THE precedent of precedents:  
OR, AN elegy, On the Death of JOHN BRADSHAW.  

WHat! he that blasted Tyranny with's breath,  
Has he submitted now to Tyrant Death!  
Could he the fate of kingdom's doom? yet he  
Not countermand prevailing Destiny.  
Who could find Law 'gainst Law, condemn, and try,  
The kinglike Reason, godlike majesty;  
Should have gone on, methinks, seen gasping lie  
The Queen of Reason too, Philosophy.  
Nor should he have stayed there, but by some new,  
Strange Judic'ture have censured Nature too.   

But stay, Did 〈◊〉 ●ot think himself to be  
Above the reach 〈◊〉 〈…〉 il Mortality?  
[Having bee● 〈…〉 〈…〉 ved Senate die,  
Himself beco 〈…〉 〈…〉 us 〈…〉 he Property.  
And Generati●●●●rom Corruption now,  
Another rising from their overthrow.  
And that aspiring pyramid to fall!  
(The Father's greatness, the Son's funeral.)  
And the forgotten Carcase, that had lain  
Disanimated long, revive again.  
Assuming (what was thought for ever gone)  
Their Power, at their Resurrection.]  
And rising with 'em, thought himself to be  
Invested with their Immortality.   

But, as a Flower on a Chymist's call  
Raised, to attend on its own funeral.  
Short was their Time, and soon expired their reign,  
Returning to their Chaos back again.  
Which Bradshaw sadly viewing, sighed, that he  
Must now submit t' imperious Destiny.  
For he, who kept their Seal, while he had breath,  
Has yielded now to the Broad-Seal of Death.   

But some may be so saucy as to pry  
Into the council of the deity:  
Think Justice is not hood-winked now, but blind;  
Style murder Law, and Cruelty most kind.  
That Bradshaw, (England's Pilate) who durst own  
The Act, of murdering his sovereign;  
Usurp the seat of Justice, doom to death,  
Whom God himself had styled a god on earth:  
That at one fatal Sentence, and one Blow,  
Lay butchered Maj'stie, and three Kingdoms too.  
Dressed in his sanguine robes, Law the pretence,  
T'assasinate both Law and Innocence.  
That, not the horror of his crimes, nor sense  
Of sin, could wake his sleeping Conscience;  
And on himself, like a foul o'recharged Gun,  
Recoil, and be his own destruction.  
Or was the Sword of Justice dull? had he  
Bribed that too, to comply with villainy?  
Must he expire in his soft bed? no force!  
Could not the 
* Whitehall, where he died.  Place inspire him with remorse?   

Know, that his Crimes were such, transcended far  
All Parallel, and must stand singular.  
The wittiest Vengeance man could here invent,  
Must fall far short of such a precedent.  
There is no name to know him by. Nay, we  
Ought to forget him, that Posterity,  
Searching our Records, might no pattern find,  
This to react, but damn it to Mankind.  
Should man attempt this Punishment, it were  
To rob just Heaven of its Vengeance here.  
Oblivion ought to swallow the intent,  
And this Example find no precedent.   
1659. July 2. T. B.