A supplement, to the last will and testament of Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury; with his last words, as they were taken in Holland, where he died, January the 20th, 1682. This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription B06016 of text R21155 in the English Short Title Catalog (Wing S6187). Textual changes and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life. The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish. This text has not been fully proofread Approx. 8 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 3 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. EarlyPrint Project Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO 2018 B06016 12295995 Wing S6187 Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.4[204] ESTC R21155 99883814 ocm99883814 182873 2240882665

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. B06016) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182873) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:2[205]) A supplement, to the last will and testament of Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury; with his last words, as they were taken in Holland, where he died, January the 20th, 1682. 4 p. Printed for John Smith., London, : 1683. Caption title. Imprint from colophon. In verse. A Tory satire. Reproduction of original in the British Library. eng Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, -- Earl of, 1621-1683 -- Early works to 1800. Popish Plot, 1678 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. eebo A supplement, to the last will and testament of Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury; with his last words, as they were taken in Holland, where he died, January anon 1683 5 1314 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 A This text has no known defects that were recorded as gap elements at the time of transcription. 2008-12 Assigned for keying and markup 2009-02 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2009-03 Sampled and proofread 2009-03 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
A Supplement , TO THE Last Will and Testament OF ANTHONY EARL of SHAFTSBURY ; With his last Words , as they were taken in Holland , where he Died , January the 20th , 1682. MOurn ! England , Mourn ! let not thy Griefs be feign'd , The Tap so long upon the Lees is Drain'd . The Cringing Pillar of the State and Church Is fall'n , and left his Profelites i th' Lurch . Alas ! what will become o th' Reformation ? The Popish Plot , and black Association ? Our Rights and Liberties , and Good Old Cause ? Patch'd Juries , and the Ignoramus Laws ? What will become o th' Saints in Tribulation ? If Tory-Loyalty comes into Fashion . The Salamanca Doctor must take Post , If Thompson , and Lestrange must Rule the Rost . And Monkey Care , Gotham , and Snivelling Dick , Must from the Hague , ev'n follow , to Old-Nick . In vain we strive to shun th' appointed Fate , That on the Knave , as well as Fool , does wait . Though I ( said he ) have drawn Infectious Breath , And Liv'd this Eighty Years in spight of Death : Had I been Hang'd but Fifty Years agone , Less Treason had Ensu'd , less Mischief done . But as there is an Evil Genius waits On private Men , so there 's in Publick States . The Universal Tempter of Mankind , That always in the Ditch will lead the Blind , Of Sin and Faction , the allotted Bane , And for that very Cause has leave to Reign . Else Belzebub , long since , I 'de been thy due , But that he fear'd , I shou'd supplant him too . Thus , like the Devil , I was Born a Curse To all Mankind . My Lord and Master , worse Betray'd , like Judas , while I kept the Purse . Yet still , in every State , I walk'd Secure , Grave with the King , and Jocun'd with the Whore ; And never did one Lucky Mischief Brew , But Grateful Lawrels still adorn'd my Brow : In every State have so Successful Bin , As Fame alone were the Rewards of Sin . And all this while , not the Sevearest Law Cou'd find me Faulty , though they found a Flaw . Still by my Art , or Ignoramus Friends , I Guiltless seem'd , and still pursu'd my Ends. For what was all this specious Pretence ? Of Subjects Rights , and Safety of the Prince ? Religion , Liberty , Association ? But to Betray all , and Inslave the Nation ? Which by so many Plots I did Inthral , Whilst the blind Rabble Worship'd me as Baal . But now the Mist is Vanish'd from their Eyes , They see my Crimes through all its thick Disguise ; ( Though , for the Saints , and Brethren , I dare say , I cou'd have kept in Ignorance to this Day , ) Once Sons of Light : But now the Saints are blind , While Tories , Janus-like , have Eyes behind . Thus , all my Shams discover'd , I poor I , Was forc'd , although my Wings were Clip'd , to Flie ; Nay , though no Legs I had , my Gate was Fleet , Oblig'd to Travel , though I had no Feet : From Justice ( all my Crimes laid at my Door ) Found power to run , who cou'd not Crawl before . Old and Decriped , Gouty Toes , Scarr'd Shins , Turn Pilgrim in my Dotage for my Sins . My Strength and Action gone , I mount the Stage , With all the Frailtys that attend on Age , And nothing left me but the constant Will , And Natural Inclination to do ill . Glad to sham off with all my Vanquisht Hope , To save that Neck that wou'd disgrace a Rope . My Hopes are fled , let Death wind up the Charm , Lifes but a Plague when I can do no harm ; Your Canting Words no longer will prevail , Your Liberty , and Property is Stale ; The Rights and Priviledges of the Nation , Are but cast Suits , when Loyalty's in Fashion . Your Plots and Perjuries will do no more , Your Slavery , and Arbitrary Pow'r , Are like my Banish'd Self thrown out of Door . What now remains , but that the Tap should Burst ? Who can do any more , that has done his worst ? That the Proud Foe Rejoyce not in my Fall . Now Heart , break Heart , and Baffle Catch and All. But e're I Fall a Victim though too late , In a Vile Nation , to a Viler Fate , I thus Bequeath the Remnant of my Estate . My former Will as Fates Decretals stands , But something 's due unto the Netherlands ; For their Civilities , since here I fled , Foul Linnen , stinking Fish , and mouldy Bread . To th' States because they are a Free-born Nation , I do Bequeath my New Association , That perfect Model of true Anarchy , And Charm against all Monarch Tyranny . Tho' to live here , ( had it so pleas'd the Fates , ) I had been King , or th' Devil had had the States . My Heart with Faction flam'd that Source of Evil , I leave to my Old Club that haunts the Devil . As Fickle and as False as is your own Sworn Enemy , to all that Sways the Throne . My Lungs ( my Ignoramus Friends ) is yours , But for my Leights , I leave 'em to the Bores ; To Blow the Bellows of each New Sedition , On any Change of Faction , or Religion . My Tap and Spiggot was dispos'd before , Or that had serv'd some Belgick Commons-Shew'r ; A Soveraign Cure for an Hydroptick Nation , To stop , or else let out the Inundation . To drown the Monsieur for his late Abuses , And vent out all their Venom through the Sluces . I leave my Brains to that Incestious Crew , The Lordly Tribe , who lofty Treasons Brew ; Those Hot-Brain'd Fiery Catalines of State Who their own , and the Nations Ills Create , And will , I fear like Me , Repent too Late , To Bethel and his Brethren I Resign The Ax which baffled Fate predestin'd Mine ; To do that Execution they would bring On Monarchy , and an Indulgent King . To th' Salamanca Beagle of the Plot , I leave a Halter as his proper Lot ; For his ill Management , while Tory striv'd , Of an ill Plot that was so well contriv'd . And Lastly to those Friends who were at Strife , Losing Themselves to Save a wretched Life ; I do Bequeath my Sledg as the just Fee Of their Accumulated Perjury . These With my Gouts , and Pains , I leave to those Who did my long deserved Fate oppose ; Their too officious Kindness prov'd a Curse , To Hang is bad , to dye Unpitty'd's worse ; Since I had rather fall'n a Martyr there , Then Rot , and Moulder in Effigie , here , You the Trustees of this my Dying Will , If you in Villany wou'd prosper still , Be sure you justly every Point fulfil . FINIS .

London , Printed for John Smith . 1683.