FUNERAL TEARS Upon the Death OF Captain William Bedloe.
SAd Fate! our valiant Captain
Bedloe,
In Earths cold Bed lyes with his head low:
Who to his last made out the PLOT,
And Swearing dy'd upon the Spot.
Sure Death was Popishly affected,
She had our Witness else protected:
Or downright Papist, or the Jade
A Papist is in Mascarade.
The Valiant
Bedloe, Learned
Oates,
From Popish Knives sav'd all our Throats:
By such a Sword, and such a Gown
Soon would the
Beast have tumbled down.
They Conquer like the
Hebrew King,
And Oaths at
Rome's
Goliah sling:
And never take God's Name in vain;
As many Oaths, so many slain.
The stoutest of the
Roman Band
Could not their thundering Volleys stand;
But all those Missioners of Hell
By dint of Affidavit fell.
Great things our
Heroe brought to light;
Yet greater still kept out of sight:
And for his King, and Countries sake
Still new Discoveries could make:
In proper season to relieve,
He still kept something in his sleeve;
He was become for
England's good,
An endless Mine, a wastless flood;
Still prodigal, yet never poor,
No spending could exhaust his Store.
But Death, alas! that Popish Fiend,
To all our hopes has put an end;
Has stop'd the Course, and dry'd the Spring
Which new Plot-tidings still would bring.
This Witness (did the Fates so please)
Had sworn us into Happiness;
Made the Court chast, Religion pure;
And wrought an Universal Cure;
Sworn
Westminster into good Order,
Reform'd Chief-Justice, and Recorder:
The Land from
Romish Locusts purg'd,
And from
Whitehal the Chits had scourg'd;
Had judg'd the great Succession-Case,
And sworn the Crown to the right place.
England! The mighty loss bemoan!
Thy watchful Sentinel is gone.
Now may the Pilgrims land from
Spain,
And undiscover'd cross the Main.
Now may the Forty Thousand Men
In Popish Arms be rais'd agen;
Black Bills may fly about our ears;
Who shall secure us from our Fears?
Jesuits may fall to their old sport
Of Burning, Slaying Town and Court,
And we never the wiser for't.
Then pitty us; Exert thy Power
To save us in this dangerous Hour.
Thou hast to Death Sworn many men,
Ah! Swear thy self to Life agen.
FINIS.
LONDON; Printed for J. Vade, 1681.