Classic Poem

On the happy Memory of Alderman Hoyle that hang'd himself .

All hail fair fruit! may every Crab-tree bear
Such blossomes, and so lovely every year!
Call ye me this the slip? marry 'tis well,
Zacheus slip'd to Heaven, the Thief to Hell:
But if the Saints thus give's the slip, 'tis need
To look about us to preserve the breed.
Th'are of the Running game, and thus to post
In nooses, blanks the reckning with their Host .
Here's more than Trussum cordum I suppose
That knit this knot: guilt seldome singly goes?
A wounded soul close coupled with the sense
Of sin, payes home its proper recompence.
But hark you Sir, if hast can grant the time?
See you the danger yet what 'tis to climbe
In Kings Prerogatives? things beyond just,
When Law seemes brib'd to doom them, must be truss'd.
But O I smell your Plot strong through your Hose,
'Twas but to cheat the Hang-man of your Cloaths.
Else your more active hands had fairly stay'd
The leasure of a Psalm: Judas has pray'd.
But later crimes cannot admit the pause,
They run upon effects more than the cause.
Yet let me ask one question, why alone?
One Member of a Corporation?
'Tis clear amongst Divines, Bodies and Souls
As joyntly active, so their judgement rowles
Concordant in the Sentence; why not so
In earthly Suffrings? States attended go.
But I perceive the Knack: Old women say
And bee't approv'd, each Dogge should have his day.
Hence sweep the Almanack: Lilly make room,
And blanks enough for the new Saints to come,
All in Red letters: as their faults have bin
Scarlet, so limbe their Anniverse of sin.
And to their Childrens credits and their Wives
Be it still said, they leap fair for their lives.