Rome rhym'd to death being a collection of choice poems, in two parts / written by the E. of R., Dr. Wild, and others of the best modern wits.

Vpon the Execution of the late Viscount STAFFORD.

I.

SHall every Jack and every Jill, That rides in State up Holbourn Hill By aid of Smithfield Rhymes defie The Malice of Mortality? And shall Lord Stafford dye forgot? He that would needs be such a Sot, To dye for love of a damn'd Plot? No, Viscount, no; believe it not.

II.

Diana's Temple, all in flame, Advanc'd th' Incendiaries Name; Ruffians, and Bauds, and Whores, and Theives, In Ballad Records live new lives: And shall a Lord because a Traytor, In such an Age so given to flatter, Want that which others, Saints to him, Ne're want to fame them, Words, and Rhime.

III.

Oh Sir! the Papishes, you know Have much more gratitude than so; For this same Lord that brake the Laws Of God and Man, to serve their Cause, Shall live in Pravers, and Almanacks Beyond what Ballad-Monger makes; And some Years hence, you'l see, shall work Such Miracles, would turn a Turk.

IV.

Blest is that Man that has a Box To save the Saw-dust in, that sokes His tainted Blood, or can besmeare One corner of his Muckinder: Oh! then, some Ages hence they'l cry Lo, Stafford's Blood, and shed for why? For nothing but because he sought To kill his Prince, and sham the Plot.

V.

Now they that dye for crimes like these, The Papists send to Heaven with case:

For they secure 'em safe from Hell, Which once believ'd, the rest is well. A strange Belief, that Men should think That were not drunk with worse than Drink; That such Rewards as Deifying, By Treason should begain'd and Lying.

VI.

The Man that for Religion dyes, Has nothing more before his Eyes: But he that dyes a Criminal, Dyes with a load, and none can call Religion that which makes him dream, Obduracy can hide his shame.

VII.

The Pope may do what he Conjectures As to the business of his Pictures, The Colours ne're can hide the Crimes, Stories will read to after Times. And 'twill be found in the Hangman's Hands, Will strangely blur the Pope's Commands.

VIII.

Had he but shewed some Christmas Gambles, And Headless took St. Denis Rambles: The Plot had been a damnable thing, And down had gon the Scaffolding; But 'cause his Lordship this forgot, Men still believe there is a Plot.

IX.

Where was St. Dominick asleep? Where did St. Frank his Kennel keep?

That on a business so emergen, They did not brisly teize the Virgin? To let his Lordship play a Prank Her Grace becoming, and his Rank?

X.

But they that Heaven and Earth Command, You see sometimes they're at a stand; For truth to tell ye, should the Saints Be bound to hear all Fools complaints; Their Lives would be as void of mirth In Heaven, as formerly on Earth.

XI.

Now Ballad••wise before he's dead, To tell ye what the Sufferer said; He both defended, and gain-said, Held up his hands and cry'd, and pray'd, And swore he ne're was in the Plot, No, by his Vicountship. God wot.

XII.

Come, come, Sir, had it not been better To have dy'd to Death common Debter? And that upon your lasting Stone, This Character had been alone? Here lies a very Honest Lord, True to his King, true to his Word.

XIII.

But those of your Religion, Are now a days so damn'd high flown, You think that nothing makes a Saint But Plot refin'd, and Treason Quaint;

And Heaven accepts no Offerings, But Ruin'd Kingdoms, Murdered Kings.

XIV.

Now you that knew who were his Judges, Who found him Guilty without grudges, Who gave him over to the Block, And how he sham'd to save the stroak, If you believe the Speech he made ye, Le'strange, and P—ton's shame degrade ye.

XV.

Thus us'd all Arts that could cajole, You may be sure, his silly Soul; And were those promises perform'd, With which his Conscience they had charm'd, Who would betray a Cursed Plot, To be when Dead, the Lord knows what?

XVI.

But if those jolly Promises Do send thee into Little ••ase, As certainly they must undo thee, What ever Fools and Knaves said to thee; Then Phlegeus like in Hell condole, And Curse them that betray'd thy Soul.

XVII.

Now God preserve our Noble King, And bless all them that thus did bring Unto the Block that silly Head, That car'd not what it did or said. And all good Men may Heaven defend, From such a vile untimely End.