AN ELEGY Upon Marsh's one of the two Public Sworn Informers against Protestant Religious meetings in the City of London, who lately died very miserably in the Prison of the Counter.  Ultor a Tergo Deus. 
Go set Scotch Bagpipes to the briskest Notes,  
But let the Singing men rend all their Throats,  
Hang Tyburn round with Blocks, and let Catch Squeeze  
His Eyes to Tears, having thus lost his Fees;  
Myself (like a young Widow) fain would Cry,  
But like her too, I know not how, nor why;  
Must get an Onion quickly, or else Woe  
Some Irish Poet for Alla-la-loo;  
Oh Hone! Oh Hone! tell us what didst thou all  
Thus to trappan thyself into a Jail?  
Thou hadst a stout Protection and its said  
A lumping Pension for good service paid:  
Some Bribes thou got'st, and many a penalty  
Was due we trow, and why then wouldst thou die?  
Thy Clovenfooted Master's work's not done,  
Thou shouldst have ruined thousands ere thou'dst gone.  
Thou shouldst have made each Nonconformist bow,  
And left them all as Poor as thou wert now;  
Then mounted on State with solemn pride,  
Thou mightst to Hell in guilded Chariot ride:  
Been Pluto's Viceroy, and preferred more  
Than Judas, or thy Brethren all before.  
But now alas! thou scare canst get i'th' end  
To be the Groom o'th' Close stool Chamber to the Fiend;  
But 'tis in vain thus to Expostulate,  
For poor Informers warrant's out of date;  
The Man of Gath is fallen that did so stickle,  
And swore to confound each Conventicle;  
Grim death hath by a Seizure snatched him hence,  
For to receive his Dear-earned Recompense:  
Follow the Scent, and from the Stygian Lake,  
Fit Junk for such a wretched Subject take;  
Black as his Trade let every Line appear,  
And each Ear Tingle his sad Fate shall hear,  
Not that I am of that Presumptuous fry,  
whose saucy fingers Pick-lock Destiny,  
Who snatch Fates book, and furiously transpose  
To Judgements all misfortunes of their Foes;  
Virtue may be unhappy, and sometimes  
Success here waits upon the worst of crimes,  
It is another Day, a clearer Light  
Must set all these seeming disorders right;  
Yet must we grant that Heaven does now and then  
Visibly punish Irreligious Men,  
And against none Its Arrows oftener fly  
Than these sworn Enemies to Piety,  
A Persecuting Spirit never yet  
But in a Cloud of shame and sorrow set;  
Just God how equal are thy punishments  
Thus blasting base Designs with sad Events;  
Though Crafty in self woven Nets is wrapped  
And in the Pit he digged for others, trapped;  
Hark how the Ravens and the Screech-owl's cries.  
With frightful Echoes Chant his obsequies.  
Whether he's gone now Dead I shall not say  
But whilst alive he took the broader way  
If Pythagorean Tenets are not flams  
He's grown a Wolf by this, and worries Lambs.  

An Epitaph.  

Stay Reader! and Piss here, for it is said  
Under this Dirt there's an Informer laid,  
If Heaven be pleased when Mortals cease from sin  
And Hell be pleased when Villains enter in,  
If Earth be pleased when it entombs a Knave,  
Sure all are pleased, for Marsh's in his Grave.     

Printed in the Year 1675,