A POEM TO Sir Roger L'Estrange, ON HIS THIRD PART OF THE HISTORY of the TIMES; Relating to the DEATH OF Sir EDMUND BURY-GODFREY.
By Mrs. A. BEHN.
LONDON, Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall. 1688.
A POEM TO Sir Roger L'Estrange, &c.
IN what loud Songs of everlasting
Fame,
Shall we adore the great
L'Estrange's
Name;
Who like a pitying God, does
Truth advance,
Rescuing the
World from stupid Ignorance.
Truth, which so long in shameful Darkness lay,
Raises her shineing Head, and views the Day.
E'r the vast World was from the
Chaos made!
'Twas
That form'd
Souls; and by a
Power sublime,
Was
all in all, the very
Word Divine:
'Till Man by
Vice and
Villany betray'd,
By
Perjury and false
Ambition sway'd,
Banisht the Noble
Vertue from its Seat,
As
Vseless in the Politick, and Great.
Then Fraud and Flattery first in
Courts began;
And thence assum'd by all the
Race of
Man:
Grave
Iudges, Church-men, and whole
Senates now▪
Ev'n
Laws and
Gospel, were corrupted too.
By
these misled, the restless People Range
Into a Thousand
Errors, New and Strange;
To every
God, to every
Idol-Change.
Unknown
Religions first their
Poyson hurl'd,
And with
New Lights Debauch'd the giddy World▪
Not the
Rebellious, Stubborn Hebrew Race,
More false forbidden
Worships did Embrace.
Hence Universal
Feuds and
Mischiefs rose,
And
Friends to
Friends, Parent to
Sons were Foes.
The Inspir'd
Rabble, now wou'd
Monarchs Rule,
And
Government was turn'd to Ridicule:
No
Magistrates, no
Order, was Obey'd;
But New
Club Laws, by
Knaves and
Villains made.
From
Wapping-Councils, all
Decrees went out,
And
manag'd as
they pleas'd the Frantick
Rout:
Then
Perj'ries, Treasons, Murthers did ensue,
And total Dissolution seem'd in View.
For safety
God's Anointed found no
Place;
And 'midst his
Senate, most in danger was.
To
Flames was by the
Common-Hangman born.
Here Noble
Stafford fell, on
Death's great
Stage,
A
Victim to the Lawless Peoples rage.
Calm as a
Dove, receiv'd a shameful Death,
To Undeceive the
World, resign'd his
Breath;
And like a
God, dy'd to redeem
Our Faith.
At
Tyburn.
Golgatha, they glut the'r Insatiate
EyesWith
Scenes of
Blood, and
Humane Sacrifice,
Men Consecrate to
Heav'n, were
piece-meal hew'd
For Sport and Pastime, to the brutal Crowd.
The
World ran
Mad, and each distemper'd
Brain,
Did
strange and
different Frenzies entertain:
Here
Politick Mischiefs, there
Ambition sway'd;
The Credulous
Rest, were
Fool and
Coward-Mad.
Were
those most lyable to be
undone:
Honour, as
Breach of
Priviledge, was detected;
And
Common Sense, was
Popishly affected.
Thus bashful
Truth was
Victim'd on our
Shore,
And none the frighted
Virtue durst restore:
No
Perseus found the
Monster to Out-brave,
And from the
fatal Rock, she
Virgin save.
No
Curtius the vast
Precipice would leap,
That
Rome might from the dire
Contagion scape;
Till like a
saving Angel o're the Land,
You,
Mighty Sir, stretch'd your all
Conquering Hand.
You tun'd your
Sacred Lyre, and stopt the Rage
Of this abandon'd, this distemper'd Age.
[Page 6]By the soft force of
Charming Eloquence,
You eas'd Our
Fears, and brought us back to
Sense.
By You the
fatal Riddle was reveal'd,
Which
Hell's Dark
Malice long had keep't conceal'd.
You pointed out the
Hand that did the
Deed,
For which so many
Innocents did
Bleed.
'Tis plain! and he denys the Noon-day light,
Who questions the vast Reason which you write.
'Tis brave! 'Tis Noble
Truth, Divinely spoke!
Detecting
Knaves, who willingly mistook;
It shews the
Source from whence the Mischief broke.
The Melancholly
Self-Murtherer You trace
Thro' his
Death-searching Paths e'n to the fatal
Place:
[Page 7]The
Picture you have drawn so Just, so True,
We have the very
Fact it self in view.
And with a just disdain those
Authors hate,
Who on the
Innocents transferr'd his
Fate;
A
Sacrifice to save a
vile Estate.
'Tis You alone these Truths to be admir'd
Have Writ, as with a
Fiery Tongue Inspir'd.
This
Crowns your
Labours, makes your
Works compleat;
Which, like your
self, are eminently Great.
FINIS.