A new martyrology, or, The bloody assizes now exactly methodizing in one volume comprehending a compleat history of the lives, actions, trials, sufferings, dying speeches, letters, and prayers of all those eminent Protestants who fell in the west of England and elsewhere from the year 1678 ... : with an alphabetical table ... / written by Thomas Pitts.

Upon the Execrable Murther of the Right Honourable Arthur Earl of Essex.

MOrtality wou'd be too frail to hear How ESSEX fell, and not dissolve with fear; Did not more generous Rage take off the blow, And by his Blood, the steps to Vengeance show.

The Tow'r was for the Tragedy design'd, And to be slaughter'd, he is first confin'd: As fetter'd Victims to the Altar go. But why must Noble ESSEX perish so?

Why with such fury drag'd into his Tomb, Murther'd by slaves and sacrific'd to Rome?

By stealth they kill, and with a secrect stroke Silen••e that Voice which charm'd when e'er it spoke. The bleeding Orifice o'reflow'd the Ground, More like some mighty Deluge, than a Wound. Through the large space his Blood and Vitals glide, And his whole Body might have past beside. The wreaking Crimson swell'd into a Flood, And stream'd a second time in Capel's Blood. He's in his Son again to Death pursu'd, An Instance o•• the high'st Ingratitude. They then malicious Stratagems Imploy, With Life, his dearer Honour to destroy, And make his Fame extinguish with his Breath; An Act beyond the Cruelties of Death. Here Murther is in all its shapes compleat, As Lines united in their Centre meet, Form'd by the blackest Politicks of Hell; Was Cain so dev'lish when his Brother fell?

He that contrives, or his own Fate desires, Wants Courage, and for fear of Death expires; But mighty ESSEX was in all things brave, Neither to Hope, nor to Despair, a Slave. He had a Soul too Innocent, and Great, To fear, or to anticipate his Fate: Yet their exalted Impudence and Guilt, Charge on himself the precious Blood they spilt. So were the Protestants some years ago Destroy'd in Ireland without a Foe. By their own barbarous Hands the Mad-men dye: And Massacre themselves they know not why:

Whilst the kind Irish howl to see the Gore, And pious Catholicks their Fate deplore. If you refuse to trust Erroneous Fame, Royal Mac-Ninny will confirm the same.

We have lost more in injur'd Capel's heir, Than the poor Bankrupt age can e're repair. Nature indulg'd him so, that there we saw All the choice strokes her steddy hand cou'd draw. He the Old English Glory did revive, In him we had Plantagenets alive. Grandeur, and Fortune, and a vast Renown Fit to support the lustre of a Crown. All these in him were potently conjoyn'd, But all was too ignoble for his Mind. Wisdom and Vertue, Properties Divine, Those, God-like ESSEX, were entirely thine.

In his great Name he's still preserv'd alive, And will to all succeeding times survive. With just Progression, as the constant Sun Doth move, and through its bright Ecliptick Run. For whilst his Dust does undistinguish'd lye, And his blest Soul is soar'd above the Sky, Fame shall below his parted Breath supply.