UPON THE LATE STORME, AND OF THE DEATH OF HIS HIGHNESSE Ensuing the same,
WE must resigne; Heaven His great Soul do's claime
In stormes as loud, as His Immortall Fame;
His dying groanes, his last Breath shakes our Isle,
And Trees uncut fall for His Funerall Pile,
About his Pallace their broad roots are tost
Into the aire; So Romulus was lost:
New Rome in such a Tempest mis't her King,
And from Obeying fell to Worshiping.
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead
With ruin'd Okes, and Pines about him spread;
Those his last fury from the Mountaine rent,
Our dying Hero from the Continent
Ravish't whole Townes; and Forts from Spaniards reft
As his last Legacy, to Brittain left,
The Ocean which so long our hopes confin'd
Could give no limits to His vaster mind;
Our Bounds inlargment was his latest toyle;
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle;
Under the Tropick is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From Civill Broyles he did us disingage,
Found nobler objects for our Martiall rage,
And with wise Conduct to his Country show'd
Their ancient way of conquering abroade:
Ungratefull then, if we no Teares allow
To Him that gave us Peace, and Empire too▪
Princes that fear'd him, grieve, concern'd, to see
No pitch of glory from the Grave is free.
Nature her selfe tooke notice of His death,
And sighing swel'd the Sea, with such a breath
That to remotest shores her Billowes rould,
Th'approching Fate of their great Ruler told.
London Printed for H. H.