ON The never too much lamented Death of the most Illustrious PRINCESS HENRIETTA MARIA, Dutchess of ORLEANS, &c.

PRoud France! no more thy Flandrian Conquests boast,
They are but pebbles to the Gem thou'st lost.
No more, No more triumphant Arches raise,
To mournful Cypress turn thy joyful Bays.
England thy total dissolution fears,
Swoln big with Triumphs, now thou't burst with Tears.
Vaunt now no more what Conqu'ring France can do,
HENRIETTA dead, thou'rt a Low-Countrey too.
The Flow'r de Luce is mantled now with night;
She's set whose only Lustre made it bright.
'Gainst death bend all thy Forces, make him see
His Conquests too's nought but a Robberie.
Never with him be reconcil'd that dare
'Gainst Law fall on, and ne're proclaim a War:
Few Thieves so cruel are in any Land,
Before they rob, they use to bid men stand.
Yet thus far in his Onset Death was wise,
He manacled not her Hands, but bound her Eyes:
For had she cast a look at him, his Arm
Had ne're been strong enough to do Her harm.
The stroke was sudden, or else doubtless She
With one sharp Look had stabb'd th' Anatomy.
What! snatch'd so quickly hence! Too clownish Fate!
The King of Terrors should have come in stare
To fetch a Princess; but by this we see
They who're in Love, forget their Majesty.
Il'e scarce believe She's dead, nor him that says,
Heav'ns Master-Builder would a Structure raise
Costly, and curious, and at last to Crown
His skill, would quickly let it tumble down.
Whoever rear'd a stately Pyramid,
On purpose t'have it quickly ruined?
Methinks I hear the loud-mouth'd Cannons roar
Till they were hoarse, to welcome Her on Shore:
Methinks I see Cowes-Castle still on fire,
May 19th.
That day no common Bon-fire did require:
England then could not an Invasion fear,
What use for Castles, and our Goddess here?
France could not bear the absence of Her light,
And therefore crav'd She might be still in sight:
But when She saw how She was treated here,
Fearing She ne're would move more in that Sphere
In which She lately shin'd, sate pensively
Bewailing this but-fear'd Calamity.
At length She spies Her in the Arms o'th' Main,
And dandled on the Waves return again,
O'rejoy'd to see Her land, did hug Her so,
That striving to b' a Friend, She prov'd a Foe,
And thinking t'hold Her fast, forc'd Her to go.
Unheard of way, Friends thus to welcome home!
First to salute, next to prepare a Tomb:
This to Congratulate Her safe Return!
To lead Her from the Ocean to the Urn!
What! was She wasted only o're for this?
To be Embalmed with Her Brother's Kiss?
To Her, New-born, England a Cradle gave,
And must She go to France to find a Grave?
But She was like the Sun; and now i'th close
'Twas fit She should not set, where She arose.
France! That were once the Garden of the World,
Art, now She's cropt, into Confusion hurl'd:
Now She is wither'd, Methinks all things fade,
Paris a Paradise 'twas She that made.
Nothing looks lively now, we're drooping all;
Her Death hath chang'd the Summer to the Fall.
The Golden Orchard of th' Hesperides
In what was't richer than a Wilderness?
When those fair Apples all were stollen away,
It was not worth the Dragons while to stay.
She gone, France lay each Souldier now to sleep,
What hast thou worth an arm'd Man's pains to keep?
Thy Sun is set, all those surviving Lights
Compar'd with Her, that they are but fair Nights
Is all that France can brag: this more I'le say,
France last Year won the Field, this, lost the Day.
Her fall hath laid all the World's Wonders flat;
There's nothing in it now worth wondring at:
Unless it be Her sad, untimely Fate,
Which Death too soon caus'd, I bewail too late.
—Quis talia fando Temperet a lachrymis?
J. M.

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1670. 66.

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