The Rebel's ELEGY.  

Rebel's Goodnight: Would any Man ha' thought,  
That They who durst Rebel, durst not have fought?  
But Rebels lose their Courage, while their Swords  
Drop from their Hands, like Fool's unwary Words.  
Rebels, and having spoke that Hated Name,  
No wonder Rebels were so quickly tame.  
Fit to Hang then Fight: Immortal Fellows,  
Cowards i'th' Field, but Valiant at the Gallows.   

They scorned to die in Honour's Truckle-Bed;  
The Gallows, Curtained with the Multitude,  
And fairly Canopyed with Azure Sky,  
Was that which raised their Thoughts and Heads so high.  
Used to soft Beds, for Gibbets they took care;  
For ne'er was Down so soft as is the Air.  
Thus Meteors die, and thus false Lights expire;  
Pendant awhile, down drops Fanatic Fire;  
An End it seems in which they All delight.   

But They were Men would still be opposite  
To all the World; 'cause all the World beside  
Applauded Monarchy; not so, They cried;  
We'll have a Commonwealth; and then because  
The Heath'nish Poets, giving high Applause  
To luckless Valour, still maintained, that They  
Who in the Field of Battle prostrate lay,  
A Banquet for the Hungry Fowl beside,  
Yet in the Noble Bed of Honour died.  
Believe those Rogues! Believe the Devil sooner;  
They cried, the Gallows is the Bed of Honour.  
Well— Let 'em have't; the Favours not worth speaking,  
To let 'em die in Beds of their own making.   

In Holland tho, Bell-swaggers, Sons of Mars,  
Godfrey's of Bologn, All for Holy Wars.  
Three Kingdoms in a Minute must be won  
With Caesar's Motto, Come and see; Not One,  
But had a Killing Face, a Gorgon's Head,  
At once to look a Thousand Read-Coats Dead.  
Nay more; They called the Giant's heartless Elves,  
That suffered a Repulse from Gods themselves.  
And by the Cup that bold Cethegus filled,  
They swore, or All to Kill, or All be Killed.  
But after all— alack and well a day,  
For when They should have fought, they run away:  
And only some poor Bumpkins, They stood to't,  
That neither knew for Whom, nor Why they fought.  
What then remains, but as in Forest Game,  
The Law in Warlike Chase should be the same:  
And therefore fearing to debauch his Cry,  
The Huntsman ought to hang the Curs that lie.   

But strange to tell! when to the Gallows led,  
Their Hearts revive at sight of Hnours Bed.  
They that feared Death, when they might well avoid it,  
Because they cannot help it, now deride it.  
Noises of Battle both amaze and stun,  
When he that's Hanged has time to Kiss him Son.  
Catch never meets these Men of Paradoxes  
With dismal Guns and frightful Battleaxes.  
A silent Rope, that makes no Noise at all,  
Gives 'em both time to Pray and time to Bawl.  
For that's an Honour too, to make a Speech,  
For Printers Profit, then to wipe your Breech.  
And all your Actors still desire a full-Pit,  
Which They still have, who Preach in Death's own Pulpit.  
Like Sampsons' Arms, they think those Engines proof,  
The massy Columns of heavens Vaulted Roof  
To bow, and bring Celestial Vengeance down,  
To expiate the Crimes which they disown.  
As if the Words of Dying Men, and Noise  
Of Men adjudged to Dye, had equal poise.  
For Truth attends on Dying men's last Breath;  
Which he can never speak that dies in Wrath.  
For who asks Pardon, yet by scorn of Death,  
And passive Mummery of Great and Brave  
Upholds his Crime, is but a Dying Knave.  
And though he seemingly forgive, could Eat  
The just Inflicters, were they ne'er so Great.  
Forgive! 'tis Nonsense: No man can forgive  
But he must Injured first believe.  
So Truth to tell, theyare only words designed,  
As dying Serpents leave their poisonous Breath behind.   

But there's another Honour yet to come,  
The Honour, what d'ye call't, of Martyrdom.  
For straight the Party; oh the Party, They  
His Funeral Rites in mournful Claret pay.  
Meet and Condole; and Oh! how like a Hero!  
And then another Drinks, and whispers— Nero.  
The Judge was Cruel; Witnesses Forsworn;  
But He the Victor, He the Man of Scorn  
That Death Contemned; made Innocence appear  
And gave the Court a cursed Box o'th' Ear  
And now, quo they, that this is truly hinted,  
You'll see, they'll never let his Speech be Printed.   

Ill Read in Men and Human Morals too,  
To give to Stubborn Passion, Virtue's due:  
For Resolute, Constant, change their Glorious Names  
In Breasts of Traitors; as in Hell th' Extremes  
Of Heavn's Perfections Angel turned to Devil,  
There's no such Thing as Virtue in a Rebel;  
The Crime of Heaven, ere Man knew how to sin,  
That Chaosed all his Little World again   

Men thus mistaken are by Folly swayed,  
Or else by Vanity more vicious lead.  
For Fortitude does only in Just appear;  
'tis Ostentation else dissembles Fear.  
They utter falsehood, when they cry, They come  
To pay Dame Nature's Debt, by fatal doom:  
For why? we know they be hanged; and so, 'tis true,  
They pay the Bond; but 'tis before 'tis due.  
And they that suffering, a fair Story tell  
Are ne'er a whit the farther off from Hell.  
Bad Resolution is but bad Despair;  
False Constancy, Self-love, surmounting Fear;  
While they that seem so well resolved to die,  
Make but a Virtue of Necessity.  
A Bravery, Story yet did never name  
But with Dishonour and the Brand of Shame.  
Thus what can Felton or Jocundus glory?  
They live, 'tis true, but putrifyd in Story.  
For Fame, like Coin, is either true or base,  
The one goes currant, th' other we deface,  
Dye Rebels then, like Rebels, while we sings,  
So perish All that Rise to hurt my Lord the KING.    

This may be Printed,  
R. L. S. Nou. 6. 1685.   

Printed for JOHN WELD, at the Crown in Fleetstreet, 1685.