The street poets portioned out all his joints with cannibal ferocity, and computed how many pounds of steaks might be cut from his well fattened carcass.

Nay, the rage of his enemies was such that, in language seldom heard in England, they proclaimed their wish that he might go to the place of wailing and gnashing of teeth, to the worm that never dies, to the fire that is never quenched.

They exhorted him to hang himself in his garters, and to cut his throat with his razor.

They put up horrible prayers that he might not be able to repent, that he might die the same hardhearted, wicked Jeffreys that he had lived, [411] His spirit, as mean in adversity as insolent and inhuman in prosperity, sank down under the load of public abhorrence.

His constitution, originally bad, and much impaired by intemperance, was completely broken by distress and anxiety.
He was tormented by a cruel internal disease, which the most skilful surgeons of that age were seldom able to relieve.