AN ELEGY On the late Duke of Monmouth.
AS Saylors Split on Rocks, so restless man,
By fond Ambition is too oft undone;
Swell'd with aspiring thought, he courts his Fate,
Nor sees the Danger till it is too Great;
But blinded by the Mist of Hope he strays,
Through paths of Rashness, into Ruins ways:
So the late Monmouth, giving way to Pride,
A mighty Ruin pull'd upon his Head;
Debauch'd by Factions, Those that sought our Woe,
And Studied Brittains Empires overthrow;
Then list'ning to the foolish noifie Croude,
Whose Clamours at the best, are but a Cloude;
(Empty of Rain) inconstant as the Wind,
Cou'd vain contentment in that Vapour find:
Twas Fatal Flattery the Foundation lay'd,
(Of his Ambition too, too long display'd)
On coz'ning Quick-sands that his hopes betray'd;
Who giving Ear to Factions Breath durst be,
Th' inglorious Pattern of Disloyalty;
And after many Favours, eager still,
To feed the Flame of an insatiate Will:
To tempt his Fate, as if her Wings were flow,
And rush regardless on his overthrow.
How has the Royal Goodness oft been found,
In mildest Mercy, strongly to abound?
In hopes his hot and feverish Breast wou'd cool,
And leave a calmer Temper in his Soul:
But all in vain, those dear indearments move,
No Loyalty, Obedience, no, nor Love.
In his Ingrateful Mind, O what can be
Worse than Ingratitude to that degree,
Ingratitude, from which, mankind should flee;
For what Returns are found, but Impious War,
And fierce Invasion, but not carry'd far,
E'r Fate begins the Progress, and just Heaven,
A Check to bold ambitious Reins had given;
Justice took place, just Armes obtain'd the Day,
And quell'd by force, what favours could not sway;
Whilst Death to Gloomy Caves does tumble down,
The bold Aspirer to a Sacred Crown,
And with a lasting slumber, seals his Eyes,
Who strangely strove by lawless ways to rise:
So let him stand a Sea-Mark on our Coast,
To warn those Spirits that are Tempest tost,
With feverish Faction, lest there be lost;
That Loyalty, may more, and more increase,
And we be bless'd with plenty and with peace.
EPITAPH.
SOaring upon Icarian Wings he fell,
Who durst against the best of Kings Rebell.
Now silent is, he whose late restless Mind,
Ambition swell'd, till he a Grave did find.
FINIS.
This may be Printed, R L.S.
July the 16th. 1685.
LONDON, Printed by E. Malles, in Black-Horse-Alley in Fleet-street.