AN ELEGY On the Death of William late Viscount Stafford, Who was Beheaded on TOWER-HILL, on Wednesday, DECEMBER 29 th'. 1680.  By a Person of Quality. 

WHen Sol had set his day at one at Noon,  
An Ancient Lord, of the Church of Rome  
Was executed, and there then did die  
For Treason great, against His Majesty;  
Designing Government to overthrow,  
And Christian Religion, to lay low,  
Whereby to turn, the whole English Nation  
Into Blood, Murder, Sword, and Conflagration,  
And to figure us of the Pope's die,  
To become Devils in Divinity.  
He's a Deceiver, from the beginning,  
And only learneth men, the Trade of sinning;  
Shows them the Mountains, and exalts them high,  
Only to throw them headlong from the Sky;  
Like a cunning Fowler, still his Nets doth lay  
For Night-Birds, Owls, while others fly away:  
So that the Prisoners pay for coming there,  
As Sparrows taken, by the Hawks in the Air;  
Ambition like, the soaring lofty Kite  
Flies still so long, at last flies out of sight,  
And by using of that violence still,  
At last drops down, and falls by its own ill:  
So Vice gives all its Children, but a false Light,  
The Flame goes out, with an eternal Night.  
'Tis strange Religion, thus should point to Blood,  
Therefore not so easily understood;  
Yet 'tis so, let us do what we can,  
So that it concerneth, nay every man;  
Because, in daily Fears, about our Lives,  
To lose our Children, and our dearest Wives;  
Nature strives, still, to preserve itself,  
As the gay Dutchman, travels towards the Dolf:  
Looks that he's well provided to go on  
To take his Journey, whether short or long;  
Therefore we all look after a Disease,  
That so recovered, we may take our ease;  
Since Health's the I lower of all Blessings high,  
As the Sun's the Coachman of the Sky.  
This is a Cause, relates to our Religion,  
Who would have men, to be reasonable;  
Yet teaches men, how secretly to act ill,  
And plays the Fool, with the rebellious Will;  
The Charms false, and only from the Devil,  
The great Mountebank of the whole World's evil,  
That still draws on poor Souls to be undone,  
As Mists are scattered by the brighter Sun:  
This therefore teaches us their artful Harms,  
To be aware, of such like kind of Charms;  
Because we see, all Vice is like an Eel,  
Which still, doth trip up, it's own natural heel;  
Like Darkness, pleased with its own dismal hue,  
Glides off from Colours, that are brave and true:  
All men being pleased, with their own Actions still,  
Whether they prove, for good, or whether ill,  
And as Light, is above the Darkness still,  
So the Highborn English, do fear no ill;  
Their Faith's in God, and their Manners high,  
That renders them the Allies of the Sky.  
We having then at length, no more to do,  
But affect good Manners, and none new;  
For Vices, we ourselves, are given to,  
Things that do always, conjure up our Woe;  
That we should no such fatal Object be,  
To be lamented in Calamity;  
Since 'tis the Pleasure, of the alwise Heaven,  
To make different Objects, not all even.  
In short, does Languages teach men to be uncivil,  
Why then they're the Goblins of the Devil;  
Who while they laugh, their Hearts another way,  
As false as Watermens, on every day;  
Yet Nature doth provide for each Disease,  
To find a Remedy, for us still to ease.  
The Dog, when sick, he goes unto the Grass,  
And there lies down, and playing like an Ass;  
At length grows well, and whisks he on again,  
As the brisk Coney, after a shower of Rain:  
Charity therefore, always doth begin at home,  
To look to our Enemies, the Church of Rome;  
To love our King, and to honour him still,  
And to see ourselves, be guilty of no ill;  
But like Travellers, go on the Golden Way  
Of the Protestant Truth, without the least delay;  
For Heaven proves, most auspicuously kind  
To men of Truth, and of a generous Mind;  
By saving, and protecting of them still  
From the Devil, and his Accomplices of ill:  
Therefore we have reason, and that all  
To study to be just, both great and small;  
Since Mischiefs, as they fatten, stand in need  
Of to be purged, and gently still to bleed;  
Therefore give Ear, and to Reason still draw nigh,  
For Death has ended this Lord's Tragedy.    

POSTSCRIPT.  

GEntlemen and Ladies, you did all see  
A Popish Lord in great Extremity,  
Suffering as an Example, to deter all,  
Not to design, their Native country's fall:  
Therefore for a Light, was here hung in the way  
For all like Mariners, to make Holiday:  
Let us take warning then, so shall we be  
Happy both here, and to Eternity.    
FINIS.  

LONDON, Printed for William Miller, at the Guilded Acorn in St. Paul's Churchyard, where you may be furnished with most sorts of Bound or Stitched Books, as Acts of Parliament, Proclamations, Speeches, Declarations, Letters, Orders, Commissions, Articles of War or Peace; As also Books of Divinity, Church-Government, Sermons on most occasions, and most sorts of Histories, Poetry, Plays, and such like, etc. 1681.