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, etc.  

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 Firstborn of Heaven! and Being had,  
E'er the vast World was from the Chaos made!  
'Twas That formed Souls; and by a Power sublime,  
Was all in all, the very Word Divine:  
Till Man by Vice and Villainy betrayed,  
By Perjury and false Ambition swayed,  
Banished the Noble Virtue from its Seat,  
As useless in the Politic, and Great.  
Then Fraud and Flattery first in Courts began;  
And thence assumed by all the Race of Man:  
Grave judges, Churchmen, and whole Senates now▪  
Even 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 Poison hurled,  
And with New Lights Debauched 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 Inspired Rabble, now would Monarches Rule,  
And Government was turned to Ridicule:  
No Magistrates, no Order, was Obeyed;  
But New Club Laws, by Knaves and Villains made.  
From Wapping-Councils, all Decrees went out,  
And managed as they pleased the Frantic Rout:  
Then Perj'ries, Treasons, Murders did ensue,  
And total Dissolution seemed 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 People's rage.  
Calm as a Dove, received a shameful Death,  
To Undeceive the World, resigned his Breath;  
And like a God, died to redeem Our Faith.   

At 
* Tyburn.  Golgatha, they glut they're Insatiate Eyes  
With Scenes of Blood, and Humane Sacrifice,  
Men Consecrate to Heaven, were piece-meal hewed  
For Sport and Pastime, to the brutal Crowd.  
The World ran Mad, and each distempered Brain,  
Did strange and different Frenzies entertain:  
Here Politic Mischiefs, there Ambition swayed;  
The Credulous Rest, were Fool and Coward-Mad.  
The Wiser few, who did th' Infection shun,  
Were those most liable to be undone:  
Honour, as Breach of Privilege, was detected;  
And Common Sense, was Popishly affected.   

Thus bashful Truth was Victimed on our Shore,  
And none the frighted Virtue durst restore:  
No Perseus found the Monster to Outbrave,  
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'er the Land,  
You, Mighty Sir, stretched your all Conquering Hand.  
You tuned your Sacred Lyre, and stopped the Rage  
Of this abandoned, this distempered Age.  
By the soft force of Charming Eloquence,  
You eased Our Fears, and brought us back to Sense.   

By You the fatal Riddle was revealed,  
Which Hell's Dark Malice long had keep't concealed.  
You pointed out the Hand that did the Deed,  
For which so many Innocents' did Bleed.  
'Tis plain! and he denys the Noonday light,  
Who questions the vast Reason which you write.  
'Tis brave! 'Tis Noble Truth, Divinely spoke!  
Detecting Knaves, who willingly mistook;  
It shows the Source from whence the Mischief broke.   

The Melancholy Self-Murtherer You trace  
Through his Death-searching Paths e'en to the fatal Place:  
The Picture you have drawn so Just, so True,  
We have the very Fact itself in view.  
And with a just disdain those Author's hate,  
Who on the Innocents' transferred his Fate;  
A Sacrifice to save a vile Estate.  
'Tis You alone these Truths to be admired  
Have Writ, as with a Fiery Tongue Inspired.  
This Crowns your Labours, makes your Works complete;  
Which, like your self, are eminently Great.   
FINIS.