Classic Poem

Are these the pope's grand tools?
Worshipful noddies! Who but blund'ring fools
 Would ever have forgot
To burn those letters that revealed their plot?
Or in an alehouse told that Godfrey's dead
Three days before he was discovered;
Leaving the silly world to call to mind
That common logic, They that hide can find?
 But see their master policy
  On Primrose Hill,
 Where their great enemy
 Like Saul upon Mount Gilboa doth lie,
Fall'n on his sword, as if he himself did kill.
 But oh, the infelicity!
That blood was fresh, and gushed out of the wound,
This so congealed that not one spot was found;
No, not upon his sword, as if it would
Tell us 'twas guiltless of its master's blood.
Some carcasses by bleeding do declare;
This by not bleeding shows the murderer.
 But to its broken neck I pray
 What can our politicians say?
He hanged, then stabbed himself, for a sure way;
Or first he stabbed himself, then wrung about
His head for madness that advised him to't.
Well, Primrose, may our Godfrey's name on thee
 (Like Hyacinth) inscribed be:
On thee his memory shall flourish still
(Sweet as thy flower, and lasting as thy hill)
 Whilst blushing Somerset to her
Eternal shame shall this inscription bear:
The devil's an ass, for Jesuits on this spot
Broke both the neck of Godfrey and their Plot.