On the never too much lamented death of the Most Illustrious Princess Henrietta Maria, Dutchess of Orleans, &c. an elegy. J. M. 1670 Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-03 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A51775 Wing M44 ESTC R35009 14923571 ocm 14923571 102950

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A51775) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 102950) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1574:20 or 21243:113) On the never too much lamented death of the Most Illustrious Princess Henrietta Maria, Dutchess of Orleans, &c. an elegy. J. M. 1 broadside. [s.n.], London printed : 1670. In verse. Signed at end: J.M. Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library and British Library.

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 eng Henrietta Maria, -- Queen, consort of Charles I, King of England, 1609-1669 -- Poetry. 2007-12 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-01 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-03 Sampled and proofread 2008-03 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-09 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
ON The never too much lamented Death of the moſt Illuſtrious PRINCESS HENRIETTA MARIA, Dutcheſs of ORLEANS, &c. AN ELEGY. 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.