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cause_n great_a king_n war_n 4,472 5 6.2395 4 true
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A26660 Algernoon Sidneys farewel 1687 (1687) Wing A923; ESTC R9251 1,122 4

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Algernoon Sidneys FAREWEL WElcome kind Death my long tired Spirit bear From hated Monarchies detested Air And Waft me safe to th' happier Stygian Land Where my dear Friends with flaming Chaplets stand And Seat me high at Shaftsburys Right Hand There Worshipping my Prostrate Soul shall fall Oh! for a Temple Statues Altars all Volumes and Leaves of Brass whole Books of Fame For all are due to that immortal Name For my Reception then great Shades make room For SIDNEY does with Loads of Honour come No braver Champion nor a bolder Son Of Thunder ever grac'd your burning Throne Survey me mighty Prince of Darkness round View my Hack'd Limbs each honourable Wound The Pride and Glory of my numerous Scars In Hell's best Cause the old republick Wars Behold the rich Grey Heirs your SIDNEY brings Made Silver all in the Pursuit of Kings Think of the Royal Martyr and behold This bold Right Hand This Cyclops Arm of Old That labour'd long stood Blood and Wars rough shock To Forge the Ax and Hew the fatal Block Nor stopt we here our dear Revenge still kept A Spark that in the Fathers Ashes slept To break as fiercely in a second Flame Against the Son the Heir the Race the Name Revenge is God-like of that deathless Mold From Generation does to Generation hold Let dull Religion and Sophistick Rules Of Christian Ignorants Consciencious Fools With false Alarms of Heavens forbidding Laws Blast the Renown of our Illustrious Cause A Cause what e're dull Preaching Dotards prate Whose only Fault was being unfortunate Oh the blest Structure Oh the charming Toyle Had not Heav'ns Envy crusht the rising Pile To what Prodigious Heights had we built on So Babells Tower had Solomons Church out-shone True my unhappy Blood 's untimely spilt And some soft Fools may tremble at the Guilt As if the poor Vice-gerent of a God Were that big Name that our Ambition awd A poor Crown'd Head and Heav'ns Anointed No! We stop at nought that Souls resolved dare do And only curse the Weak and Failing Blow Whilst like the Roman Scaevola we stand And Burn the Missing not the Acting Hand Nay the great Work of Ruin to fullfill All Arts all Means all Hands are Sacred still No Play too foul to win the Glorious Game Witness the great Immortal Teckleys Fame In holy Warrs 't is all True Protestant Kings to dethrone and Empires to supplant Nay and the Antichristian THRONE to shake Curst Monarchy 't is Famous even to make The Alcoran the Bibles Cause assume And Mahomet the Prop of Christendom Such Aid such Helps sublime Rebellion wants Rebellion the great Shibboleth of Saints Which current stamp to Reformation brings For all is GOD with US that strikes at Kings Now Charon Land me on th' Elysian Coast With all the Rites of a Descending Ghost A Stouter Hardier Murmurer ne're fell Since the old Days of Stiff-neckt Israel Since the cleft Earth in her expanded Womb Oped a Broad Gulph for Mighty Corahs Tomb. Methinks I saw him saw the yawning Deep Oh! 't was a Bold Descent a wondrous Leap More swift the pointed Lightning never fell One plunge at once t' his Death his Grave his Hell London Printed for W. Davis in Amen-Corner