Certain CONSIDERATIONS Against the Vanities of this World, and The terrors of Death.  Written by Doctor John Hewit, and delivered to a Friend, a little before his death on Tower Hill, June the 8. 1658. 
Go Pale-faced Paper, tell the World that I,  
Do die in Peace and perfect Charity.  
WHY should Man fear to die, alas, when he  
That lives on earth is ne'er from trouble free?  
Here's perfect Rest, and where else can we rest,  
Is not a man's own house, to sleep in best;  
If this be all our House, they are to blame,  
That bo●st of the great Houses whence they came,  
And ever more their speech thus interlace,  
I, and my Father's House, alas! alas!  
What is my Father's House, and what am I?  
My Father's House is earth, where I must lie:  
And I a worm, no man, that fit no room  
Till like a worm, I crawl into my Tomb:  
This is my dwelling, this my truest home,  
A House of Clay, best fits a Guest of Lome:  
Nay 'tis my House, for I perceive I have  
In all my life ne'er dwelled out of my grave;  
The womb was first my grave, whence since I risen  
My Body (Grave-like) doth my soul enclose:  
The Body, like a Corpse with sheets over spread,  
Dying each night, lies buried in our bed,  
And when my days vain toil, my soul hath wearied,  
I, in my Body, Bed, and House, lie buried,  
Then have I little cause to fear my Tomb,  
When this, wherein I live, my Graves become,  
Here I can sleep secure, here let the Tempest roar,  
The world's proud waves can dash on me no more,  
I am at home, and safe, what ever comes,  
Let them fight on, I cannot hear their D●ums,  
Let those I always loved, me love, or hate,  
It cannot grieve me, though they prove ingrate,  
Yea, let them praise, or rail, I lie aloof  
Out of their reach, my sleep is Cannon-proof,  
And we but sleep, for as we close our eyes,  
Each night we go to bed, in hope to rise:  
So do we die, for when the Trump doth blow,  
We shall as easily awake we know  
And as we after sleep, our bodies find  
More fresh in strength, and cheerfully inclined,  
So after death, our flesh (here dead and dried)  
Shall rise Immortal, new, and purified:  
If this be true, my Friends, pray make more haste,  
'tis time to sleep, day fails, night draws on fast:  
I must go home; for, as the evening Sun  
Looking me in the face, when day is done,  
Makes me cast long my shadow: So when death  
Stairs in my face, threatens, and claims my breath,  
I cast his shadow long off from my fight,  
Yet truly know thereby, 'tis almost night,  
And when night comes, in dark, & frowning skies,  
What man will not go home, if he be wise:  
Here let him come, this house is of such fashion,  
The Tenant ne'er shall pay for Reparation.  
Here can the rain not wet me, could not harm me,  
Here no Sun, no weather over-warm me.  
From hence I'll find (when another's he is gone)  
A private walk to heaven, to God alone.  
This is my Port, this is ●●●●s perfect cure,  
Till my Grave covers me, I am ne'er sure:  
Then farewell World, thou Author of anoys,  
And welcome heaven, the sum of all my Joys.  
What though too soon, a forced death I die,  
'Twill force me live with God eternally?  
My Faith, I hope, by most is understood  
To gain Redemption by my Saviour's blood,  
Which in my soul, I do so highly prize,  
I pray, it Ransom all my enemies,  
Which freely (for my death) I have forgiven,  
As I do hope this day to be in heaven.  
Lay not my blood unto their charge, but bless  
This Land with Peace and lasting Happiness.  
Welcome keen AXE thou dost no Coward try,  
But cut'st my way unto Eternity.  So let thy Servant departed in Peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation. 
FINIS.   

So with much Constancy, and Resolution, he being Guarded to the Scaffold on Tower-Hill: After a short Exhortation, Prayers, and some other Speeches to his Friends, he willingly yielded himself to the stroke of the Executioner, who at one blow, severed his Head from his Body.   

LONDON, Printed in the year of our Lord, 1658.