Distressed Sion Relieved Or, The Garment of Praise for the Spirit of Heaviness. Wherein are Discovered the Grand Causes of the Churches Trouble and Misery under the late Dismal Dispensation. With a Compleat History of, and Lamentation for those Renowned Worthies that fell in England by Popish Rage and Cruelty, from the Year 1680 to 1688. Together with an Account of the late Admirable and Stupendious Providence which hath wrought such a sudden and Wonderful Deliverance for this Nation, and Gods Sion therein. Humbly Dedicated to their Present Majesties. By Benjamin Keach |
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Though thy Assassinates like men appear,
Their curst attempt shew'd least of man was there,
Incarnate Devils certainly they were.
Ah cruel Tyrants! destitute of shame,
To murder both thy Body and thy Name.
Could not thy Blood their hellish thirst suffice?
But must thou die a double Sacrifice?
What! cut thy Throat with such barbarity,
And when thy Soveraign also was so nigh!
The Royal Prison, though a Tower strong,
Was no defence nor refuge to thee long.
Thou careful wast how to preserve thy life,
And yet didst fall by a curst Romish Knife.
Thy Head almost cut off; and yet they cry
That thy own hands did act the Tragedy;
But now we hope it plainly will appear,
Who the vile Actors; who the Murderers were.
May I not borrow now (as many do)
Some proper lines, made on an Essex too.
Shall such a Noble Peer fall thus by Rome?
And shall I not drop tears upon his Tomb?
Shall none who loved him, move for a Vote?
Ye Lords and Commons, ye are bound to do't.
A Vote that all on that same day o'th' year
On which he fell shall mourn, or shed a tear,
Or else be judg'd a 'Papist? It were wise
T'erect an Office in my Childrens Eyes,
For issuing forth a constant sum of tears,
There's no way else to pay him his Arrears,
And when we've drein'd this Ages Eyes quite dry,
Let him be wept the next in History.
Their curst attempt shew'd least of man was there,
Incarnate Devils certainly they were.
Ah cruel Tyrants! destitute of shame,
To murder both thy Body and thy Name.
Could not thy Blood their hellish thirst suffice?
But must thou die a double Sacrifice?
What! cut thy Throat with such barbarity,
And when thy Soveraign also was so nigh!
The Royal Prison, though a Tower strong,
Was no defence nor refuge to thee long.
Thou careful wast how to preserve thy life,
And yet didst fall by a curst Romish Knife.
Thy Head almost cut off; and yet they cry
That thy own hands did act the Tragedy;
But now we hope it plainly will appear,
Who the vile Actors; who the Murderers were.
14
Some proper lines, made on an Essex too.
Shall such a Noble Peer fall thus by Rome?
And shall I not drop tears upon his Tomb?
Shall none who loved him, move for a Vote?
Ye Lords and Commons, ye are bound to do't.
A Vote that all on that same day o'th' year
On which he fell shall mourn, or shed a tear,
Or else be judg'd a 'Papist? It were wise
T'erect an Office in my Childrens Eyes,
For issuing forth a constant sum of tears,
There's no way else to pay him his Arrears,
And when we've drein'd this Ages Eyes quite dry,
Let him be wept the next in History.
| Distressed Sion Relieved | |