FUNERAL TEARS Upon the Death OF Captain William Bedloe.  

SAd Fate! our valiant Captain Bedloe,  
In Earth's cold Bed lies with his head low:  
Who to his last made out the PLOT,  
And Swearing died upon the Spot.  
Sure Death was Popishly affected,  
She had our Witness else protected:  
Or downright Papist, or the Jade  
A Papist is in Mascarade.   

The Valiant Bedloe, Learned Oats,  
From Popish Knives saved all our Throats:  
By such a Sword, and such a Gown  
Soon would the Beast have tumbled down.  
They Conquer like the Hebrew King,  
And Oaths at Rome's Goliath sling:  
And never take God's Name in vain;  
As many Oaths, so many slain.  
The stoutest of the Roman Band  
Could not their thundering Volleys stand;  
But all those Missioners of Hell  
By dint of Affidavit fell.   

Great things our Hero brought to light;  
Yet greater still kept out of sight:  
And for his King, and Country's sake  
Still new Discoveries could make:  
In proper season to relieve,  
He still kept something in his sleeve;  
He was become for England's good,  
An endless Mine, a wastless flood;  
Still prodigal, yet never poor,  
No spending could exhaust his Store.  
But Death, alas! that Popish Fiend,  
To all our hopes has put an end;  
Has stopped the Course, and dried the Spring  
Which new Plot-tidings still would bring.   

This Witness (did the Fates so please)  
Had sworn us into Happiness;  
Made the Court chaste, Religion pure;  
And wrought an Universal Cure;  
Sworn Westminster into good Order,  
Reformed Chief-Justice, and Recorder:  
The Land from Romish Locusts purged,  
And from Whitehal the Chits had scourged;  
Had judged the great Succession-Case,  
And sworn the Crown to the right place.   

England! The mighty loss bemoan!  
Thy watchful Sentinel is gone.  
Now may the Pilgrim's land from Spain,  
And undiscovered cross the Main.  
Now may the Forty Thousand Men  
In Popish Arms be raised again;  
Black Bills may fly about our ears;  
Who shall secure us from our Fears?  
Jesuits may fall to their old sport  
Of Burning, Slaying Town and Court,  
And we never the wiser for't.  
Then pity us; Exert thy Power  
To save us in this dangerous Hour.  
Thou hast to Death Sworn many men,  
Ah! Swear thyself to Life again.   
FINIS.   

LONDON; Printed for J. Vade, 1681.