Epitaph

Thus Stafford for his horred Treasons fell
A missed Martyr unto Rome and Hell;
And thus Eternal Vengence first does blast
The Traitors Plots, and ruines them at last,
Snaky Ambition who dost alwayes twine
Thy self 'bout great mens Thoughts, and dost encline
And hurry them on violent Actions Skill,
Betrayest the Judgment, and corrupt'st the Will:
Makes them to think they'l ne're stand high enough,
Cheat'st them with Honours that's an empty puff.
Still forcest them to soar up higher higher
Tho't be through Sin, through Blood, through Sword, through Fire.
Till to the Temples Pinacle they'r flown,
Then let'st them fall, prest with a Vengence down.
If with false Notions of Religion clad,
Thou then let'st loose thy Reins and run'st stark mad.
Dost toss and wrack the Minds thou dost enslave,
Till brought with Shame and ruine to the Grave.
Deluded Stafford, miserable Wight,
Was a great Instance of thy cursed spite.
Curst Popery, whose Principles do's bend
Its Bigots to such Actions, such an end,
We must rejoyce for Justice done t'him all,
And yet lament his miserable Fall.
And Curse the Infernal Maxims of proud Rome,
Who brought so great a Man to such a Doom.

Poor wretched Viscount Stafford here lies dead,
Here lies his Body, but without a Head.
Still that was Plotting against Church and State.
For which the Laws adjudg'd it such a Fate.