To the Sacred Memorie of the Crowne of MAJESTIE, KING CHARLES I.
te domine [...], non timeo.
RIch Magazine of Vertue, in whose breast
The Graces center'd, and You made their Nest,
And so conjoyned, flow'd a christall streame,
Would richly adde unto the rarest theame.
Pardon the impotence of my weak style,
Which would applaud—but rather doth revile,
In falling short of shewing thy large spirit,
And so committing Rape on thy faire merit.
Graspe all the wit of man, you never can
Depute thy Ashes a fit Guardian.
Set Envie on the Tenters, urge a Reason
How spotlesse CHARLS could act a dram of Treason,
And she is dumbe! Rob'd of this one pretence,
He stole from England all her Innocence.
And could such worth be stifled? Oh! 't was thus,
His worthy Selfe was farre too good for us.
Deare Saint! If thy blest soule can think upon
Those crying judgements which are crowding on
Thy poore distressed England, let it be
A zealous wish to stop our Miserie,
And not for publique vengeance, that Gods hand
May scourge the Actors, not destroy the Land:
In which ripe time, we would be glad to see
Our common Prophesies made Historie;
But yet our feares presages understood,
Say, they'l be writ in characters of bloud.
And why not so? To save us God did cause
His Son to bleed, as thou didst for our Lawes.
For which (in spight of Power) thou shalt have
Ineach true heart a lasting Tombe and Grave,
Which shall be seene by those that live to see
Thy Cause review'd by thy Posterity.
Inthe meane time lie speechlesse all our Lawes
That plead the Civill, or Diviner Cause,
Stab'd by thy Crowns-possessors. Who besides
Have gain'd the glory of bold Regicides;
And are exact Faith-breakers, but in this,
(Their onely specious Parenthesis)
They are not wholly perjur'd, for we see
They've made thee glorious to Eternitie:
So by Red-art this Paradox approve,
The work of Malice, was an act of Love.
Thy words, and actions, Life and Death made good;
Our Rights were dearer to thee then thy blood.
And at the last, when seiz'd on by proud Fate,
Thou for thy selfe wouldst not capitulate:
Scorning to sell a Law, to save a Crowne,
But that thou might'st preserve That, laid This down:
That so we can no more the worthinesse
of what thou Wert, then what thou Art expresse.
But when succeeding Kings thy story see,
May thy blest Life their fairest patterne be:
And thy sad Death direction to prevent
Those dangers that to Crowns are incident,
By giving Power to that Monster rude,
The Hidra-headed fickle multitude:
And weepe—But here my limping Muse must stay,
Thy Cause is Gods, and God will have the day.
And with all reverence unto thy Herse,
Write this weak Epitaph in Country Verse,
Which shall not dare once to approach thy Tombe,
But to shrink back to give more worthy roome,
Who there will croud, it, to Idolatrize,
And as thy Person, so thy Ashes prize.
EPITAPH.
BEhold, sad Reader—Oh! behold here lyes
The great contemner of proud Miseries.
The Extract of all Vertue beyond Sense,
The Creame and Crowne of Christian patience.
The Conquerour of Passions, Prince of Hearts;
The rich Ingrosser of applausive parts.
The first great Charls that sate on Britans thrones,
The willing Martyr of two Nations.
The quintessence of Honour, who translated,
May be admired, but not imitated.
The Saint of England, who though dead here be,
Shall live with honour to Eternitie.
Ramrahbocai