MEMENTO MORI:
AN ELEGY, On the Death of Algernon Sidney Esq Who was found Guilty of HIGH-TREASON, AND Beheaded at Tower-Hill on Friday the 7th of December, 1683.
⟨7. Dec. 1683⟩
WOnder not (Reader) if you here descry
Satyr usurp the place of Elegy;
No deep fetch't sighs, no tears, nor mournful Verse,
Must e're attend an old Rebellious Herse:
Traytors like stately Tapers set on high,
Blaze for a while, then dwindle, stink, and Dye.
Th' Apostate Angel since from Heaven he fell,
Smells of th' loathsom, sulphurous stench of Hell,
An odious wretched Name is still the fate
Of Rebell man, when e're he proves ungrate.
Ungratefull Sidney! See the ill success
Of Rampant and Triumphant wickedness!
Justly the Ax must cut his thred of Life
Who vainly spent his Threescore Years in strife.
When Traytors pulses beat so wondrous high,
To bloud a Vein is the securest way.
An old stanch't Rebel, cursed at his Birth,
A Foe to Heaven, and a Plague to Earth.
Early in Treason he began t' excel,
Wou'd in his Cradle scratch, bite, and Rebel.
As strength encreas'd, so Spite and Malice reign'd,
And still prevail'd o're his ill temper'd mind.
Fierce was his humour, furious was his Zeal,
A fond admirer of a Common-weal,
This made the Rebell Saint with cursed Sword,
In wrath, pursue the Anointed of the Lord.
His Lawful King in all things he withstood,
Till now n'ere cloy'd with fulsom draughts of bloud,
Then farewel Sidney! now expect no more
To sport and roll in Royal Purple gore.
All your Rebellious cheats must have an end,
For Heaven its Vicegerent will defend.
Th' Almighty Thunder justly when he nods.
Shakes the proud Fabric of these Demi-Gods.
Republic Monsters that wou'd Heaven invade,
By's pow'rfull word with Earth are levell made.
Gigantic Commonwealth's Men thus are hurl'd,
From distant Sky's, into the lower World.
Learn then by Sidney's fate, the Factious Crew
Good, Honest, Loyal methods to pursue
Nor seek another Sov'ragn to undoe;
If once you're pardon'd shew your penitence,
No more such base, vile wretches to commence,
But if you are resolv'd to be perverse
Then gall and Satyr shall be mixt in Verse.
For those who're apt to murmur and Rebel
No Lecture's fit for them but Death, and Hell.
The EPITAPH.
REader, if Whig thou art, thou'lt laugh
At this insipid EPITAPH.
Oh fye! get Onions for thine Eyes,
For here thy Patron Sidney lyes.
But where's his wandring Spirit gone,
Since here he suff'red Martyrdom?
To Heaven. Oh! it cannot be,
For Heaven is a Monarchy.
Where then I pray? To Purgatory.
That's an idle,Romish Story.
Such Saints as he can't go to Hell?
Where is he gone I prithee tell,
The Learned say t' Achitophel.
London, Printed by George Croom, at the Blew-Ball in Thames-street, over against Baynard's Castle, 1683.