The Friers LAMENTING, For his not REPENTING.

Being a Relation of the life and death of Francis Colewort a Frier, who related a little before his death a three­fold Plot of Treason.

With his Conversion to the Protestant Religion, at Hungerford in Barkshire.

‘IN DOMINO CONFIDO’

Printed at London. 1641.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF Francis Colevvort, A French Frier, who related a little before his death a threefold plot of Treason.

COuntrymen, this Papist that made this dolefull Lamentation was a long time a Frier in France, yet borne in England, by name Francis Colewort, his father was a very honest poor man, living in the Towne of Hungerford in Barkshire, and a Shoomaker by his Trade; this Francis Colewort was brought up to school till he was fit to go to Oxford, but his father being not able to maintain him there, he wait­ed upon Sir Edward Bristowe son and heir into France; now he being a youth of a very pregnant wit, and a pretty scholar, he commenced his two Degrees of Bachelour and Master of Arts in Paris, and it hapned that it pleased God to give him over to himselfe that he became a Frier, and so continued for the space of twelve yeeres; at the [Page 2]last it pleased God to open his eyes that he saw the pit he was fallen into, he became a true Protestant, and came for his owne Countrey, where with griefe for the Religion he had so long been blinded with, he even blind­ed himselfe with tears, relating the plots of these Pa­pisticall Caterpillers, which they had pretended against this Kingdom for a long time. He lived sixty and seven yeeres, and a little before his death, he unfolded many treasons, which I shall after relate.

The Treasons against our State, which Francis Colewort a French Frier, after he was convert­ed to the Truth, related.

FIrst, he reported that the Pope of Rome wrote his Letters to the two great Monarchs, F. S. that hee might incense them against this our State; for whilest we were in safety, he pretended he was not at any quiet.

Secondly, he, viz. the Pope also wrote Letters to the Emperour that he would joyne with the two great Mo­narchs, that he might be sure to see, or at least to hear of the utter subversion of our State.

Thirdly, he said, that there were above three hundred Jesuits and Friers in this Kingdom, all which had taken the Sacrament to do some bloudy Designe.

From this may you see the continuall Plots which [Page 3]have been hatched against this our State, yet [...]re ever [...]ame to any good, and how are we bourd to praise our God for these Deliverances? I beseech you that ye would [...]ll rejoyce with me, and praise the great Jehovah, who is the beginning and the end.

A Friers lamenting, For his not repenting.

LIke to the Porpose, tempest, foot-post, I
Do play before my storme of misery,
Or like the Swan who sings just at his death,
So do I caroll out my latest breath,
Quavers are sighs, and semiquavers teares,
Griefe is the drapason my song beares:
When first the wanton windes of peare and rest
Play'd with my sailes, then did my thoughts worke best,
I set such wheeles of treasons round, that I
Thought sure the world drown'd in my Tragcedy.
A powder-plot I had, which all the earth,
Though it had striv'd, could not have stopt its birth;
Yet the all-seeing Eye of Heaven saw,
How much abuse was offered to his Law,
He cropt my bud of Treason, and the stocke
Wither'd, and strait became my stumbling blocke.
Thus low I lie, without all hope to rise,
Look here and see, griefe doth eclipse mine eyes;
Whole showres of teares stand ready at the brinke,
And seas of sorrow cause me here to sinke;
I was a man that alwayes thought it good,
To swim to my desires through seas of blood,
But see my downfall, I am fallen there
Where I but late had fixt a subtle snare,
I like to Haman built a lofty tree,
Which men thought best t'allot to none but me.
Ye dolefull feares which do surround my heart,
Which pinch my soul, and to my further smart,
Confound my senses, swadling me in thrall,
To make me hated here in generall,
Which to my frozen lips have utterance given,
Speake, O speake the command ye bring from Heaven
Thus much I graspe, and this I understand,
The latest day is now, (ev'n now) at hand
What shall I do? I will confesse my sin,
Thence may you reade the griefe I labour in.
O, I was one which liv'd under suspence.
I nothing studied but to please my sence,
I trimm'd a glorious out side, whilest within,
I nourisht nought, but propagated sin;
What dar'd I not? I often drencht my soul
In Pluto's Lethe, in red murthers boule;
I durst attempt to pull Iove from his throne,
I did no lesse, I pull'd at Caesar's Crowne,
Caesars said I? nay here is now more ods,
I threatned heaven and the thundring gods.
Seas were at my command, and thence did I
Threatned Religion presse with misery,
But now behold, my crescent hornes are chang'd,
And I could wish that I had never rang'd,
My sun of glorie's set, and I returne
Downe to my humble grave, my peacefull Urne;
I have no hope, my ebbe will never flow,
But I must stoop to fortune at one blow;
My Genius tels me I have done great wrong,
A grievous burthen to any dolefull song,
'Tis my ill deeds that now doth blast my praise,
My star doth fall, without a star-like blaze;
I once did scorne pity, I had in store,
Now none will pity, because my worth is poor;
But I deserve it, I did alwayes prey
Upon Religion both night and day,
Just like the Asse clad in a Lions skin,
Thus did I act, and enact each dayes sin:
When I look on my fatall misery,
My thoughts begin to scale the starry sky,
T'invoke great Iove, hope doth me strait wayes spurne,
Decreeing fates have clapt me in my Urne:
Thus may you see what 'tis to bow and creep
To idle idols, how most men do leap
To see my downefall, and I must confesse,
That in their joy consists my happinesse;
For those that suffer here below, I'le prove,
Have lesse to answer fore our God above.
Lord grant me patience, now I come to thee,
No Saint shall now once intercede for me;
Forgive me Lord for those sins which are past,
I'le leave the Pope, and come to thee at last,
And on my knees I beg from thee O God,
That thou would'st spareit by all revenging rod,
I'le kneel no more to Saints, not I, not I,
I feel the smart, I'me grip'd with misery,
But now I sue for this same very thing,
That I may have pardon from my earthly King,
He whom I hated cause he was too good
To live among us, O my soul for food
Doth almost faint, pray for my safety all,
Although you laugh to see a sinner fall,
So shall ye have my prayers to great Iove,
That the great King of kings would shew you love.

Postscript.

VVHat do yee spit forth Verse, or pisse out Prose
Or drop conceits from forth your fruitfull nose
That thus you sell a Copy for a boord,
Nay by Apollo first give't for a —
Each verse I make, makes me to twist my face,
To picke my nailes, almost an houres space,
Before invention can to me present,
The forming of one pleasing complement.
And faith before this Stump-foot silly Gull
Shall rake my braines to spend upon a Trull,
I'le throw my inke away, and make my braines
Forswear to write such under-prized straines,
I'le take my leave, and do what you shall please,
If you take counsell 'twill be for your ease,
Go downe to th' Parliament with your new print book,
Let them your good intentions quite orelook,
O, 'twas bravely done to set downe your owne praise,
But then by way to shorten your dayes,
Your Mercuries forsake you, so do your Hawkers,
Take heed of medling with any more Walkers.
FINIS.

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