The bloody assizes, or, A compleat history of the life of George Lord Jefferies, from his birth to this present time ... to which is added Major Holmes's excellent speech, with the dying speeches and prayers of many other eminent Protestants : none of which were ever before publish'd ...

A POEM, TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE Lord JEFFERIES.

I Cannot hold, hot struggling Rage aspires, And crowds my free-born breast with noble fires, Whilst prudent fools squeak Treason through the nose, And whine a quivering Vote in sneaking Prose, My Muse soars out of reach, and dares despise What e're below attempts to Tyrannize. Thô I by some base Nero should be clad In such a Gown as the old Christians had, In clouds of Satyr up to Heaven I▪de roul, For he could burn my shell, but not my Soul. Thô Nature her auspicious aid refuse, Revenge and Anger shall inspire my Muse▪ Nature has given me a complaining part, And murder'd Protestants a resenting Heart▪ Then room for bloody Jefferys or he'll swear By all the Aps from St. Cadwallader;

Prutus hur creat Cranfather, if hur enquire, And Adam's Cranfather was Prutus sire; Famous ap Shenkin was hur elder Brother, Some Caledonian Sycorax hur Mother: Or some she-De'il more damn'd than all the rest, At their black Feast hur lustful Sire comprest: Thence do I think this Cacademon rose, Whose wrathful Eyes his inward baseness shows; His shape is all inhumane and uncouth, But yet he's chiefly Devil about the MOUTH; With care this Brat was nurs'd for fear it shou'd Grow tame, and so degen'rate into good: With City-charters he was wrapt about, And Acts of Parliament for swadling-clout: As he grew up, he won a noble Fame, For which Squire Ketch hath sworn him publick shame. And won't it be a pretty sight to see't, The Hang-man, Rope, and bloody Jefferies meet? Jefferys who cherisht spite, as all can tell; Jefferys who was the darling Brat of Hell. Oft with success this mighty Blast did bawl, Where loudest Lungs, and biggest words win all; And still his clenched Arguments did end With that home-thrust, He is not Caesar's Friend. Sometimes that jaded Ears he might release, Good Man! he has been fee'd to hold his Peace. Hear him, but never see him, and you'd swear He was the Cryer, not the Counseller: He roars, as if he only chanc'd to find Justice was now grown deaf as well as blind. This Demy-fiend, this Hurricane of Man Was sent to butcher all i'th' West he can: 'Twas him the Popish Party wisely chose To splutter Law, and the dinn'd Rabble pose: They have a thousand Tongues, yet he can roar Far louder, thô they had a thousand more Ʋnto long-winded Cook he scorns ••o But Pleads, his Majesly will have it so.

He's for all Mischief set, by Nature bred; He rails at all before him, and is fed Hyaena like, by tearing up the Dead. Th' unluckiest Satyrist alive, that still Writes his own Character in all that's ill. Of all the World most fit a Vice t' expose, That all its Cause, Effects and Motions knows, Stranger to none can no advantage lose. Big with conceit the empty shape looks great, His own dear self obligingly doth treat: Rewards his Soul in any garb will lap, His ductile Soul will put on any shape: Vice hath his patronage, and there's no fear But Hell in time may his protection share, The rather 'cause the god of gold is there. He courts loud rumour, but lets truth alone, Conscious of guilt, he shuns being justly known, And by's oft changing flyes a definition. Learn'd, but in ill; Ingenious but in spite; Virtuous by accident, by chance a Wit; Modest, when beat; in suffering valiant; Honest, when forc'd; and moderate when in want: True, but for Interest; Civil, but for dread; Devout for Alms; and Loyal but for bread. Thy mushroom Greatness I dare now arraign, For all thy Hectoring now will be in vain. Here, take this Pass, e're we for ever part; Then run, and then farewell with all my heart. The Lawyers yelling in their feign'd debate, And the fleec'd Clients Wisdom, all too late; The keeping Cully's Jealousie and Care, The slighted Lover's Maggots and Despair; A Woman's Body every day to dress, A fickle Soul, little as theirs, or less; The Courtiers business, th' Impudence o'th' Stage, And the defeated Father Peter's Rage; A Clock-work Spouse with loud eternal Clack A Shop i'th' Change still ty'd to What d'ye lack:

Worse than these last, if any Curses more Ovid e're knew, or fiercer Oldham's store; 'Till not one part in Body or Soul be free, May all their barbed Vengeance show'r on thee: Press'd with their weight, long may'st thou raving lye, Envying an Halter, but not dare to dye: And when Condemn'd thou dost thy Clergy plead, Some frightful Fiend deny thee Power to read; Madness, Despair, Confusion, Rage and Shame Attend you to the Place from whence you came: To Tyburn thee let carrion Horses draw, In jolting Cart, without so much as straw; Jaded, may they lye down i'th' road, and tyr'd, And (worse than one fair hanging, twice bemir'd) May'st thou be maul'd with Pulchers Sextons Sermon. 'Till thou roar out for Hemp-sake, Drive on Car-man. Pelted and Curst i'th' road by every one, E'ne to be hang'd may'st thou the Gauntlet run. Not one good Woman who in Conscience can Cry out,—'Tis pitty,—Troth, a proper Man. Stupid and dull, may'st thou rub off like Hone, Without an open, or a smother'd groan: May the Knot miss the place, and fitted be To plague and torture, not deliver thee; Be half a day a Dying thus, and then Revive like Savage to be Hang'd agen.

In Pity now thou shalt no longer Live, For when thus satisfy'd, I can forgive.

John Carter.