A Supplement, TO THE Last Will and Testament OF ANTHONY EARL of SHAFTSBURY; With his last Words, as they were taken in Holland, where he Died, January the 20th, 1682.  

MOurn! England, Mourn! let not thy Griefs be feigned,  
The Tap so long upon the Lees is Drained.  
The Cringing Pillar of the State and Church  
Is fallen, and left his Profelites i'th' Lurch.  
Alas! what will become o'th' Reformation?  
The Popish Plot, and black Association?  
Our Rights and Liberties, and Good Old Cause?  
Patched Juries, and the Ignoramus Laws?  
What will become o'th' Saints in Tribulation?  
If Tory-Loyalty comes into Fashion.  
The Salamanca Doctor must take Post,  
If Thompson, and Lestrange must Rule the Rost.  
And Monkey Care, Gotham, and Snivelling Dick,  
Must from the Hague, even follow, to Old-Nick.   

In vain we strive to shun th' appointed Fate,  
That on the Knave, as well as Fool, does wait.  
Though I (said he) have drawn Infectious Breath,  
And Lived this Eighty Years in spite of Death:  
Had I been Hanged but Fifty Years ago,  
Less Treason had Ensued, less Mischief done.  
But as there is an Evil Genius waits  
On private Men, so there's in Public States.  
The Universal Tempter of Mankind,  
That always in the Ditch will lead the Blind,  
Of Sin and Faction, the allotted Bane,  
And for that very Cause has leave to Reign.  
Else Belzebub, long since, I'd been thy due,  
But that he feared, I should supplant him too.  

Thus, like the Devil, I was Born a Curse  
To all Mankind. My Lord and Master, worse  
Betrayed, like Judas, while I kept the Purse.    

Yet still, in every State, I walked Secure,  
Grave with the King, and Jocuned with the Whore;  
And never did one Lucky Mischief Brew,  
But Grateful Laurels still adorned my Brow:  
In every State have so Successful Been,  
As Fame alone were the Rewards of Sin.   

And all this while, not the Sevearest Law  
Could find me Faulty, though they found a Flaw.  
Still by my Art, or Ignoramus Friends,  
I Guiltless seemed, and still pursued my Ends.  
For what was all this specious Pretence?  
Of Subject's Rights, and Safety of the Prince?  
Religion, Liberty, Association?  
But to Betray all, and Enslave the Nation?  
Which by so many Plots I did Enthral,  
Whilst the blind Rabble Worshipped me as Baal.   

But now the Mist is Vanished from their Eyes,  
They see my Crimes through all its thick Disguise;  
(Though, for the Saints, and Brethren, I dare say,  
I could have kept in Ignorance to this Day,)  
Once Sons of Light: But now the Saints are blind,  
While Tories, Janus-like, have Eyes behind.   

Thus, all my sham's discovered, I poor I,  
Was forced, although my Wings were Clipped, to Fly;  
Nay, though no Legs I had, my Gate was Fleet,  
Obliged to Travel, though I had no Feet:  
From Justice (all my Crimes laid at my Door)  
Found power to run, who could not Crawl before.   

Old and Decriped, Gouty Toes, Scarr'd Shins,  
Turn Pilgrim in my Dotage for my Sins.  
My Strength and Action gone, I mount the Stage,  
With all the Frailties that attend on Age,  
And nothing left me but the constant Will,  
And Natural Inclination to do ill.  
Glad to shame off with all my Vanquished Hope,  
To save that Neck that would disgrace a Rope.   

My Hopes are fled, let Death wind up the Charm,  
Lives but a Plague when I can do no harm;  
Your Canting Words no longer will prevail,  
Your Liberty, and Property is Stolen;  
The Rights and Privileges of the Nation,  
Are but cast Suits, when Loyalty's in Fashion.  

Your Plots and Perjuries will do no more,  
Your Slavery, and Arbitrary Power,  
Are like my Banished Self thrown out of Door.    

What now remains, but that the Tap should Burst?  
Who can do any more, that has done his worst?  
That the Proud Foe Rejoice not in my Fall.  
Now Heart, break Heart, and Baffle Catch and All.  

But e'er I Fall a Victim though too late,  
In a Vile Nation, to a Viler Fate,  
I thus Bequeath the Remnant of my Estate.    

My former Will as Fates Decretals stands,  
But something's due unto the Netherlands;  
For their Civilities, since here I fled,  
Foul Linen, stinking Fish, and mouldy Bread.  
To th' States because they are a Freeborn Nation,  
I do Bequeath my New Association,  
That perfect Model of true Anarchy,  
And Charm against all Monarch Tyranny.  
Tho' to live here, (had it so pleased the Fates,)  
I had been King, or th' Devil had had the States.   

My Heart with Faction flamed that Source of Evil,  
I leave to my Old Club that haunts the Devil.  
As Fickle and as False as is your own  
Sworn Enemy, to all that Sways the Throne.   

My Lungs (my Ignoramus Friends) is yours,  
But for my Leights, I leave 'em to the Boars;  
To Blow the Bellows of each New Sedition,  
On any Change of Faction, or Religion.   

My Tap and Spigot was disposed before,  
Or that had served some Belgic Commons-Shew'r;  
A Sovereign Cure for an Hydroptick Nation,  
To stop, or else let out the Inundation.  
To drown the Monsieur for his late Abuses,  
And vent out all their Venom through the Sluices.   

I leave my Brains to that Incestuous Crew,  
The Lordly Tribe, who lofty Treason's Brew;  

Those Hot-brained Fiery Catiline's of State  
Who their own, and the Nations Ills Create,  
And will, I fear like Me, Repent too Late,    

To Bethel and his Brethren I Resign  
The Axe which baffled Fate predestined Mine;  
To do that Execution they would bring  
On Monarchy, and an Indulgent King.   

To th' Salamanca Beagle of the Plot,  
I leave a Halter as his proper Lot;  
For his ill Management, while Tory strived,  
Of an ill Plot that was so well contrived.   

And Lastly to those Friends who were at Strife,  
Losing Themselves to Save a wretched Life;  
I do Bequeath my Sledg as the just Fee  
Of their Accumulated Perjury.   

These With my Gouts, and Pains, I leave to those  
Who did my long deserved Fate oppose;  
Their too officious Kindness proved a Curse,  
To Hang is bad, to die Unpitty'd's worse;  
Since I had rather fallen a Martyr there,  
Then Rot, and Moulder in Effigy, here,   

You the trusties of this my Dying Will,  
If you in Villainy would prosper still,  
Be sure you justly every Point fulfil.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for John Smith. 1683.