A GUILD-HALL ELEGIE, Upon the FUNERALS of that Infernal Saint IOHN BRADSHAW President of the High Court of Iustice.

COme sour Melpomene and ill-look'd Clio,
Help me to grieve while that I fetch an hi ho
From th'very bottom o' my droop [...]ng breech,
To solemnise the death of this Horse-Leech,
So full of blood that he ee'n burst with anger,
To think that he could fuddle it no longer.
And now rehearse his virtues, O yee Muses
Whom no body (Ile warrant you) accuses.
And first his Justice, pictur'd like a Spinster
VVeighing of thred, was well known at Westminster,
VVhere he was President of that highest Court,
That had no Law neither Precedent for't.
VVhat havock did he make of Kings and Princes,
Just as a proud Stone-horse that kicks and winces
In his new tr [...]ppings, so he cloath'd in Scarlet
As all men say, seem'd a most glorious Varlet.
His Justice was as blind as his Friend Milton,
VVho slandered the Kings Book with an ill-tongue.
He was not partial, favoured not the mightie,
Nor King, nor Duke, nor Earl, nor Lord, nor Knight a,
His Sword was keen, a very desp'rate cutter,
VVith it he durst 'gainst Olliver to mutter,
But Nol was wroth▪ (and would had heard the vogue,
Of all the People) swore he would hang the Rogue;
But then my Muse had been in such a dump,
As at this present is this dissolv'd Rump
His courag'es next, for in his own defence,
He was couragious ev [...]n to impudence,
A vertue lately deemed Cardinal,
Needful as Jacks are to a Harpsical;
He and his Needham, Peters and John Canne,
VVholly ingrost it—
His temperance next, sure he was no wencher
As I can bear, unlesse while he was Bencher
He kept a private Bordell in Grays Inne,
VVho highly now may vapour of his raising,
VVine he difpis'd, blood was his pleasing drink,
He was a well-bred Scythian I think.
His charity succeeds, 'twas wisely great,
Since all his cunning Alms and Gifts did treat
For life, expecting every hour like Cain
By the next obvious person to be slain.
His Table free, the reason lies at door,
The Cook would poyson him, but not the poor.
He was a zealous holy miscreant,
Either for Turk, or Jew, or Termagant.
A comprehensive, and capacious soul
Was all, yet nor Red Herring, Fish or Foul.
And now a Quill pluckt from the Vulturs wing
That feeds upon Prometheus hither bring,
His mercy to emblazen, come you Furies
From th' Stygian sooted River that impure is,
Your baleful dress put on that we may see
The true resemblance of his lenity,
Behold his pity and compassion yern
Like th' jaws o'th Monster in the Fens of Lerne
At all that came before him; see his bowels
Pricking within him, as they were spur-rowels.
How did he wrest and force the Law with Art,
I wot in favour and o'th Prisoners part!
He did not over-rule both truth and reason,
With th' Courts Nonsensical and surly Treason:
Not cruel he! his hands and heart did bleed
Continually, and did always need
A source, a sprinkling would not serve the turn,
No blood contented him, but in an Urne.
The Scythian Queen could only fill his wish,
That blood presented in a deep broad dish.
And now thou'rt gone, the worst Caligula
That at one blow didd'st three Kingdoms slay!
VVhere shall I hide thee in perpetual night,
That neither Name nor fact may come to light;
The Center reels and staggers at thy dust,
As if some Ravishers it suffer'd lust,
Hell will not silent keep its chiefest crime.
The Grave will presently throw up thy slime,
Return then whence thou cam'st to th' Parliament,
That House of Darknesse, thy encouragement;
And may a Barre be ever on those dores,
Till Vengeance come and pay thine and their Scores.
Sic hilariter luger. O. P.

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