AN ELEGY On the never to be forgotten Sir Thomas Armstrong Knight; Executed for Conspiring the Death of His most Sacred Majesty, and Royal Brother, June 20. 1684. With some Satirical Reflections on the whole Faction.  

STand forth ye damned deluding Priests of Baal,  
And found from out each Trumpet Mouth a Call  
Let it be loud and shrill, that every Man  
May hear the noise, from Beersheba to Dan;  
To summon all the Faction, that they may  
In doleful Hums and Haws, bewail this day,  
And to their Just Confusion howl and roar,  
For the great Bully of their Cause, is now no more.   

But now methinks I hear the Faction cry,  
Ohone! Where's all thy Pomp and Gallantry?  
Thy Great Commands, thy Interest and thy State?  
The many Crowds which did upon thee wait?  

When thou like Atlas on thy shoulders bore,  
That mighty World which we so much adore  
(That Pageant Hero, Offspring of a Whore.)    

Behold ye stubborn Crew, the certain Fate  
That waits upon the hardened Reprobate.  
See; the effects of Treason's Terrible,  
In this life Infamy, and i'th' next a Hell,  
While Heaven attends on Kings with special Care,  
The Traitor to himself becomes a snare:  
Drove out like Cain, to wander through the World,  
By his own thoughts into Distraction hurled,  
Despised by all, perplexed with hourly fear,  
And by his Friends pushed like the hunted Deer,  
Like a mad Dog, still houted as he ran,  
A just Reward for th' base Rebellious man.   

How often has kind Heaven preserved the Crown,  
And tumbled the Audacious Rebel down?  
How many Warnings have they had of late?  
How often read their own impending Fate?  
That still they dare their wicked Acts pursue,  
And know what Heaven has ordained their due?  
That man who could not reas'nably desire  
To raise his Fortunes, and his Glories higher,  
Who did enjoy, unto a wish, such store,  
That all his Ancestors scarce heard of more,  
Should by his own procuring fall so low,  
As if he'd studied his own overthrow,  
Looks like a story yet without a Name,  
And may be styled the first Novel in Fame?  
So the famed Angels, Turbulent as Great,  
Who always waited 'bout the Mercy-Seat,  
Desiring to be something yet unknown,  
Blundered at all, and would have grasped the Crown,  
Till Heaven's Great Monarch, saw they would Rebel,  
Then dashed their Hopes, and damned them down to Hell.   


And now methinks I see to th'fatal place  
A Troop of whigs with Faction in each Face,  
And Red-swoln Eyes, moving with mournful pace,   
Pitying the Mighty Samson of their Cause,  
Curse their Fates, and Railing at the Laws.  
The Sisters too appear, with snivelling Cries  
To celebrate their Stallions Obsequies;  
From th' Playhouse and from Change, how they resort,  
From Country, City, nay, there's some from Court,  
From the Old C—ss withered and decayed,  
To a Whig Brewers Youthful Lovely Maid.  
Gods! What a Troop is here? sure Hercules  
Had found enough so many Whores to please.   

Repent, ye Factious Rout, Repent and be  
Forewarned by this bold Traitor's Destiny.  
Go home ye Factious Dogs, and mend your Lives;  
Be Loyal, and make honest all your Wives.  
You keep from Conventicles first, and then  
Keep all your Wives from Conventicling Men.  
Leave off your Railing 'gainst the King and State,  
Your foolish Prating, and more foolish Hate.  
Obey the Laws, and bravely act your parts,  
And to the Church unite in Tongues and Hearts;  
Be sudden too, before it proves too late,  
Lest you partake of this bold Traitor's Fate.   

And if the Faction thinks it worth the Cost,  
(To keep this Bully's Name from being lost)  
To raise a Pillar, to perpetuate  
His Wondrous Actions, and Ignoble Fate,  
Let'em about it straight, and when 'tis done,  
I'll Crown the Work with this Inscription.   


Bold Fame thou Liest! Read here all you  
That would this Mighty Mortal know;  
First, he was one of low degree,  
But rose to an Hyperbole.  
Famous t' excess in every thing,  
But duty to his God, and King;  
In Oaths as Great as any He,  
That ever Graced the Triple Tree;  
So Absolute, when Drenched in Wine,  
He might have been the God o'th' Vine.  
His Brutal Lust was still so strong,  
He never spared, or old, or young;  
In Cards and Dice he was well known,  
T' out-cheat the Cheaters of the Town.   

These were his Virtues, if you'd know  
His Vices too pray read below.   

Not wholly Whig, nor Atheist neither,  
But something formed of both together,  
Famous in horrid Blasphemies,  
Practised in base Adulteries.  
In Murders versed as black, and foul  
As his Degenerated Soul.  
In's Maxims too, as great a Beast,  
As 
* His Father was a Groom.  those his honest Father dressed.  
The Factions Bully, Sister's Stallion:  
Now Hanged, and Damned, for his Rebellion.     

LONDON, Printed for William Bateman, in the Old Change.