The Muses Tears For the Loss of the Illustrious Prince HENRY Duke of Glocester, Deceased on Thursday the 13th, of September, 1660.
By J. Crouch Gentleman.
[...].
LONDON, Printed for the Author; 1660.
The Muses Teares For the loss of the Illustrious PRINCE HENRY Duke of Glocester, Deceased on Thursday the 13th, of September, 1660.
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GOod Heav'ns what strange Wheels keeps you rowling thus
So full of Eyes, and yet so dark to us?
Now bright, and orient was the pearly Chain
Of Providence? and straight how dim again?
Great Glocester dead that Minion of Renown?
Another Head dropt from the Imperial Crown?
Both Globes begin to smoke must shortly burn
And make the Chaos, once their womb their vrn.
[Page] Mus this brave Salamander die in's bed,
When a whole field of flames ne're-singd'd his head,
The sands of Dunkirk his high prowess know,
They ne're were scatter'd into Atomes so
Those Sands whose infinites shall ever be,
His in-exhausted vertues Algebree:
Where on the Anvil of his Enemies scull,
He broke his sword as sharp as that was dull,
While the astonish'd French stood still to see
The Triumphs of a Conquerd Enemy.
And shall a Miracle fetch this Hëroe home:
To hang his early Trophies upon his Tombe,
Good Heavens annoint your Prophet's weeping Eye
And Consecrate Him for your Sacred Spie,
That in this Maze of Changes he may find
Some dark cause why your Stars are so unkind:
Why after such fair Aspects from them all,
A Glorious Star must like a Meteor fall.
Must this Duke's bloud the flames of Justice quench
Due from the scarlet of that Murthering Bench,
Must he appease his Fathers injur'd Ghost,
Till expiated by an Holocaust!
Propitious Heav'n your milder Laws dispence
Fat not your Altars still with innocence:
Lambs have been slain too long, O set them by
And let the Rugged Buls of Basan die.
And must Ambassadors come to kiss that Hand
And it unactive find must they salute
Marble for Duke! find all that Eloquence Mute,
That toung now silent, whose comanding charms
Had equal strength & conquest with his Arms?
Those lips lately so warm, now cold and faint,
Whose Vestal heat was temper'd for a Saint?
O rigid State? no Knee, no Head to bow,
Alas, our Duke is too much Spaniard now,
Yet such brave Podrums was becoming State
To attend if not his Person, yet his Fate
Mock Princes though they swel must not die so
But usher'd hence with monstrous purveyors go:
No Embassie of Whale before he fell,
That belluine fish Embleme of Death and Hell.
Or was our Duke an Holy Envoy sent
To his blest Sire in Heav'n to represent
How a good Monck had brought his good Charls home
To right his Death and Crown his Martyrdome:
Pardon the curious scruting of our Verse,
Apollo would sit Crowner on this Herse.
Must that disease which does so ill be-friend
The Noble Blood conduct him to his End?
His Ermins drink new spots that he may lie
In his own Purples and more Princely Die:
Must he poure out his Bloud instead of Breath,
And cut a new way to mature his Death,
[Page 4] Twas sure no Act of Ignorance, but Fate
To pass the Great Duke out o'th World in state,
Through the Basilick Vein: The old Red Sea
Was still the Souldiers and the Christians Way:
But shall He die that was so wise, and good,
A Rose nipt in the perfumes of it's bud?
Let not our Ruder sorrows do him wrong
Say the Duke di'd too soon, but not too yong,
Be wise and quit your superstitious care
He wants not now twelve moneths to make him Heir;
Precedencie of time here does not bind
Heaven is inherited by Gavelkind,
All here are Saints but not of equal fame,
And all Saints Kings, though all Crowns not the same
Heaven is a warm place, ripens fruit 'ith bud,
And lengthens little by the Lines of good,
Saints need no Kalender, nor can there be
Immature Nonage in Aeternity,
All things above are full and perfect made,
In that Meridian bodies have no shade.
I'me sure he's now full grown, if ever Moon
Knew full, or Sun the Zenith of the Noon.
Things that move quick & sure stil best proceed,
Old men halt slow to Heaven, the young make speed.
[Page 5] Ile observe at our Treats here, that civil guest
Who makes most speed is still the welcomest
When he that starts up at the Banquets end,
Loseth the kindness both of feast and friend.
Put on Blacks you that never Cypress wore,
Colours must be disloyal, or else poor:
Let not the Wisdome of our King repine
For losing this one punctum from his Line
Let Roy le Uolt seal to the Acts above
A Duke survives that merits all his love,
While Henry reaps the fruits of duty, gon
To see his Father like a pious Son
Nor let our Sables be so black and rude
To press our eyes ev'n to ingratitude
Turn tears to prayses, Heaven is still so kind
To leave a Royal Pare so good behind.
Farewel, sweet Duke, we leave thee to thy rest,
What Heaven decrees, though ne're so bad is best.
FINIS.