove  
Descended on the son of Love,  
And not the Kite or Eagle: no such fowl  
Must stand as emblem of a Christian soul.   

Though your new Buffe-Divines can draw  
Blood from the gospel, and make't Law;  
(A killing Letter) and can bring  
Christ into th' field to kill the King;  
When both the Cannon, and the Musket shot,  
Proclaimed you guilty of a powder-plot:   

Blacker than Fauxess, and more fell,  
Than that you say was hatched in Hell.  
When to defend them you let fly  
At King, Prince, Duke, Nobility.  
'tis true you bear a bloody cross, but this  
No badge of murder, but Religion is.   

And Walworth's Dagger in your field,  
Shows a Lord Major a rebel killed:  
But now he is one, and yet he  
And Walworth wears one livery.  
For my part, since Edge-hill, I' count that we  
Live not by right, but only courtesy.   

He that dares smite my King, is more,  
Than I dare think, (grand signior)  
And I his vassal, and my breath  
Is his whose nod or frown is death.  
(Britain) where's now thy liberty! thy walk  
Is not thine own, thy gesture, nor thy talk.   

Thou mayst smile Treason now: a look,  
If cast a squint upon a book,  
Signed with H. E. will strike th''ve dead  
As basilisks, or Gorgon's head.  
Isles were Informers punishment at Rome,  
Where they lived Exiles) ours is now become   

Their paradise: He that can spy  
Malignant in the face or eye,  
Is a made man! need nothing fear,  
Preferments grow at Westminster,  
For knaves and Sycophants, and such as can  
Ruin three kingdoms to make up one man.   

Thus fell brave Tomkins, rather thus  
He hood! as did Calimachus,  
And more, spoke dead, (for he did come  
A dead man to receive his doom)  
Which as he did foreknow, he scorned, nor could  
Their number, or their malice chill his blood.   

He stood undaunted! nor did fear  
The Saw-pit Lord, or Manchester:  
Nor yet Sir John's blood-guilty front,  
With Straffords head engraved upon't.  
Nor the rest of City judges that were there  
For nothing but to murder and forswear.   

Thus died the Roman Thrasea,  
(Brave man) and thus fell Seneca.  
Both wise, and rich, and fortunate,  
Save in his tyrant pupils hate  
Nero, who laughed to see Rome fry, and sung  
Unto his Harp the flames of Jium.   

You do the same and worse, for now  
A Kingdom's all on fire, whilst you  
(Idle and glad spectators) lend  
Fresh fuel, lest the fire should spend.  
Look to't (thou bloody City) fast and pray.  
London, that this prove not Acheldama:  
From your black doom we'll this conclusion draw,  
You have no gospel, Tomkins had no Law.    

Printed at OXFORD, by Will. Web. 1643.