Selected quad for the lemma: book_n
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A91538
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A Guild-hall elegie, upon the funerals of that infernal saint Iohn Bradshavv President of the High Court of Iustice
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1659
(1659)
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Wing P90; Thomason 69.f.22[5]; ESTC R211325
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1,329
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1
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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 droopâ—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 I le 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 trâ—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 evâ—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 't was 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.