The Rebels ELEGY.
REbels Goodnight: Would any Man ha' thought,
That They who durst Rebel, durst not have fought?
But Rebels loose their Courage, while their Swords
Drop from their Hands, like Fool's unwary Words.
Rebels, and having spoke that Hated Name,
No wonder Rebels were so quickly tame.
Fitter to Hang then Fight: Immortal Fellows,
Cowards i'th' Field, but Valiant at the Gallows.
They scorn'd to dye in Honours Truckle-Bed;
The Gallows, Curtain'd with the Multitude,
And fairly Canopy'd with Azure Sky,
Was that which rais'd their Thoughts and Heads so high.
Us'd to soft Beds, for Gibbets they took care;
For n'ere was
Down so soft as is the
Air.
Thus
Meteors dye, and thus
false Lights expire;
Pendant awhile, down drops
Fanatic Fire;
An End it seems in which they
All delight.
But They were Men would still be opposite
To all the World; 'cause all the World beside
Applauded Monarchy; not so, They cry'd;
We'll have a
Commonwealth; and then because
The Heath'nish Poets, giving high Applause
To luckless Valour, still maintain'd, that They
Who in the Field of Battel prostrate lay,
A Banquet for the Hungry Fowl beside,
Yet in the Noble Bed of Honour dy'd.
Believe those Rogues! Believe the Devil sooner;
They cry'd, the Gallows is the Bed of Honour.
Well—Let 'em ha't; the Favours not worth speaking,
To let 'em dye in Beds of their own making.
In
Holland tho,
Bell-swaggers, Sons of
Mars,
Godfreys of
Bologn, All for Holy Wars.
Three Kingdoms in a Minute must be won
With
Caesars Motto,
Come and see; Not One,
But had a Killing Face, a
Gorgon's Head,
At once to look a Thousand Read-Coats Dead.
Nay more; They call'd the Gyants heartless Elves,
That suffer'd a Repulse from Gods themselves.
And by the Cup that bold
Cethegus fill'd,
They swore, or All to Kill, or All be Kill'd.
But after all—alack and well a day,
For when They should have fought, they run away:
And only some poor Bumpkins, They stood to't,
That neither knew for Whom, nor Why they fought.
What then remains, but as in Forest Game,
The Law in Warlike Chase should be the same:
And therefore fearing to debauch his
Cry,
The Huntsman ought to hang the
Curs that
lye.
But strange to tell! when to the Gallows led,
Their Hearts revive at sight of
Hnours Bed.
They that fear'd Death, when they might well avoid it,
Because they cannot help it, now deride it.
Noises of Battel both amaze and stun,
When he thats Hang'd has time to
Kiss him
Son.
Katch never meets these Men of Paradoxes
With dismal Guns and frightful Battel-Axes.
A silent Rope, that makes no Noise at all,
Gives 'em both time to
Pray and time to Bawl.
For that's an Honour too, to make a
Speech,
For Printers Profit, then to wipe your Breech.
And all your Actors still desire a full-Pit,
Which They still have, who Preach in Deaths own Pulpit.
Like
Sampsons Arms, they think those Engins proof,
The massy Columns of Heav'ns Vaulted Roof
To bow, and bring Celestial Vengeance down,
To expiate the Crimes which they disown.
As if the Words of Dying Men, and Noise
Of Men adjudg'd to Dye, had equal poise.
For Truth attends on
Dying Mens last Breath;
Which he can never speak that dyes in Wrath.
For who asks Pardon, yet by scorn of Death,
And passive Mummery of
Great and
Brave
Upholds his Crime, is but a
Dying Knave.
And tho he seemingly forgive, could Eat
The
just Inflicters, were they ne're so Great.
Forgive! 'tis Nonsence: No man can forgive
But he must Injur'd first believe.
So Truth to tell, th'are only words design'd,
As dying Serpents leave their pois'nous Breath behind.
But there's another Honour yet to come,
The Honour, what d'ye call't, of
Martyrdom.
For strait the
Party; oh the
Party, They
His Funeral Rites in mournful Claret pay.
Meet and Condole; and
Oh! how like a Hero!
And then another Drinks, and whispers—
Nero.
The Judg was Cruel; Witnesses Forsworn;
But He the Victor, He the Man of Scorn
That Death Contemn'd; made Innocence appear
And gave the Court
a cursed Box o'th' Ear
And now, quo they, that this is truly hinted,
You'l see, they'l never let his Speech be Printed.
Ill Read in
Men and
Human Morals too,
To give to
Stubborn Passion, Vertues due:
For
Resolute, Constant, change their Glorious Names
In Brests of Traitors; as in Hell th' Extremes
Of Heavn's Perfections Angel turn'd to Devil,
There's no such Thing as
Vertue in a Rebel;
The Crime of Heav'n, ere Man knew how to sin,
That Chaos'd all his
Little World agen
Men thus mistaken are by Folly swayd,
Or else by Vanity more vicious lead.
For
Fortitude does only in
Just appear;
Tis
Ostentation else dissembles
Fear.
They utter falshood, when they cry,
They come
To pay Dame Natures Debt, by fatal doom:
For why? we know they 're hang'd; and so, 'tis true,
They pay the Bond; but 'tis before 'tis due.
And they that suffring, a fair Story tell
Are nere a whit the farther off from Hell.
Bad
Resolution is but
bad Despair;
False Constancy, Self-love, surmounting Fear;
While they that seem so well resolv'd to dye,
Make but a
Vertue of
Necessity.
A Bravery, Story yet did never name
But with Dishonour and the Brand of Shame.
Thus what can
Felton or
Jocundus glory?
They live, 'tis true, but putrifyd in Story.
For Fame, like Coyn, is either true or base,
The one goes currant, th' other we deface,
Dye Rebels then, like Rebels, while we sings,
So perish All that Rise to hurt my Lord the
KING.
This may be Printed,
R. L. S.
Nov. 6. 1685.
Printed for JOHN WELD, at the Crown in Fleetstreet, 1685.