THE EARLE OF STRAFFORD HIS ELLEGIACK POEM, AS IT Was pen'd by his owne hand a little before his Death.
STate give me leave, and vexe my thoughts no more,
I have too much within me to deplore
My selfe, and it, who both oppress'd doe lye
Subjected to a growing Anarchy.
I have plough'd through my soule, & articled
Against my selfe within me, I have read
All my life over, to find out what sin
Mov'd Englands, Irelands, & what Scotlands spleen,
And dare convince their blinded rage who can
Find in me errors more then speake me Man.
'Tis dangerous to be great, Treason doth lye
To be too gracious in a Princes eye:
Use your rage sharpest wit, for all your Art
Though you my head, my King shall have my hart.
Be wise, Ʋice-gerents, whose succeeding fate,
Shall reare you up unto the height of State,
The ladder shakes you climbe on, every Round
Is pav'd with icy fate, smiles on the ground
From whence you rise, and, unadvis'd, you shall
Find, if not sudden, yet a certaine fall.
My sinne was too much loyalty, and when
That times to come, as sure there will be Men,
(Although this scanted Age vents none, but those
Who of old Titles and new fashion'd cloaths
Can boast, whose honest judgments doe agree
To love the King and feare his subsidie.)
They, in disdaine of their fore-fathers hate,
Shall speake my vertues, and lament my Fate.
You, you, then (happier Nephewes) what I tell
So late, so true, accept as Oracle,
Where ever Justice calls you, for my sake
Be all your Demonstrations faire, nor make
A bad distinction, by mistaken zeale
T'your Prince, 'twixt him, and 'twixt his Commonweale.
Come neerer Death, and let's imbrace! but you
That with such care and jealousies pursue
My spited Soule, although my blood's no price
To your wish'd peace, too weake a Sacrifice
To expiate three Kingdomes; yet from me
Take this my last and perfect'st Legacie
For all the service I have done the State,
My early risings, and my sleeping late,
For all those cares kept sad my charge, my long
Zeale to my Prince, which you miscoster'd wrong,
For all my labours, and in that pursuit
My slaughtered honours, and my life to boote,
Doe this, and you shall by my counsaile prove
Happy on earth as I in Heaven above
And though (for this shall your most cōfort bring)
You lov'd not me, yet love my Lord your King.
FJNJS.
Printed in the Yeare, 1641.