with three or four other deadly Ingredients, which he delivered to Weston, with instructions how to use them. Weston, (an apt Scholar in the Devil’s School) tempers them in his Broth and Meat, increasing or diminishing their strength according as he saw him affected.  Besides these, poyson’d Tarts & Jellies are sent him by the Viscount.  Nay, they poysoned his very Salt, Sauce, Meat and Drink; but being of a very strong Constitution, he held out still:  At last they effected their work by a poysoned Clyster which they administed unto him, so that the next day he died thereof; and because there were some Blisters and ugly Botches on his Body, the Conspirators gave it out he died of the French Pox.

Thus by the Malice of a Woman this worthy Knight was murdered, who yet still lives in that witty Poem of his, entituled, a Wife; as is well expressed by these Verses under his Picture.

  A man’s best Fortune, or his worst’s a Wife: 
  Yet I that knew no Marriage, Peace, nor Strife,
  Live by a good one, by a bad one lost my Life.

But God, who seldom suffers Murder to go unrevenged, revealed the same; for notwithstanding what the Conspirators had given out, Suspitions grew high that Sir_ Thomas_ was poysoned:  Whereupon We port is examined by the Lord Cook, who at first flatly denied the same; but being perswaded by the Bishop of London, he tells all:  How Mrs. Turner and the Countess came acquainted; what relation she had to Witches, Sorcerers and Conjurers; and discovers all those who had any hand in it:  whereupon they were all apprehended; some sent to the Tower, others to Newgate.  Having thus confessed, being convicted according to course of Law, he was hanged at Tyburn; after him Mrs. Turner, after her Franklin, then Sir Gervas Yelvis, upon their several Arraignments, were found guilty, and executed.  Some of them died very penitent:  The Earl and his Countess were both condemned, but through the King’s gracious Pardon had their Lives saved, but were never admitted to the Favour of the Court.

We shall conclude all with this his Epitaph written by himself.

  The span of my days measur’d, here I rest,
  That is, my Body; but my Soul, his Guest,
  Is hence ascended, whither, neither Time,
  Nor Faith, nor Hope, but only Love can clime;
  Where being now enlightned, she doth know
  The Truth of all men argue of below: 
    Only this Dust doth here in pawn remain,
    That, when the world dissolves, she come again.

* * * * *

Mr. MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Mr. Drayton, one who had drunk as deep a Draught at Helicon as any in his time, was born at Athelston in Warwickshire, as appeareth in his Poetical Address thereunto, Poly-Olbion, Song 13. p. 213.