LOYAL TEARS Poured on the Herse Of that Most EXCELLENT PRINCE HENRY Duke of GLOUCESTER.
OH Times! Unequal and Injurious Days:
Oh Fates! whose Cypress hath outgrown the Bays:
Oh Moneth! Unfortunate to all that's Good:
Oh Place! the Poyson of this Royal Blood.
Whom shal we blame, where shal we lay the weight
Of such a Heaviness? Forgive the State,
The Publick Weal, whose open'd empty Veins
Scarce can endure to hear his Bloody Pains.
And have we just but seen him, is he come
Onely to Die, t' ennoble but the Tombe?
Are all the Honors, all the Glories done,
Most Arbitrary Death? (Must such a Son
Die violently too) Stay, and give place to Fame,
Whose great'st Attempt is but to reach his Name.
What Autumn's this, why do we boast Increase?
Deaths Harvest's valued in this Single Peice:
And what the Plague in numbers would infect
(A judgement witched for by every Sect)
The Small-pox in this great and glorious Youth
Did in effect fulfill, and curse with truth
Their Divinations. Now, what dress of Grief
Shall give our Sorrow and our Loss belief?
Which then of the three Kingdomes shall expire,
And shine together in the Funeral Fire?
O you bright Citizens of Heaven know
There's nothing worth Him but the KING below.
We had an Earthly TRINITY before,
The Stamp of that which you above adore;
And you agreed to have our Saint away,
Urg'd by the rival Worship of last May.
Now they are Gemini, and the Royal Line
Grows less with Fortune, and advanc'd, Decline.
What Rebels Pride and Staring Insolence
Brav'd not to Kill, see the unwarded Fence
Of a just Triumph laid it in the Grave,
And Vertue, Honor, Goodnes could not save.
Well then, to Grieve is to comply with Fate,
And make the Tyrant proud, and keep his state.
We quarrel not at this most partial Lot,
Onely we ask our SOVERAIGN, Why Not?
'Tis a true Parentation to the Dead
When Son and
Duke of Richmond.
Kinsman follow'd Him that bled,No other Life to Expiate that Crime?
KINGS may, but Destinies allow no Time.
Our Loss is greater than we dare to own,
Let it not be among late Rebels known.
Great Soul! whose Limits scarce can be defin'd,
Better by Heaven than thy Moderate Mind:
Thou ow'st not any thing to Life or Glory,
Our Grief shall be thy chiefest onely Story.
London, Printed by W. G. 1660.