AN ELEGY Upon the Truly Worthy, and ever-to-be-remembred Loyal Gentleman, Captain WILL. BEDLOW, ENGLAD's Deliverer, and the Scourge of ROME: Who Departed this Life on the 22 of this instant August; to the great Grief of all True Protestants. With an ACCOUNT of his PIOUS END.  

ALas! what sullen Fate has hence conveyed  
That Soul once Heaven-inspired, whose Wisdom stayed  
The baleful Mischiefs of Blood thirsty Rome,  
Baffled the Tyrannies, reversed that Doom  
Which over us like a black Tempest spread,  
Just ready for to break on Albion's head,  
And from her Womb ten thousand Murders shed?  
Brave BEDLOW, he, who for his Country bold,  
Disdained the Traitor's Bribes, and spurned at Gold.  
His Soul, more Noble still, was bend on good,  
Nor could he see Three Kingdoms set in Blood,  
But restless till he from far distance came,  
The horrid deeds of darkness to proclaim,  
Night-brooded secrets, first contrived in Hell,  
By which the Sacrifice of Britain fell,  
Renowned GODFREY, whose fresh bleeding Wounds  
The loud Alarm to the Nations sounds.  
For whilst to stifle Treasons thus they tried,  
They lost their Aims, and Blood for vengeance cried  
From this low Earth, and reached the lofty Sky,  
Where his blessed Soul waved in Eternity;  
Then was the far renowned Captain sent,  
No doubt by him who rules Omnipotent,  
Who soon expelled the gloomy shades wherein  
The horrid Crime so late had acted been;  
Unmasked the blood-bedabled Traitors all,  
Whilst some they fled, the rest did justly fall,  
Opening wider yet the fatal PLOT,  
Which then by thousands was almost forgot.  
New Villainies by him were brought to light,  
In such dire shapes as might the world affright;  
Such as the cruel Seythiens blush to own;  
Dire Treason, fit for Scarlet- Room alone,  
And by their Roman dress were only known.  
Thus when they saw all the deep Mines they made  
As deeply Countermined, their Secrets laid  
Open to th' vulgar eyes, and each start back,  
Pale with dread horror at the wondrous tract;  
Down to Infernal Regions than they treat,  
And would a price with Gold for silence beat;  
Set Female-snares our Hero to entrap,  
As Samson once was in a Harlot's lap:  
But his Heroic Soul disdained a thing  
So mean and base; his care was for his KING  
And Country's safety: for unto the last  
He Rome defied, and did her Treason's blast;  
Breathed Piety, and did abhor her Crimes,  
Repenting him seduced in former times;  
Shedding of Tears that e'er he did embrace  
The Scarlet Strumpet with a Crimson face,  
That sacred blood of Saints and Martyrs died,  
Which had been shed to satiate her pride;  
Discovering till the utmost gasp of breath,  
And more had done, had not the Tyrant Death  
Snatched hence his Soul, envious we should enjoy  
One that would not permit him to destroy  
The many hundred thousands, which, had Rome  
Prevailed, ere this had in a silent Tomb  
Lain slumbering till the final Trumpets call,  
A prey for Death, to glut his Jaws withal.   

Oh Mourn, Great Britain, since brave BEDLOW'S lost,  
And by a raging fever hence is tossed  
Up to the Confines of Eternal day,  
Among the blessed for ever there to stay.  
He, at the T●errour of whose Name the Pope  
Oft trembling stood, amazed, and lost his hope;  
Whom all his haughty Agents dreaded more,  
Than all besides that trod the British shore.  
Ours is the loss; whilst they rejoice, we grieve;  
But 'tis in vain, when sorrow can't relieve:  
Yet let us not despair, but all submit  
To what the wise Eternal God thinks fit:  
He, though the worthy Hero's in his Grave,  
Can raise up more, the selfsame way to save;  
Or can by other means defend the Throne  
Of our just Monarch, Heaven's great Viceroy known;  
Confound their Hellish Malice as at first,  
And raise Discovery from brave BEDLOW'S dust.    

The EPITAPH.  

REader, behold this worthy Hearse, and Mourn;  
'Tis his, whose Noble Soul did dangers scorn;  
His, who to save his Country braved proud Rome,  
And all her threats both present and to come.  
Grateful for ever be his Memory;  
Whilst ENGLAND's Protestant, he cannot die:  
Though death to Nature's debt has now laid claim,  
To Everlasting lives his worthy Name.   
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed for Langley Curtiss. 1680: 27. Aug.