An ELEGY
On that Worthy Patriot of his Country,
Sir Roger L'Estrange.
De mortuis nil nisi Verum.
|
D'Ye hear the News! Sir Roger he's retir'd,
|
Ungrateful Nature with the Fates con-spir'd,
|
Grave Time at a full Age convey'd him hence,
|
Disarm'd of Teeth, of Honesty and Sense.
|
He serv'd, that wicked Court whose Slave he was,
|
And thro his Noddle did their Eccho pass;
|
What cursed Projects Romes Priests set on foot,
|
Tho ne'er so base, industrious Hodge would do't.
|
All that he did by order of that State,
|
Was to inflame the Partys,' Feuds create;
|
Good Men abus'd by him, expos'd in Print,
|
The proper Product of that Government.
|
Riots contriv'd for Ruin (said to be)
|
By those base Men, Jen---s, Mea---n, and he:
|
His mighty Conduct was to steer the Cause
|
At the Expence and Ruin of our Laws.
|
By Knaves encourag'd to't without Controul,
|
As he was bid, he'd bite, and snap and groul.
|
Some Dogs when they grow mad, do range the Street,
|
And bite, and tear and snap at all they meet,
|
Without respect, and no Command obey,
|
Unless from such-like Dogs as mad as they.
|
'Tis wisely thought, when Mankind thus are vext,
|
To beat their Teeth out first, their Brains out next:
|
But this State Blood-hound, made a Currish Knight,
|
Worry'd us all two Churches to unite.
|
He steer'd the Kingdom, and did prop the State,
|
Destroy'd the Plot, and did Romes Foes defeat;
|
Set Mankind by the Ears, sad Truths to tell,
|
His Pow'r from Court, his Pen and Ink from Hell.
|
Touzer the Great, and at his Tail a Broom,
|
A true and busy Slave to Court and Rome.
|
The City could not chuse their Shrieves and Mayor,
|
But to assist the Cause he must be there;
|
To overawe those that the Court detest,
|
And chuse base Men that might enslave the rest;
|
Destroy'd our Order, and gave Laws the Lie,
|
And all that would not serve their Turn, laid by;
|
Like Sodoms Sins, did Nature's Laws deface,
|
And set up unknown Monsters in their place,
|
Traytors and Papists, Torys and Fools, then said
|
To be the Genteel Fellows fit to lead.
|
What Blood was spilt, what Men by Jails undone,
|
What base Designs, and not by him helpt on!
|
Thus did the Knave, whom Fools did all obey,
|
The Laws, the Nation, State and Church betray.
|
But is he gone, and left the Jacks forlorn?
|
Their Irish Understandings ought to mourn:
|
Summon the Tribe, call in the sev'ral Clans,
|
From their Abode at Symonss and Sams,
|
Non-Jurors, Papists, all the trayt'rous Crew,
|
Torys, French Pensioners, and God knows who.
|
Tell his Associate too how things go on,
|
Bid him grow honest, bring the Bond and come.
|
Dear Brother Bob, top of the Northern Clan,
|
That Villain Priest, ne'er true to God nor Man.
|
Let Cleveland change his Curse, and God his Doom,
|
And let him wander all his days to come!
|
Let him a Curse to the whole World become,
|
Till Mankind all agree to whip him home!
|
Let all his Plots and trayt'rous Projects fail,
|
If not at Tyburn, let 'em end in Jail!
|
And since the State will not correct the Elf,
|
Let him go home, despair and hang himself!
|
And is he gone! that Moloch Man of War,
|
Without an Earthquake, Whale, or Blazing Star;
|
Let us with pickl'd Tears his Hearse adorn,
|
And not in Black, but deep dy'd-Claret mourn:
|
And still to shew the Blockheads are his own,
|
Let's have a loud Huzza with each Go-down.
|
And as at Sams the Parsons did appear,
|
Let those Non-Jurors do a little here;
|
Give this State-Firebrand their Service free,
|
(That unknown Virtue) the Priests Charity.
|
Passive and Loyal, that black canting Crowd
|
Laid by their Books, and to this Idol bow'd;
|
Baptiz'd in Claret, bid their Skill adieu,
|
At this Gamaliels Feet did learn a-new;
|
And from the Pulpit by the Brazenhead,
|
Was his Sedition and his Notions spread
|
Among th' unthinking Herd, who gazing stand
|
To hear old Roger at the second hand:
|
From this State-Tool we must our Faith receive,
|
Who tells long Tales of what he don't believe.
|
To think he's call'd of God, is all a Jest,
|
The Bishop's Tongue and Fingers make the Priest;
|
He learns his Trade, arm'd with a golden Hope,
|
And when he has his Warrant, wants a Shop.
|
Thus Mankind's Passion's grown to a Disease,
|
For all their Cant of Grace and Consciences;
|
Lewd to the last degree, but yet obey,
|
And don't you see their Priests as lewd as they?
|
And when they've gone to Church for many a year,
|
They're far more wicked than at first they were:
|
Their kind of Zeal, join'd with their holy Fits,
|
Make cunning Christians, but rank Hypocrites.
|
So our dear Brother, as he liv'd he dy'd,
|
And on his Masters saving Faith rely'd;
|
To justify his Crimes more can't be said,
|
But that the Knight was poor and writ for Bread.
|
HERE's honest Hodge by Death is laid aside,
|
The Nations Curse, and the young Parsons Guide;
|
The Devil a word he says, he's now grown dumb,
|
But when he riseth have at Forty One.
|
No more Sham-plots from him, nor Popish Shams,
|
Nor Crape-gown Worshippers adore at Sams.
|
Nor can his Conduct now the Cause restore,
|
Nor ever reconcile the Churches more;
|
And if thou art of his curst Crimes a Hater,
|
Sit down and Sh------ upon his Observator;
|
And on this comprehensive Stone let's write,
|
Here lies a Fidler, Justice, Knave and Knight.
|
|
|
|
|
|