(22)
On Anne Green her execution.
SUre Death abhorres the colour, all have seene
that Death is blacke, and therefore loves no Greene:
A happy colour, in what Prædicament
Will the Logicians put this Accident?
Shee had her Neck-verse; 'tis a currant signe
Shee could not read, her verse was but a Line.
Againe, upon this deed to set a crowne;
Sh'ad been cut up, if not so soon cut downe.
Read this thou youthfull, Read, and be afraid.
Shee's a maid twice, and yet is not dis-maid.
O Paradoxe! if truth in thee can lye
No wonder if the maid could live and dye.
ARe fates dread engines, and his Armory
(Muskets and Ropes) but Masque and Mummery?
Sure Cupid (changing armes once more with death)
Turnd hangman to preserve his Martyrs breath.
Nights Queene (who once her selfe did suffer rape)
Pitty'd her Paralell, and let her scape.
Thou Paradox of fate, whom ropes reprieve,
To whom the hangman proves a gentele Shrieve,
Death's after birth: Thou by thy Posthume fate,
And penitence truly art regenerate.
Sterne Bassaw's by the bowstrings slender twine
Want vent for mighty soules: Thy fœminine,
Wrastles with death in a more firme embrace
Of Sinewy cords, yet never quits the place.
FINIS.
