Algernoon Sidneys FAREWELL.  

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 graced your burning Throne.  
Survey me, mighty Prince of Darkness, round:  
View my Hacked Limbs, each honourable Wound.  
The Pride and Glory of my numerous Scars  
In Hell's best Cause the old republic 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 laboured long, stood Blood and Wars rough shock  
To Forge the Axe, and Hue the fatal Block.   

Nor stopped we here; our dear Revenge still kept,  
A Spark that in the Father's Ashes slept,  
To break as fiercely in a second Flame,  
Against the Son, the Heir, the Race, the Name.  
Revenge is Godlike, of that deathless Mould,  
From Generation does to Generation hold.  
Let dull Religion and Sophistick Rules  
Of Christian Ignorants, Conscientious Fools,  
With false Alarms of Heavens forbidding Laws,  
Blast the Renown of our Illustrious Cause:  
A Cause, (what e'er dull Preaching Dotards prate)  
Whose only Fault was being unfortunate.  
Oh the blessed Structure! Oh the charming Toil!  
Had not heavens Envy crushed the rising Pile,  
To what Prodigious Heights had we built on!  
So Babells' Tower had Solomon's Church out-shone.   

True! my unhappy Blood's untimely spilt;  
And some soft Fools may tremble at the Gild.   

As if the poor Vicegerent of a God  
Were that big Name that our Ambition awed.  
A poor Crowned Head, and heavens 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 fulfil  
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 Wars 'tis all True Protestant  
Kings to dethrone, and Empires to supplant.  
Nay and the Antichristian THRONE to shake,  
Cursed Monarchy, 'tis Famous even to make  
The Alcoran the Bible's 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, Hardy Murmurer ne'er fell  
Since the old Days of Stiff-necked Israel:  
Since the cloven Earth in her expanded Womb  
Oped a Broad Gulf for Mighty Corahs' Tomb.  
Methinks I saw him, saw the yawning Deep.  
Oh! 'twas 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.