Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Christopher Love, Late Minister of the Gospel;
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THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Christopher Love, Late Minister of the Gospel;
Acted upon TOWER-HILL, August 22. 1651.
The Prologue.
New from a slaughter'd Monarchs Hearse I come,A Mourner to a Martyr'd Prophet's Tomb:
Pardon, great Charls his Ghost my Muse had stood
Yet three years longer, till sh' had wept a Flood;
Too mean a Sacrifice for Royal Blood.
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For her Attendance at LOVE's Funeral:
Forgive, great Sir, this Sacriledge in me,
The tenth Tear he must have, it is his Fee;
'Tis due to him, and yet 'tis stoln from Thee.
The Argument.
'Twas when the Raging Dog did rule the Skies,And with his scorching Face did tyrannize,
When cruel Cromwel, Whelp of that mad Star,
But sure more fiery than his Sire by far,
Had dry'd the Northern Fife, and with his heat
Put frozen Scotland in a Bloody Sweat:
When he had conquer'd, and his furious Train
Had chas'd the North-Bear, & pursu'd Charls Wain
Into the English Orb; then 'twas thy fate
(Sweet LOVE) to be a Present from our State.
A greater Sacrifice there could not come,
Than a Divine, to bleed his Welcome home.
For He, and Herod think no Dish so good,
As a John Baptists Head, serv'd up in Blood.
ACT. I.
The Philistims are set in their High Court,And Love, like Samson's fetch'd to make them sport:
Unto the Stake the smiling Prisoner's brought:
Not to be try'd, but baited, most men thought:
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He fights with Beasts, like Paul at Ephesus.
Adams, Far, Huntington, with all the Pack
Of foisting Hounds, were set upon his Back.
Prideaux and Keeble stand and cry, Haloo;
'Twas a full Cry, and yet it would not do.
Oh how he foil'd them! Standers by did swear,
That he the Judge, and they the Traitors were:
For there he prov'd (although he seem'd a Lamb)
Stout, like a Lion, from whose Den he came.
ACT. II.
It is decreed; nor shall thy Worth, dear Love,Resist their Vows, nor their Revenge remove.
Though Pray'rs were join'd to Pray'rs, & tears to tears,
No Softness in their Rocky Hearts appears:
Nor Heav'n nor Earth abate their Fury can,
But they will have thy Head, thy Head, good Man.
Sure some She-Sectary longed, and in haste
Must try how Presbyterian Blood did taste.
'Tis fit she have the best, and therefore thine,
Thine must be broach'd, blest Saint! 'tis Drink divine,
No sooner was the dreadful Sentence read,
The Prisoner straight bow'd his condemned Head:
And by that humble Posture told them all,
It was a Head that did not fear a fall.
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ACT. III.
And now I wish the fatal Stroke were given;I'm sure our Martyr longs to be in Heaven,
And Heav'n to have him there: one moments blow
Makes him triumphant; but here comes his wo,
His Enemies will grant a Months Suspence,
If't be for the nonce to keep him thence:)
And that he may tread in his Saviours ways,
He shall be tempted too, his forty days:
And with such baits too, Cast thy self but down,
Fall, and but worship, and your Life's your own.
Thus cry'd his Enemies; oh 'twas their pride,
To wound his Body, and his Soul beside.
One Plot th' have more, when all their own do fail
If Devils can't, Disciples may prevail.
Lets tempt him by his Friends, make Peter cry,
Good Master, Spare thy self, and do not die.
One Friend entreats, a second weeps, a third
Cries, Your Petition wants the other word:
I'l write it for you, saith a fourth; Your Life,
Your Life, Sir, cries a fifth, Pity your Wife,
And the Babe in her: Thus this Diamonds cut
By Diamonds only, and to terror put.
Methinks I hear him still, You wound my heart;
Good Friends, forbear; for every word's a Dart:
'Tis cruel pity, thus I do profess,
You'ld love me more, if you did love me less:
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But all's too dear, if I should buy them so.
Thus, like a rock that routs the waves, he stands,
And snaps asunder, Sampson-like, these bands.
ACT. IV.
The Day is come, the Prisoner longs to go,And chides the ling'ring Sun for tarrying so:
Which blushing seems to answer from the Sky,
That it was loth to see a Martyr dye.
Methinks I heard beheaded Saints above
Call to each other, Sirs, Make room for LOVE.
Who when he came to tread the fatal Stage,
(Which prov'd his Glory, and his Enemies rage)
His Blood ne'r run t'his heart, Christs Blood was there
Reviving it, his own was all to spare:
Which rising in his Cheeks, did seem to say,
Is this the Bloud you thirst for? Tak't, I pray.
Spectators in his Looks such Life did see,
That they appear'd more like to die than he.
But oh his Speech! methinks I hear it still;
It ravish'd Friends, and did his Enemies kill:
His keener Words did their sharp Ax exceed;
That made his head, but he their hearts, to bleed:
Which he concluded with soft Prayer, and so
The Lamb lay down, and took the Butchers blow:
His Soul makes Heav'n shine brighter by a Star,
And now we're sure there's one Saint Christopher.
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ACT. V.
LOVE lies a bleeding, and the World shall seeHeav'n act a part in this black Tragedy.
The Sun no sooner spy'd the Head o'th' floor,
But he pull'd in his own, and look'd no more.
The Clouds, which scattered, and in colours were,
Met altogether, and in black appear:
Light'nings, which fill'd the Air with blazing light,
Did serve for Torches at that dismal Night:
In which, and all next day, for many hours,
Heav'n groan'd in Thunder, & did weep in Showrs.
Nor do I wonder, that God thundered so,
When's Boanerges murdred lay below:
The High Court trembled, Prideaux, Bradshaw, Keeble,
And all the guilty Rout, look'd pale and feeble.
Timerous Jenkins, and cold-hearted Drake,
Hold out, you need no base Petitions make:
Your Enemies thus Thunder-struck, no doubt,
Will be beholding to you to go out.
But if you will recant, now thundring Heaven
Such Approbation to Love's cause hath given,
I'le add but this; Your Consciences perhaps,
Ere long, shall feel far greater Thunder-claps.
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The Epilogue.
But stay, my Muse grows fearful too, and mustBeg that these Lines be buried with thy Dust:
Shelter, bless'd Love, this verse within thy Shroud,
For none but Heav'n dares take thy part aloud.
The Author begs this, lest, if it be known.
Whilst he bewails thy Head, he lose his own.
R. W.
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