To whom the damned may concern,
I ask–perhaps more rhetorically than one should–what’s conspiracy when the circumstance is unholy? What’s to foil the damned, when no worse is to be had? Does tilling the rotten soil for new trees yield soiled roots?
King Charles II, not the first in name nor in tyranny–unfortunately. Is that your throne, or your Queens, throne?
I’ve been called many things; one guilty of perjury, a liar, a dunce, a conspirator—but conviently never a messenger subject to nor harm. How fruitful! Perhaps a reaction our God’s messengers met when they too, lest we forget, spread a word not too friendly the established. ‘A Web a Lies’—I wasn’t slave to book in Corpus Christi, to be hailed such harsh stones. I didn’t subject myself to absorb the filth stream of blasphemy that rafts through Catholicism, grinding elbow to knee across the trash that is the Jesuits for hire, to fabricate a plot! If I am sentenced to death the risk of me rising in few moon risings is assumed.
And Sir George, a man so unfitting of the title. I have no taste of salt. I am not bitter. Though I wish the day of your daughter’s wedding, should a duchess be unfortunate enough to birth your spawn, you fall ill! May the clouds spew ashes and the lungs of your children ebb and flow with dust and air just long for you to witness.
My sweet wife, spring of Anthony A. Cooper, through thick and thin. Dull and bright. Every head that rolled to your feet, not fine enough! Not the head of Charles himself, so undeserving at your helm, or latrine. May the birds be with him soon.
I not know of my punishment, though I assume pillory isn’t as pleasant as consummation. Better the devil I don’t know in this cruel twist! I hope I am placed in view of the public so I can watch the wretchedness pour out of their mouth, in grotesque form, as they knowingly watch a man be whipped—or worse. What will God make of this Circus, at the bread of my body? Feast on that you heathens. May God save the Queen Charles!