Sir Everard must have envied Tresham his fate, when he heard that he had died in the Tower, especially as he was allowed to have his wife to attend him in his illness; although his death was caused by a painful disease.[366] Sir William Waad, the Lieutenant of the Tower, had a consultation of three doctors—not from motives of mercy, but in order that, “by great care and good providence,”he might “die of that kind of death he most”deserved, and, in spite of his disappointment, Waad seems to have felt a grain of satisfaction, when writing to Salisbury to announce his death,[367] in stating that he died “with very great pain.”His death took place only four days before that appointed for the trial, and, whatever may have been his sufferings, who can doubt that Sir Everard would gladly have changed places with him.
In his solitude in the Tower, Sir Everard wrote the following lines which, if considerably lacking in merit from a poetical and critical point of view, have some interest on account of their pitiful, though calm and dignified tone, as well as the affection which they exhibit towards his wife and his children; and, as the Protestant Bishop Barlow, in his preface to their publication in 1678, says, “though they be not excellent, yet have”they “a good tincture of Piety and devotion in them.”
Come grief, possess that place thy Harbingers have seen, And think most fit to entertain thyself: Bring with thee all thy Troops, and sorrow’s longest Teem Of followers, that wail for worldly pelf: Here shall they see a Wight more lamentable, Than all the troop that seem most miserable.
For here they may discry, if perfect search be made, The substance of that shadow causing woe: An unkind Frost, that caused hopeful Sprouts to fade; Not only mine, but other’s grief did grow By my misdeed, which grieves me most of all, That I should be chief cause of other’s fall.
For private loss to grieve, when others have no cause Of sorrow, is unmeet for worthy mind; For who but knows, that each man’s sinful life still draws More just revenge than he on earth can find. But to undo desert and innocence, Is, to my mind, grief’s chiefest pestilence.
I grieve not to look back into my former state, Though different that were from present case; I moan not future haps, though forced death with hate Of all the world were blustred in my face: But oh I grieve to think that ever I Have been a means of others misery.
When on my little Babes I think, as I do oft, I cannot chuse but then let fall some tears; Me-thinks I hear the little Pratler, with words soft, Ask, Where is Father that did promise Pears, And other knacks, which I did never see, Nor Father neither, since he promised me.
’Tis true, my Babe, thou never saw’st thy Father since, Nor art thou ever like to see again: That stopping Father into mischief which will pinch The tender Bud, and give thee cause to plain His hard dysaster; that must punish thee, Who art from guilt as any creature free.
But oh! when she that bare thee, Babe, comes to my mind, Then do I stand as drunk with bitterest woe, To think that she, whose worth were such to all, should find Such usage hard, and I to cause the blow, Of her such sufferance, that doth pierce my heart, And gives full grief to every other part.