All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted |
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| The Vnnaturall Father:
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
The Vnnaturall Father:
OR, The cruell Murther committed by one Iohn Rovvse of the Towne of Ewell, ten miles from London, in the County of Surry, vpon two of his owne Children.
141
John Rovvse of Ewell his owne Arraignment, Confession, Condemnation, and Iudgement of himselfe, whilst hee lay Prisoner in the White Lyon, for drowning of his two Children.
I am
arraign'd at the blacke dreadfull Barre,
Where Sinnes (sored as Scarlet) Iudges are;
All my Inditements are my horrid Crimes,
Whose Story will affright succeeding Times,
As (now) they driue the present into wonder,
Making Men trēble, as trees strucke with Thunder.
Where Sinnes (sored as Scarlet) Iudges are;
All my Inditements are my horrid Crimes,
Whose Story will affright succeeding Times,
As (now) they driue the present into wonder,
Making Men trēble, as trees strucke with Thunder.
If any askes what euidence comes in?
O 'Tis my Conscience, which hath euer bin
A thousand witnesses: and now it tels
A Tale, to cast me to ten thousand Hels.
O 'Tis my Conscience, which hath euer bin
A thousand witnesses: and now it tels
A Tale, to cast me to ten thousand Hels.
The Iury are my Thoughts (vpright in this,)
They sentence me to death for doing amisse:
Examinations more there need not then,
Than what's confest here both to God and Men.
They sentence me to death for doing amisse:
Examinations more there need not then,
Than what's confest here both to God and Men.
The Cryer of the Court is my blacke Shame,
Which when it calls my Iury, doth proclaime,
Vnlesse (as they are summon'd) they appeare,
To giue true Verdict of the Prisoner,
They shall haue heauy Fines vpon them set,
Such, as may make them dye deepe in Heauens debt:
About me round sit Innocence and Truth,
As Clerkes to this high Court; and little Ruth
From Peoples eyes is cast vpon my face:
Because my facts are barbarous, damn'd, and base.
Which when it calls my Iury, doth proclaime,
Vnlesse (as they are summon'd) they appeare,
To giue true Verdict of the Prisoner,
142
Such, as may make them dye deepe in Heauens debt:
About me round sit Innocence and Truth,
As Clerkes to this high Court; and little Ruth
From Peoples eyes is cast vpon my face:
Because my facts are barbarous, damn'd, and base.
The Officers that 'bout me (thicke) are plac'd,
To guard me to my death, (when I am cast)
Are the blacke stings my speckled soule now feeles,
Which like to Furies dogge me, close at heeles.
The Hangman that attends me, is Despaire,
And gnawing wormes my fellow-Prisoners are.
To guard me to my death, (when I am cast)
Are the blacke stings my speckled soule now feeles,
Which like to Furies dogge me, close at heeles.
The Hangman that attends me, is Despaire,
And gnawing wormes my fellow-Prisoners are.
His Inditement for murder of his Children.
The
first who (at this Sessions) lowd doth call me
Is Murder, whose grim visage doth appall me;
His eyes are fires, his voice rough winds out-rores,
And on my head the Diuine vengeance scores:
So fast and fearefully I sinke to ground,
And wish I were in twenty Oceans drownd.
Is Murder, whose grim visage doth appall me;
His eyes are fires, his voice rough winds out-rores,
And on my head the Diuine vengeance scores:
So fast and fearefully I sinke to ground,
And wish I were in twenty Oceans drownd.
He sayes, I haue a bloudy Villaine bin,
And (to proue this) ripe Euidence steps in,
Brow'd like my selfe: Iustice so brings about,
That blacke sinnes still hunt one another out:
'Tis like a rotten frame ready to fall;
For one maine Post being shaken, puls downe all.
And (to proue this) ripe Euidence steps in,
Brow'd like my selfe: Iustice so brings about,
That blacke sinnes still hunt one another out:
'Tis like a rotten frame ready to fall;
For one maine Post being shaken, puls downe all.
To this Inditement, (holding vp my hand,)
Fettered with Terrors more then Irons stand,
And being ask'd what to the Bill I say,
Guilty, I cry. O dreadfull Sessions day!
Fettered with Terrors more then Irons stand,
And being ask'd what to the Bill I say,
Guilty, I cry. O dreadfull Sessions day!
His Iudgement.
For these thick Stigian streams in which th'ast swom,Thy guilt hath on thee laid this bitter doome;
Thy loath'd life on a Tree of shame must take
A leaue compeld by Law, e'r old age make
Her signed Passe port ready. Thy offence
No longer can for dayes on earth dispense.
Time blot thy name out of this bloudy roule,
And so the Lord haue mercy on my Soule.
His speech what hee could say for himselfe.
O wretched Caitiffe! what perswasiue breath,Can cal back this iust Sentence of quick death?
I begge no boone, but mercy at Gods hands,
(The King of Kings, the Soueraigne that cōmands
Both Soule and Body) O let him forgiue
My Treason to his Throne, and whilst I liue,
Iebbits and Racks shall torture limme by limme,
Through worlds of Deaths I'l breake to fly to him.
My Birth-day gaue not to my Mothers wombe,
More ease, then this shall ioyes, when e'r it come.
My body mould to earth, sinnes sink to Hell,
My penitent Soule win Heauen, vain world farewell.
FINIS.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |