Who, when alive, by every art defil’d,
With poison, they at last did overthrow,
Wretches, who never ruth or conscience know;
O lovely flowret cropt by villain hands,
How will thy butchers dread th’ almighty brow,
Arm’d with frowns, when each at judgment stands,
And God the meed of murder from His throne commands.
VIII.
Then o’er the portal was this motto plac’d,
“The house of liberty,” in gold y’writ,