AN
ELEGY,
On the Death of
Algernon Sidney Esq;
Who was found Guilty of
HIGH-TREASON,
AND
Beheaded at Tower-Hill on Friday the 7th of December, 1683.
|
WOnder not (Reader) if you here descry
|
Satyr usurp the place of Elegy;
|
No deep fetcht sighs, no tears, nor mournful Verse,
|
Must ere attend an old Rebellious Herse:
|
Traytors like stately Tapers set on high,
|
Blaze for a while, then dwindle, stink, and Dye.
|
Th Apostate Angel since from Heaven he fell,
|
Smells of th loathsom, sulphurous stench of Hell,
|
An odious wretched Name is still the fate
|
Of Rebell man, when ere he proves ungrate.
|
Ungratefull Sidney! See the ill success
|
Of Rampant and Triumphant wickedness!
|
Justly the Ax must cut his thred of Life
|
Who vainly spent his Threescore Years in strife.
|
When Traytors pulses beat so wondrous high,
|
To bloud a Vein is the securest way.
|
An old stancht Rebel, cursed at his Birth,
|
A Foe to Heaven, and a Plague to Earth.
|
Early in Treason he began t excel,
|
Woud in his Cradle scratch, bite, and Rebel.
|
As strength encreasd, so Spite and Malice reignd,
|
And still prevaild ore his ill temperd mind.
|
Fierce was his humour, furious was his Zeal,
|
A fond admirer of a Common-weal.
|
This made the Rebell Saint with cursed Sword,
|
In wrath, pursue the Anointed of the Lord.
|
His Lawful King in all things he withstood,
|
Till now nere cloyd with fulsom draughts of bloud,
|
Then farewel Sidney! now expect no more
|
To sport and roll in Royal Purple gore.
|
All your Rebellious cheats must have an end,
|
For Heaven its Viceregent will defend.
|
Th Almighty Thunder justly when he nods
|
Shakes the proud Fabric of these Demi-Gods.
|
Republic Monsters that woud Heaven invade,
|
Bys powrfull word with Earth are levell made.
|
Gigantic Commonwealths Men thus are hurld,
|
From distant Skys, into the lower World.
|
Learn then by Sidneys fate, the Factious Crew
|
Good, Honest, Loyal methods to pursue
|
Nor seek another Sovragn to undoe;
|
If once youre pardond shew your penitence,
|
No more such base, vile wretches to commence,
|
But if you are resolvd to be perverse
|
Then gall and Satyr shall be mixt in Verse.
|
For those whore apt to murmur and Rebel
|
No Lectures fit for them but Death, and Hell.
|
|
|
|
|
The EPITAPH.
|
REader, if Whig thou art, thoult laugh
|
At this insipid EPITAPH.
|
Oh fye! get Onions for thine Eyes,
|
For here thy Patron Sidney lyes.
|
But wheres his wandring Spirit gone,
|
Since here he suffred Martyrdom?
|
To Heaven. Oh! it cannot be,
|
For Heaven is a Monarchy.
|
Where then I pray? To Purgatory.
|
Thats an idle, Romish Story.
|
Such Saints as he cant go to Hell?
|
Where is he gone I prithee tell,
|
The Learned say t Achitophel.
|
|
|
|
|