Poem on the Condemnation of William Viscount Stafford

Aid me, Apollo, lay aside thy Lyre,
With Numbers high, yet sad, my Muse inspire;
In moving strains, assist me to repeat
A Noble's fall, (would he were Good as Great!)
Oh Stafford! Stafford! how could'st thou, when Death
Led in by Time, stood waiting for thy Breath;
By such ignoble ways and Methods strive,
To cut off those few Years thou had'st to live:
Alas! what Bliss couldst thou expect to come,
(O're-press'd with Age) when Nature's powerful doom,
Had left thee nought to hope for but a Tomb.
Why should'st thou then in such a horrid Cause,
Turn Traytor to Divine and Humane Laws?
Ah! how could'st thou, thou, so unnatural be
To him who was so good, so kind to thee?
How could'st thou plot 'gainst such a King as he?
One who had heap'd such Honours on thy Head,
And yet could'st thou, ingrateful, wish him Dead,
Not onely wish him so, but in that strife,
To act a part that was to take his Life;
Yet, 'cause thy Blood from noble springs doth flow,
Would Error and not Malice made thee so!
Would thou wert over-reach'd, that so the sin
Might be less thine then theirs that drew thee in:
Fain would I think it were with thee, as they,
An Ignis Fatuns leads out o'th' way:
Too credulous they follow the false Light,
And bless themselves for such a Guide i'th Night,
And think where e're it leads they'r still i'th right.
And yet at last, (with toyl and trouble crost,)
They feel the Pain, but find the Labour lost:
They see the flatt'ring Light o'th sudden gone,
And they to their Dispair are left alone
In Fens, or Brakes, or Floods, to make their moan.
So thou O're-sway'd by'th Pious-seeming Wits,
Of Hells chief Agents, (Juggling Jesuits)
(By specious Arguments, and pious fraud,
Such as Romes Pandemonium does applaud)
Wer't in that Hellish Brood drawn in to be
An Actor in that Dismal Tragedy,
That boldly aim'd at Sacred Majesty;
But Heaven step'd in and sav'd the tottering Throne,
(Just when it could be sav'd by Heaven alone)
And all the Plots of Rome and Hell were known.
All did I say! Ah! no; yet such, so Vile,
So base, so dire, were found in Albions Isle?
As Scithia (where the Sun dares scarce appear,
Where Horrid Winter broods,) would blush to hear;
That those whom Heaven had plac'd so near the Crown
With Impious Hands should strive to pull it down.
Unhappy State of Monarchs, who do good,
Even to those that strive to shed their Blood,
And they not know it, but with gentle breath,
Speak those foul Serpents fair that plot their Death.
Ah! Stafford! how couldst thou so base become?
(So false to England! to be True to ROME?)
How couldst thou Plot his Death who always strove
Not to Command, but fairly win thy Love?
Ah! how couldst thou so base and Treacherous prove!
Couldst thou think Heaven asleep at such a time?
Or could'st believe it did approve thy Crime?
Or to such Treasons would Success have given?
Ah! no; a King's the Substitute of Heaven,
And Angels are his Guard.
The Gyants so of Old wag'd War with JOVE,
Striving by Arms, to win the Seats Above:
Though Bold, yet vainly, in th' Attempt they fell,
And for their hop'd of Heaven, were plung'd in Hell.
The Dreadful Thunder ruin'd their Designs,
And in their torments Heavens just vengeance shines.
Consider this, Oh! Stafford, and Repent,
Use well that little time that Heaven hath lent;
That little time, (for long it cannot be,
E're thou must enter Vast Eternity.)
Oh! use it well, let it to Tears be given,
Be Penitent, and make thy peace with Heaven;
That when the fatal stroke shall end thy Days,
Its Mercy and Justice may have equal Praise.