AN ELEGY On the much Lamented Sir WILLIAM WALLER, Who Valiantly Hang'd Himself at Rotterdam.
RIse, Grim
Alecto, rise ('tis fit to chuse
For Hellish matter an Infernal Muse:)
Thou who at
Fox Hall did'st Inspire those Sots,
Tongue, Oates and
Kirby to Contrive their
Plots;
Who did'st through wondrous Labarinths of Ill,
Conduct Sir
Godfrey safe to
Primrose-Hill;
And by Mysterious Ways, and Oaths most quaint,
Of an Old Faggot made us a Young Saint:
Plots thou canst make and marr: Thou
Stygian Whore
Assist me once! I'll ne'r invoke thee more.
The Hell-born Dame Assents; Her Head she shakes,
Pregnant of
Plots, and Pery wick'd with Snakes;
At her Right-Ear an
Oates and
Bedlow hung,
And at her Lest
Prance Everard and
Tongue:
Thus Gravely she Recounts what the
Curs'd Else
Sir
Waller Confess'd, e're he Hang'd himself.
Good Father
Ferguson, quoth He, now I
Do mean to make Confession Verily.
When willing
Senators wisely were afraid
Of Horrid Scare-crows, they Temselves had made;
When Chappel of St.
Stephen, and Place of
Peers,
Were overflow'd with sudden Floods of Fears:
When Easie Mortals stop'd their Ears and Eyes,
With Uncouth Tales, and Incoherent Lyes;
When
Knaves, and
Thieves, and
Cheats grew Rich by
Plots,
I wisely Worship'd
Bedlow and Great
Oates;
Because I scarcely then was worth
Ten Groats.
These my Right Worthy
Patrons with great ease,
Soon made my Worship
Justice of the Peace.
Arm'd with this Power (as if I had a
Charter
To Rob and Spoil) I gave no Mortal quarter.
Even Aged
Matrons, in my nightly Trade,
I Grop'd; Such might be
Priests in
Masquerade:
My Skill herein was great; I got the Start
Of Brother
Chamberlain in his own Art.
And with my Co-Adjutors at my Tail,
Gill, Merry, Jones, Snow, Chetwyn, Prance, Mansel;
In Obscure
Holes, and
Lanes I Briskly Blunder'd,
And every
Papist, that I found, I Plundr'd:
Even
Protestants themselves scap'd not my
Gynnes;
Though they were
Guelphs, their Goods were
Gibell
[...]ns.
John Gadbury's Maps and Globes were not Protected;
Such as I lik'd, were
Popishly Affected.
Now see me on a Steed, more big by far,
Then that my
Rebel Sire Bestrid in War;
Towards
Tuthil-fields the way I do Traverse,
With a Rude Rout of Miscreants at my Arse.
To th'
Fields we come. Lo, Parson
Farringdon,
Like a Brave
Knipperdolling, Marches on,
With Hatt Erect on Cane ('twas to seem Taller)
He Cryes;
I'th' Name of Gad, a Waller, a Waller.
As, when to warn men to
Bear-Garden Plays,
Exalted
Pugg from's
Rosinant Surveys
Attendant Crowds of
Doggs, Thieves, Bums and
Boyes,
Expressing in his Pleasant Face his Joys:
Like
Pugg look'd I, when
Billing and his Blades
Denuded their Dull, Sullen, Loggerheads,
Throwing their Everlasting Caps to th' Sky,
Bawling a
Waller with a Full-mouth'd Cry.
Environ'd with my
Rogues I bent my Course,
To Lady
Dormer's, where without Remorse,
Spoons, Tankards,
Pictures[?], Plates I took away,
(Alas such
Popish Trinkets were just Prey!)
And after narrow Search, like cunning
Fox,
I seiz'd a
Priest, hid in a Pepper-Box;
The
Priest to
Newgate had his
Mittimus,
The Box, being Silver, did belong to Us.
Then in
New-Pallace-yard of
Westminster,
I most Couragiously did make a Fire,
And,
True-Dissenter like, in zealous Scorn,
At Noon-day did my
Saviours Picture Burn:
A worthy Prank of Reformation-work,
That out-does Father
Jew, and Brother
Turk;
And tells the
Christian World I durst Act, what
My Grand sire
Pilate would have Blushed at.
With
Gun, I and my Knaves to th'
Savoy came;
Like Skilful Thieves in
Pikerings House we Roam;
Closets and
Trunks we break; one did unfold
Full Fourscore Pieces of
Egyptian Gold:
Good
Quids, quoth I; my Brethren, not a word;
All this is Ours; we're People of the Lord:
This
Gun, we Bought i'th'
Minories, 'tmust be laid,
And we must find't out in
Pikering's Bed.
Then Early in the Morning, let's repair
To tell our
Patriots at
Westminster:
(Not of the Fourscore Pounds we Stole in Gold)
That
Pikering's
Gun is Found, and in Safe hold;
This
Gun, clos'd up in Feather-Bed so dark,
That Dextrous
Gunner us'd in
James's-
Park:
And, if their Honours
Vote to have't laid by,
My Sancha-Pancha
Prance and I, in
Lent
A Journey took to
Newark upon
Trent;
To seize Old
Beddingfield, who like a Fop
Forsook's quiet Grave to keep a Ribbon-Shop:
He was grown Young again; say what ye will,
These Cunning
Jesuits will be
Jesuits still:
The
Mayor and
We Rob'd him of all his Things,
Two Spoons, one Old Plate, Horse, Ribbons, Gloves, Rings.
But why should I my Mighty Deeds declare?
I'll Hang my self now in this wild Despair.
Why do I Live? Brave
Anthony is gone,
And
Essex with his Razor cryes, Ah
Hone!
Bold
Walcot's Hang'd, and close behind his Breech,
Stands Noble
Russel making a
True Speech:
All-killing
Armstrong and Bold
Gray are Fled;
Prince
Monmouth Sneaks, and dares not show his Head.
All's Lost; Go
Ferguson, get a Rope, go, go;
Here's a Convenient Beam will serve Us Two:
Then at one Swing himself Sir
Waller Hurl'd,
To's Fellow-Traytors in the other World.
Printed by N. Y. at the Entrance into the Old-Spring-Garden, 1683.