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A27314 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. Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689. 1688 (1688) Wing B1756; ESTC R19513 1,405 10

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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 Truth the First-born of Heaven and Being had E'r the vast World was from the Chaos made 'T was 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 The Lord of Life his Image rudely torn 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 Golgatha they glut the 'r Insatiate Eyes With 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 The Wiser few who did th' Infection shun 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. 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 'T is plain and he denys the Noon-day light Who questions the vast Reason which you write 'T is brave 'T is 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 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 'T is 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 * Tyburn