trickt.

And after them, a multitude

Of citizenns dydd thronge;

The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,

As hee dydd passe alonge.

And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,

Syr CHARLES dydd turne and saie,

O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,

Wasshe mye soule clean thys daie!

Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat

The kynge ynne myckle state,

To see CHARLES BAWDIN goe alonge,

To hys most welcom fate.

Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,

Thatt EDWARDE hee myghte heare,

The brave Syr CHARLES hee dydd stande uppe,

And thus hys wordes declare.

“Thou seest me; EDWARDE! traytour vile!

Expos’d to infamie;

Butt bee assur’d, disloyall manne

I’m greaterr nowe thanne thee.

Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,

Thou wearest nowe a crowne;

And hast appoynted mee to dye,

By power nott thyne owne.

Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;

I have beene dede ‘till nowe,

And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne

For aie uponne my browe:

Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,

Shalt rule thys fickle lande,

’To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule

Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:

Thye pow’r unjust, thou traytour slave!

Shall falle onne thye owne hedde —”

Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge

Departed thenne the sledde.

Kynge EDWARDE’S soule rush’d to hys face,

Hee turn’d hys hedde awaie,

And to hys broder GLOUCESTER

Hee thus dydd speke and saie.

“To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe

Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,

’Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,

Hee’s greater thanne a kynge!”

“Soe lett hym die!” Duke RICHARD sayde;

“And maye echone oure foes

Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,

And feede the carryon crowes”.

And nowe the horses gentlie drewe

Syr CHARLES uppe the hyghe hylle;

The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,

Hys pretious bloude to spylle.

Syrr CHARLES dydd uppe the scaffold goe,

As uppe a gilded carre

Of victorye, bye val’rous chiefs

Gayn’d ynne the bloudie warre.

And to the people hee dydd saie,

“Beholde you see mee dye;

For servynge loyally mye kynge,

Mye kynge most rightfullie.

As longe as EDWARDE rules thys lande,

Ne quiet you wylle knowe;

Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,

And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.

You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,

Whenne ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,

And for the true cause dye”.

Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,

A pray’r to Godde dydd make,

Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe

Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde

Most seemlie onne the blocke;

Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once

The able heddes-manne stroke:

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,

And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And teares, enow to washe’t awaie,

Dydd flowe fromme each mann’s eyne.

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre

Ynnto foure parties cutte;

And ev’rye parte, and eke hys hedde,

Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,

One onne the mynster-tower,

And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure:

The other onne Seyncte Powle’s goode gate,

A dreery spectacle;

Hys hedde was plac’d onne the hyghe crosse,

Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.

Thus was the ende of BAWDIN’S fate:

Godde prosper longe oure kynge,

And grante hee maye, wyth BAWDIN’S soule,

Ynne heav’n Godd’s mercie synge!

To Horace Walpole

Walpole, I thought not I should ever see

So mean a heart as thine has proved to be.

Thou who, in luxury nurst, behold’st with scorn

The boy, who friendless, fatherless, forlorn,

Asks thy high favour thou mayst call me cheat,

Say, didst thou never practise such deceit?

Who wrote Otranto? but I will not chide;

Scorn ‘’ll repay with scorn, and pride with pride.

Still, Walpole, still thy prosy chapters write,

And twaddling letters to some fair indite;

Laud all above thee, fawn and cringe to those

Who, for thy fame, were better friends than foes;

Still spurn the incautious fool who dares —

Had I the gifts of wealth and luxury shared,

Not poor and mean, Walpole! thou hadst not dared

Thus to insult. But I shall live and stand

By Rowley’s side, when thou art dead and damned.

Last Verses

Farewell, Bristolia’s dingy piles of brick,

Lovers of mammon, worshippers of trick!

Ye spurned the boy who gave you antique lays,

And paid for learning with your empty praise.

Farewell, ye guzzling aldermanic fools,

By nature fitted for corruption’s tools!

I go to where celestial anthems swell;

But you, when you depart, will sink to hell.

Farewell, my mother! — cease, my anguished soul,

Nor let distraction’s billows o’er me roll!

Have mercy, Heaven! when here I cease to live,

And this last act of wretchedness forgive