







 
   
     
       
         The tragedy of Christopher Love at TowerHill, August 22, 1651
         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A66015 of text R37218 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing W2151). 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 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A66015
         Wing W2151
         ESTC R37218
         16271719
         ocm 16271719
         105214
         
           
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         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A66015)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 105214)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1602:20 or 2103:24)
      
       
         
           
             The tragedy of Christopher Love at TowerHill, August 22, 1651
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 broadside.
           
             s.n.,
             [London? :
             1651]
          
           
             Incorrectly identified as W2151 at 1602:20.
             Imprint suggested by Wing.
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Love, Christopher, 1618-1651 -- Poetry.
        
      
    
       A66015  R37218  (Wing W2151).  civilwar no The tragedy of Christopher Love at Tower Hill August 22. 1651. Wild, Robert 1651    1368 1 0 0 0 0 0 7 B  The  rate of 7 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the B category of texts with fewer than 10 defects per 10,000 words. 
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           THE
           TRAGEDY
           OF
           CHRISTOPHER
           LOVE
           AT
           TOWER
           HILL
           
             August
          
           22.
           1651.
           
        
         
           
             Prologue
             .
          
           
             
               NEw
               from
               a
               slaughtred
               Monarchs
               Herse
               I
               come
               ,
            
             
               A
               mourner
               to
               a
               Murthr'd
               Prophet's
               Tombe
               :
            
             
               Pardon
               ,
               Great
               
                 Charles
              
               his
               Ghost
               ,
               my
               Muse
               had
               stood
            
             
               Yet
               three
               years
               longer
               ,
               till
               
               sh'had
               wept
               a
               flood
               ;
            
             
               Too
               mean
               a
               Sacrifice
               for
               Royall
               Blood
               .
            
             
               But
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               Heaven
               doe
               by
               Thunder
               call
            
             
               For
               her
               attendance
               at
               Love's
               Funerall
               .
            
             
               Forgive
               Great
               Sir
               ,
               this
               Sacriledge
               in
               me
               ,
            
             
               The
               〈◊〉
               Tear
               he
               must
               have
               ,
               it
               is
               his
               Fee
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               due
               to
               him
               ,
               and
               yet
               't
               is
               stol'n
               from
               Thee
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             
               'T
               was
               when
               the
               raging
               Dog
               did
               rule
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               his
               Scorching
               face
               did
               tyrannize
               ,
            
             
               When
               cruell
               
                 Cromwell
                 ,
              
               whelp
               of
               that
               mad
               Star
               ,
            
             
               But
               sure
               more
               firery
               than
               his
               Syre
               by
               far
               ;
            
             
               Had
               dryed
               the
               Northern
               Fife
               ,
               and
               with
               his
               heat
            
             
               Put
               frozen
               
                 Scotland
              
               in
               a
               Bloody
               sweat
               :
            
             
               When
               he
               had
               Conquered
               ,
               and
               his
               furious
               Traine
            
             
               Had
               chas'd
               the
               North-Bear
               ,
               and
               pursu'd
               
                 Charle's
              
               waine
            
             
               Into
               the
               
                 English
              
               Orb
               ;
               then
               't
               was
               thy
               Fate
            
             
               (
               Sweet
               
                 Love
              
               )
               to
               be
               a
               present
               for
               our
               State
               .
            
             
               A
               greater
               Sacrifice
               there
               could
               not
               come
               ,
            
             
               Then
               a
               Divine
               to
               bleed
               his
               welcome
               home
            
             
               For
               He
               ,
               and
               
                 Herod
                 ,
              
               think
               no
               dish
               so
               good
               ,
            
             
               As
               a
               
                 Iohn
                 Baptists
              
               Head
               serv'd
               up
               in
               blood
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             I.
             
          
           
             
               The
               
                 Philistins
              
               are
               set
               in
               their
               High
               Court
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
               like
               
                 Sampsons
                 ,
              
               fetch'd
               to
               make
               them
               sport
               :
            
             
               Unto
               the
               Stake
               the
               smiling
               Prisoner's
               brought
               ,
            
             
               Not
               to
               be
               Try'd
               ,
               but
               baited
               ,
               most
               men
               thought
               ;
            
             
               Monsters
               ,
               like
               men
               ,
               must
               worry
               him
               :
               and
               thus
            
             
               He
               fights
               with
               Beasts
               ,
               like
               
                 Paul
              
               at
               
                 Ephesus
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Adams
                 ,
                 Far
              
               and
               
                 Huntington
                 ,
              
               with
               all
               the
               pack
            
             
               Of
               foysting
               Hounds
               were
               set
               upon
               his
               back
               .
            
             
               
                 Prideaux
              
               and
               
                 Keeble
              
               stands
               and
               cries
               A'loe
               ;
            
             
               It
               was
               a
               full
               Cry
               ,
               and
               it
               would
               not
               doe
               .
            
             
               Oh
               how
               he
               foyl'd
               them
               ,
               Standers-by
               did
               swear
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               the
               Judge
               ,
               and
               they
               the
               Traytors
               were
               :
            
             
               For
               there
               he
               prov'd
               ,
               although
               he
               seem'd
               a
               Lambe
               ,
            
             
               Stout
               ,
               like
               a
               Lyon
               ,
               from
               whose
               Den
               he
               came
               !
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             II.
             
          
           
             
               It
               is
               Decreed
               ;
               nor
               shall
               thy
               Worth
               ,
               dear
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
            
             
               Resist
               their
               Vows
               ,
               nor
               their
               revenge
               remove
               .
            
             
               Though
               prayers
               were
               joyn'd
               to
               prayers
               ,
               &
               tears
               to
               tears
               ,
            
             
               No
               softnesse
               in
               their
               Rocky
               hearts
               appears
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               Heaven
               nor
               Earth
               abate
               their
               fury
               can
               ,
            
             
               But
               they
               will
               have
               thy
               Head
               ,
               thy
               Head
               ,
               good
               Man
               .
            
             
               Sure
               some
               She
               sectary
               longed
               ,
               and
               in
               hast
            
             
               Must
               try
               how
               Presbyterian
               Blood
               did
               tast
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               fit
               she
               have
               the
               best
               ,
               and
               therefore
               thine
               ,
            
             
               Thine
               must
               be
               broach'd
               ,
               blest
               Saint
               ,
               its
               drink
               Divine
               .
            
             
               No
               sooner
               was
               the
               dreadfull
               Sentence
               read
               ,
            
             
               The
               Prisoner
               straight
               bow'd
               his
               condemned
               Head
               :
            
             
               And
               by
               that
               humble
               posture
               told
               them
               all
               ,
            
             
               It
               was
               an
               Head
               that
               did
               not
               fear
               a
               fall
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             III.
             
          
           
             
               And
               now
               I
               wish
               the
               fatall
               stroke
               were
               given
               ;
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               our
               Martyr
               longs
               to
               be
               in
               Heaven
               ,
            
             
               And
               Heaven
               to
               have
               him
               there
               ;
               one
               moments
               blow
            
             
               Makes
               him
               tryumphant
               ;
               but
               here
               comes
               his
               woe
               ,
            
             
               His
               enemies
               will
               grant
               a
               months
               suspence
            
             
               If
               't
               be
               but
               for
               the
               nonce
               to
               keep
               him
               thence
               :
            
             
               And
               that
               he
               may
               tread
               in
               his
               Saviours
               wayes
               ,
            
             
               He
               shall
               be
               tempted
               too
               ,
               his
               forty
               dayes
               :
            
             
               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
               ,
               and
               't
               was
               their
               pride
            
             
               To
               wound
               his
               Body
               ,
               and
               his
               Soul
               beside
               .
            
             
               One
               plot
               they
               have
               more
               ,
               when
               their
               other
               fail
               ,
            
             
               If
               Devils
               cannot
               ,
               disciples
               may
               prevail
               .
            
             
               Le
               ts
               tempt
               him
               by
               his
               friends
               ,
               make
               
                 Peter
              
               cry
            
             
               Good
               Master
               spare
               thy self
               ,
               and
               do
               not
               die
               .
            
             
               One
               friend
               intreats
               ,
               a
               second
               weeps
               ,
               a
               third
            
             
               Cries
               your
               Petition
               wants
               the
               other
               word
               :
            
             
               I
               'le
               write
               it
               for
               you
               ,
               saith
               a
               fourth
               ;
               your
               life
               ,
            
             
               Your
               life
               Sir
               ,
               cries
               a
               fift
               ;
               pity
               your
               wife
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Babe
               in
               her
               :
               Thus
               this
               Diamond
               's
               cut
               ,
            
             
               By
               Diamonds
               onely
               ,
               and
               to
               terrour
               put
               .
            
             
               Me
               thinks
               I
               hear
               him
               still
               ,
               you
               wounding
               heart
               ;
            
             
               Good
               friends
               forbear
               ,
               for
               every
               word
               's
               a
               dart
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               cruell
               pity
               ,
               this
               I
               do
               professe
               ,
            
             
               You
               'ld
               love
               me
               more
               ,
               if
               you
               did
               love
               me
               lesse
               :
            
             
               Friends
               ,
               Children
               ,
               Wife
               ,
               Life
               ,
               all
               are
               dear
               I
               know
               ,
            
             
               But
               all
               's
               too
               dear
               ,
               if
               I
               should
               buy
               them
               so
               .
            
             
               Thus
               like
               a
               Rock
               that
               routs
               the
               waves
               he
               stands
               ,
            
             
               And
               snaps
               a sunder
               ,
               
                 Sampson-like
              
               these
               bands
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             IV.
             
          
           
             
               The
               day
               is
               come
               ,
               the
               Prisoner
               longs
               to
               go
               ,
            
             
               And
               chides
               the
               lingring
               Sun
               for
               tarrying
               so
               .
            
             
               Which
               blushing
               seemes
               to
               answer
               from
               the
               skie
               ,
            
             
               That
               it
               was
               loath
               to
               see
               a
               Martyr
               die
               .
            
             
               Me
               thinks
               I
               heard
               b●headed
               Saints
               above
            
             
               Call
               to
               each
               other
               ,
               Sirs
               ,
               make
               room
               for
               
                 Love
                 .
              
            
             
               Who
               ,
               when
               he
               came
               to
               tread
               the
               fatall
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               Which
               prov'd
               his
               glory
               ,
               and
               his
               Enemies
               rage
               .
            
             
               His
               bloud
               ne're
               run
               to
               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
               ,
               me thinks
               I
               hear
               it
               still
               ;
            
             
               It
               ravish'd
               Friends
               ,
               and
               did
               his
               enemies
               kill
               :
            
             
               His
               keener
               words
               did
               their
               sharp
               Axe
               exceed
               ,
            
             
               That
               made
               his
               head
               ,
               but
               he
               their
               hearts
               to
               bleed
               :
            
             
               Which
               he
               concludes
               with
               gracious
               prayer
               ,
               and
               so
            
             
               The
               Lamb
               lay
               down
               ,
               and
               took
               the
               butchers
               blow
               :
            
             
               His
               Soul
               makes
               Heaven
               shine
               brighter
               by
               a
               Star
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               we
               're
               sure
               there
               's
               one
               Saint
               
                 Christopher
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             ACT
             V.
             
          
           
             
               
                 Love
              
               lyes
               a bleeding
               ,
               and
               the
               world
               shall
               see
            
             
               Heaven
               Act
               a
               part
               in
               this
               black
               Tragedie
               .
            
             
               The
               Sun
               no
               sooner
               spide
               the
               Head
               o'
               th'
               floore
               ,
            
             
               But
               he
               pull'd
               in
               his
               own
               ,
               and
               look'd
               no
               more
               :
            
             
               The
               Clouds
               which
               scattered
               ,
               and
               in
               colours
               were
               ,
            
             
               Met
               all
               together
               ,
               and
               in
               black
               appear
               :
            
             
               Lightnings
               ,
               which
               fill'd
               the
               air
               with
               Blazing
               light
               ,
            
             
               Did
               serve
               for
               Torches
               all
               that
               dismall
               night
               :
            
             
               In
               which
               ,
               and
               all
               next
               day
               for
               many
               howers
               ,
            
             
               Heaven
               groan'd
               in
               Thunder
               ,
               and
               did
               weep
               in
               showers
               .
            
             
               Nor
               doe
               I
               wonder
               that
               God
               Thundred
               so
            
             
               When
               his
               Bonarges
               murthered
               lay
               below
               :
            
             
               Witnesses
               trembled
               ,
               
                 Prideaux
                 ,
                 Bradshaw
                 ,
                 Keeble
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               guilty
               Court
               look'd
               pale
               and
               feeble
               .
            
             
               Timerous
               
                 Ienkins
                 ,
              
               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
               goe
               out
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               you
               will
               Recant
               ,
               now
               thundring
               Heaven
            
             
               Such
               approbation
               to
               
                 Loves
              
               Cause
               hath
               given
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               adde
               but
               this
               ;
               Your
               Consciences
               ,
               perhaps
               ,
            
             
               Ere
               long
               ,
               shall
               feele
               far
               greater
               Thunder-claps
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Epilogue
             .
          
           
             
               But
               stay
               ,
               my
               Muse
               growes
               fearfull
               too
               ,
               and
               must
            
             
               Beg
               that
               these
               Lines
               be
               buried
               with
               thy
               dust
               :
            
             
               Shelter
               ,
               blessed
               
                 Love
                 ,
              
               this
               Verse
               within
               thy
               shroud
               ,
            
             
               For
               none
               but
               Heaven
               dares
               takes
               thy
               part
               aloud
               .
            
             
               The
               Author
               begs
               this
               ,
               least
               if
               he
               be
               known
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               he
               bewailes
               thy
               Head
               ,
               he
               loose
               his
               own
               .
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
    

