Seeing the hearse, coffins, mourning coach,

The dreadful block, edg’d instrument,

With the executioner and crowd’s lament,

He paus’d a while, and thus said he,

O Hume, ’tis terrible this to me!

His pale countenance, contrite demure,

Did pity from all around procure,

Being tall and graceful, cloth’d in black,

In a praying posture, mildly spake,

Which did the multitude surprize,