THRENODIA.
On the DEATH of the High born Prince HENRY, DUKE of GLOCESTER.
By Arthur Brett, Student of Christ-Church.
—HENRICOS ostendunt fata, nec ultrà Esse sinunt.—
Oxford, Printed by H: Hall, Printer to the University, for Ric: Davis, 1660.
THRENODIA.
WHat ails the Town? what is it it bemoans?
I can meet nought but doleful tones,
Nought but sobs, and sighs, and groans;
Each Lady Niobe appears;
And as for the Philosophers,
They're Heraclitus's all by their Tears.
Now Warlike Trumpets cease to pierce our Ear,
Look we the last Trump to hear?
Do we a Dissolut' on fear?
Is th Universal Feaver nigh?
Is the Earth-An'mal like to die?
And is it for mankind, mankind doth cry?
Either the World is like to be undone,
Or one that's worth the World is gone,
Brother to Monarchy and Son.
Y' who from the two great Cities come,
Of these sad tidings gi's the sum;
Mutes! high astonishment has struck 'um dumb.
But what's not heard from others may be read,
The joy of Englands joy is fled,
CHARLES's beloved Glocester dead:
Fate has giv'n a dismal stroak,
The Royal Three sh' has basely broke,
And lopp'd a Bough of Britains stately Oake.
Infinite Worlds! Where are they? give'um me,
I'le soon draw out their siccity;
Water alone each Globe shall be:
That they being turn'd all Sea, all Wave,
Drops big enough I thence may have,
Wherewith to moisten this too early Grave.
Thy Whirl-wind Bottles Ae'lus hither send,
A Bottle on a Sigh I'le spend,
Till their whole store come to an end:
Till death more boisterous then they,
With fear look paler yet, and say
She is resolved no more Dukes to slay.
Thus, thus would I my sorrow testifie;
For as for Verse or Elegy,
Who should me 'nspire doth breathless lie;
They that have seen the Corps, declare
It is Apollo lies dead there,
They knew him by his ruddy Face and Hair.
With smaller losses we can be content,
Slight-bottom'd Passion's quickly spent,
Such stripling sorrows finde a vent:
But, Giant grief, where's one for thee?
Rivers may rowl into the Sea:
But whither shall the Ocean empty'd be?
Lachesis shunn'd the Palace formerly,
Such was her Maiden modesty,
Shee seem'd afraid to come too nigh:
In at the Window she did look,
But now she hath the boldness took
The House to enter, and finde out the Duke.
Then to appease the incensed Deities,
We saw't with over-flowing eyes,
There bled a Royal Sacrifice:
But now behold another Urn,
The other could not serve the turn,
A Royal Holocaust must also burn.
In this Fort-Royal glowing, burning hot,
A Feaver had possession got,
Although a Feaver, kill'd him not:
That meant to Come, and See, and slay;
But coming had no power to stay,
The Mar'us look'd his Murtherer away.
Thou dealest subtly, most hard-hearted Fate,
The Sickness is we know not what;
It seemeth this, it seemeth that:
When at White-hall thou com'st to kill,
That which doth perform thy will,
The Executioner is muffled still.
But he is now expir'd, and in his Face
We see too plain, too plain, alas!
Which of thy Assassines it was:
The best corrupted, worst doth grow,
Curst Ax'ome, thou'rt too true we know,
Even in Royal Blood it holdeth so.
In th'Purple Stream some putrid Matter bred,
Which having got to the th'Fountain-head,
There Life it hath smoothered:
Thence to th'Surface it hath run,
As if the death it brought 'twould shun,
Where now it blushes for what it has done.
Fate thou'rt unjust, and so thy deeds evince,
And so I take thee ever since
Thou dealedst thus with such a Prince:
Thou didst betempest him before,
And when we thought thou hadst giv'n o're,
Thou throw'st him on a rock instead of shore.
How diff'rently the Isle doth entertain
Its exil'd Lords, return'd again?
It gives Two ease, gives the Third pain:
It proves Their Countrey, His long home;
Yields Them a Court, but Him a Tomb;
Opens to Them her Arms to Him her Womb.
Had he been with his Sister ta'ne away,
And gone with her the self-same day,
In the Elys'an Fields to play:
Had then unripe, imperfect he
Acted this his Tragedy;
Imperfect too had been our misery.
But now he's ripe, compleat, and perfect quite,
Now for to take him from our sight,
This is the Quintessence of spight:
There's on thy Dart a point of Steel,
And poison on that point, we feel;
This wound is double, and so hard to heal.
Bold as thou art, thou hast not fear'd to do
What Prov'dence scarce was consc'ous to,
Of which the Powers above ne'r knew:
Had Heauen been conscious to the deed,
'Twould not have struck with so much speed,
But would have warn'd, and bid us first take heed.
Some fiery tail had hover'd in the sky,
Wounding our hearts, thence through our eye;
And made us weep proaem'ally:
Some blazing gellies in the Air,
Had giv'n us notice to prepare,
That, what we lookt for, we might better bear.
Compar'd with Death, while it it's prey doth seek
Lions are tame, and Tygers meek;
Their teeth are blunt, their stomachs weak:
Therefore we fear what may betide,
We fear what yet remains beside,
The rav'nous thing mayn't yet be satisfy'd.
Where's high-born YORK? ô, where's the Hero? Where?
If he's on Land, he's sick we fear;
If he's at Sea, he's sinking there:
We fear the Beast, seeking its food,
Makes at him through his Wall of Wood,
It knows the sweetness now of Royal Blood.
Is this the entrance-fee that CHARLES must pay?
Must he wear Cypress with his Bay,
And loose a lim to win the day?
Though undervalued of late,
They're costly things, these Chairs of State;
Three Crowns are dearly bought at such a rate.
States soon take fire, and they are quencht as soon;
Empire (unconstant as the Moon)
Is won and lost, and lost and won:
For here an armed General,
Heaven dropping sheild, and man and all,
Our exil'd King may help us to recall.
But when a brother deadly heats accost,
If Hee's once lost, Hee's ever lost,
We can but follow 'm at the most;
The flame burnes in, and so burnes sure,
All we can do is to indure,
For there is no Aumarle can work this cure.
No wonder, when he first to sing began,
Henry was lik't by ev'ry man,
Alas! it was the dying Swan;
To him the Sisters did combine
To spin for thred a silken line,
Which was the sooner broke for being fine:
Who'l ever seek by noble deeds to rise?
Who'l care to be val'ant or wise?
When he should enjoy't he dies;
We mount up Glory's hill in vain,
The highest top whereof t'attain
'S but to be ready to fall down again.
Ah! dearest DƲKE, I ask it with regret,
Why hast so soon thy Coffin met?
Why didst thou only rise to set?
Where are thy acts of Chivalry!
Why must we a Chasme see
In the Great STEWARTS growing History?
What will become of that so glor'ous Name?
VVho shall now bear up the same,
And with it fill the roules of Fame?
That Name which to Three Nations deer
VVe loved in thy Uncle here,
And in thy Grand-father the world did fear?
True bud of the Imper'al Familie!
The Roses strive again in thee
For the superioritie;
Thy ruddy Flowre it selfe did spread
All o're thy cheeks, but now thou 'rt dead
The White has got the better of the Red.
Thy Sire, when as he say his destiny,
When Monarchs wept and peasants we
Groan'd for him as now for thee,
Something he left in charge, what was't?
Child, mind my words, they are my last,
And make not to a Di'dem too much hast;
Ʋntil thy Brothers first are served, stay;
Thus did he urge, thus did he say.
And thou did'st promise to obey;
Now what is this that thou hast done?
Thou takest before CHARLES a Crown,
His Mortall's making, thy Immortal's on.
Old Bards would wonder, should they live again,
To see perform'd what they did feign
Of the three Brethrens equal reign;
To one the land doth homage owe,
The Second swayes the ebbe and Flow,
The Third now rules the blessed shades below.
But stay, he hath not yeilded yet to fate,
Me thinks it is not yet too late
Men of Art to invocate;
Mes'e and Solomon arise,
Royall Physit'ans, and devize
A Rem'dy ere this Royal pat'ent dies,
Old Galenist, new Paracelsian,
Conceited Rosi-crucian,
Do what you should, do what you can:
What? is there no Riverius
Will earn a Mosque from thankfull us,
And go into an Aesculapius?
Who e're thou art, fix this bright planet here,
Couse him not yet to disappear,
Not yet to mount his upper sphear;
Thy sure reward it shall be this,
E'en take that Apotheωsis
Of which through Thee he shall at present misse:
Comfortlesse man whose comforters are these,
These poor, poor factors for our ease,
Disciples of Hippocrates!
Fond they their fonder hopes do feed,
Thinking to find there-in and read
VVhat ne're wat carv'd on root, nor writ on weed;
Whose Art indeed it doth for Physick goe,
Call'd Practicall, but is not so,
VVhose sons do at their best but know;
Time Twenty of their yeares devoures,
VVhile they get skill in starres and flowres,
VVhich to their lives ca'nt adde halfe Twenty howres:
VVee'l make our gally-pots in peices fly,
Let Rec'pes unconsulted lie,
And lay The Justitutions by,
A volume which prolongs our breath
As it its Author keeps from death,
It owes a figure all the force it hath.
Death, thou wilt enter, do we what we will,
Thy last yeares empty weekly-bill
With this great personage to fill;
September see's his obsequies,
Since May's cool brightnesse testifies
That English Kings Sans pestilence can rise;
Thou didst not lay the crouded city wast,
'Twas a still aire the Summer past,
That stilnesse brings a storme at last;
Thou 'rt kind, but after such a sort
We give thee no Grammercy for't,
A city plague's lesse than th' small-Pox at Court:
When Worcester for her selfe and master griev'd,
And men in iron were deceiv'd
Missing what peace hath since atcheiv'd,
Life was a petty, worthlesse thing,
Men for a wall themselves did bring
Twixt hatefull thee and their beloved King;
They sav'd their Prince by being breathlesse made,
Thy passage with their corps was staid,
Thy thirst was with their blood allaid;
We know who then in danger stood,
Though HENRY be not quite so good,
VVee'l give as many lives, and better bloud;
Slaughter the commons, mow the Gentry down,
Rage both in country and in town,
But come not thou so near the Crown;
So they may blunt thy arrowes head,
VVee I let thee strike whole 1000's dead,
And in their bloud die thy white-facet horse red;
But there's no Incus in this set of bones,
It has no eare to lend our groans,
Heares nor for poor, nor mighty ones,
It neither place, nor person shuns,
To cottage and to pallace runs,
And puffs out smaller starres, and blowes out Suns:
Hold, Tyrant sicknesse, hold thy hand a while
Till Princesse Mary tread our Isle,
And take her brothers last sweet smile;
Hee's dear to heav'n, to earth hee's dear,
Seraphims expect him there,
A mortall Angell comes to see him here:
Stay then, but thou art us'd for none to stay,
No not a week, no not a day,
But this nights Duke's to morrowes clay:
Thou wilt be ferry'ng men of note
Over the Lethaean moat,
Though with their weight they break thy Charon's boat.
VVe would prevail: but since we know not how,
VVee'l beg no more, weel dare thee now,
Dismalnesse, bend thy horrid brow:
An 100 times more ugly be
Than we do pourtract Tragedy,
His father taught him not to care for thee:
Hee'l die as mighty Hercules did die,
VVhen he did in mount Oeta fry,
Fier'd into a Deity:
Tis chymick heat in's bloud doth swim,
T'wil sublimate terrestr'al him
And so make of a Duke a Cherubim:
Fiat was lately spoke, and t [...]end our wo [...]
Spite of false freinds and real soes
Three Luminaries there arose:
Eclypse ye one [...] crue,
Extinguish him, fell sisters d [...],
This World by 'ts selfe may be conte [...] with two
But let it not be talkt of ev'ry where:
VVould that the Mar-Clarsum were
To stop the newes and keep i [...] here:
For as it passes o're the Seas
T'will take fromthence new bitternesse
And make some hearers greive unto excesse.
Others will scoffe, and say to our disgrace
The Land can't brook the Royall race,
But like Inhabitants, like place,
They'l turne old Proverbs into new,
They'l say what they may well think true
VVee'r mala gente, mala terra too:
Let not the tidings get into the Port,
Lest cruel mirth possesse that court,
And our disaster prove their sport:
He that to shine himselfe alone
Stabs younger brethren though his own,
At such a story'l rather laugh than mourne:
Hee'l full those Hornes which for his Armes he beares
VVhen of Brittaines losse he heares,
Christ'ans will own the Crosse for theirs:
If it be to the Austr'ans told,
Philip will weep in showres of Gold,
Sorrow will make young Leopold looke old:
If it be know'n unto the Palatine,
'Twill breed new troubles, sowre his wine,
Draw down his cheeks another Rhine;
To France whoever travelleth,
VVhile he relates of Gloucesters death
Hee'l blast the Flowre-de Luces with his breath;
And then th' afflicted mother cannot choose
But her infant joyes refuse,
VVhen she understands the newes
Of such a separation
VVrought betwixt her and her son,
Sep'rate before but in opinion;
Some think the road to heav'n through Italy,
Climbling seaven hils they 're nigh
In their conceit unto the sky;
Some think the road as farre from thence
As it may be thither hence,
To Europes center from 'ts circumference;
The Prince had been allur'd for Rome to make,
And bid the Latine way to take,
But did the Latine way forsake;
He bravely kept the Golden Mean,
And has nor chang'd nor shaken been
By an enticeing VVoman, Mother, Queen:
VVe safely may our dearest freinds neglect
VVhen they the truth it selfe reject,
The virtue here is Disrespect;
Since to believe what Parents say
Where Sacred Oracles say Nay,
Were to adore whom we should but obey:
Mighty Henretta of her aime must misse,
She has her Zeale, and He has his
Dutifull in all but this;
What though the Hug'notte are or'e-run?
What though new-Doctrin'd R [...]chell's won?
She finds an 100 Rochell [...]s in her Sonne:
Morneys may faint, and throw down sword and sheild,
Reformed Cittadels may yeild,
Protestant Armies loose the Feild:
But CHARLES's race will stand it out,
Being at Twelve or there-about
In judgment Clear, in resolut on Stout:
He was not to be won by force or art,
But from his mother did depart:
That stuck not much unto her heart:
But this unto the quick will touch,
Exceeding t'other wound as much
As not to be 's worse than not to be such:
But she and we the losse must kindly bear,
VVe ours therein, sh' her greater share:
VVhat Heav [...]n has need of Earth must spare:
Earth, which if no change it knew,
If its darlings ne'r with-drew,
VVhat's Heav'ns free gift would look upon as due.
No matter then what cruel criticks guesse,
VVho judg of Vertue by Successe,
By outward chance of right ousnesse:
The Lawes of Charity they'l break,
They will most learnedly mistake,
And on so black a text black comments make:
I, they must be profoundly curious,
And know why things are thus and thus;
Lend 'um thy Tube Hevelius,
Not to behold with rare delight
Dark spots in Sol's Meridian light;
Or Insects crawling in the Moon by Night.
They'l look beyond the Sun, and Saturn too,
Heav'ns Councel-Chamber they will view,
And see what th' All in All doth do:
They will their Makers thoughts descry
Who can't their Fellow-creatures spy,
Which one would think more obv'ous to the eye.
If hence they gather signs of Heavens hate,
And from so soon-snacht GLOƲCESTER's fate
Another fall Prognosticate,
I finde at Court a Motto fit
To answer their presumpt'ous wit,
Honiscit qui mal y pense 's it.
When the wise Ptolemy's first course was done,
In came the gastly Skeleton,
That was the next to be set on:
That King by feeding so their sight,
By blending Horror with Delight,
Taught his Attendants how to feed aright.
Thus with our Lord doth boundless Wisdom do
(And what is that to me or you?)
Here's a sad spectacle to view:
Here's a Memento at the least,
Here is serv'd in his dearest guest
At this his glor'ous Restauration Feast.
If Storms affright the Land, and vex the Seas,
Shake our Towers, o're-turn our Trees,
Let 'um go judge ev'n what they please:
But here is no tempest'ous day,
No massy Elmes lye cross the way,
'Tis the still voice that calleth him away.
When purer Matter's upward, heav'n-ward bound,
No rumblings in the Air are found,
It passes without stir or sound:
Whil'st what doth to the Center tend,
Earths bowels in its way must rend,
And therefore cannot but with noise descend.
Dying the world he never troubled,
Nor troubles it now he is dead,
By being richly buryed:
His worth's to him a Hearse alone,
A stately and a lasting one,
It makes a Mausolaeum of one Stone.
Each English heart to his memorial
's a Monument Pyramidal,
CHARLES's breast an Escurial:
He needeth no solemnity,
But like his Sire intomb'd may be;
Who gave ignoble Graves Nobility?
Those Coats of Arms we on the dead bestow
Are richest which no Art do know,
On which no Pearls, no Gold they throw:
And he who's plainly, meanly clad,
Is own'd such lustre to have had,
That Art and Nature thereto could not adde.
Lay but a piece of Marble where he lies,
Marble for its qualities
Hard to the touch, white to the eyes:
If any ask for what intent,
Of him an Emblem 't may be meant,
Who was so Constantly so Innocent.
If this be done, well done! ye Over-seers;
Monuments whos'ever rears
Gives Death a Triumph, Wo's our Tears:
And Tears already are too rife,
See who it is that mourns in Chief,
The same is King of England, and of Grief.
Muses, if e're you shew'd your dainty Art,
Now put on Verse and play your part,
And dance bout pensive CHARLES's heart:
Take Horaces sweet Lyre awhile,
And Virgils high majestick Style,
Augustus 'twixt these two may chance to smile.
Go, visit him as you are us'd to do,
When thoughts what thoughts have spent renew,
And wee'r his Care, his Solace you:
Upon his Meditat'ons wait,
His Mirth increase, his Grief abate,
Which cause it fills his heart is very great.
Tell him, unless he quickly comfort take,
Our Comfort and our Health's at stake,
We suffer while our head doth ake:
There's much to tell him, but in sum
Tell him of's Brother what's become,
Something of that must be the Medium.
If Souls turn Stars when they from hence are flown,
Of the first Magnitude he's one,
And shines in the bright Northern Crown:
If the renown'd Philosopher
'Bout Transmigration did not erre,
He's now some new born Eastern Emperor.
If Sp'rits departed from their Earthly Cell
In the Air like Genii dwell,
W'have one more Guard'an-Michael:
If they whom shades of Death enwrap
Doe but sleep, he takes a nap
In the Elys'an Sultanesses lap.
But why relate I Whimsies such as those?
Why do I pret'ous minutes loose,
One or t'other to suppose?
Stellification, fancy is,
And so is Metempsychosis;
Gen'i are Dreams, Soul-sleepers all men hiss.
Shew him who you and us protect on gives,
Shew him how without cause he greives,
For why, in blisse His HENRY lives;
The Dukes of Gloucester, signify,
Are so near kinne to Majesty
Like English Kings themselves they never dye:
His Corps indeed have had their Buriall,
As all His Royall Kindred shall,
In th' Abby (ah! too) near White-hall;
The Cover's here interred, true;
But the Jewel upward flew,
And has new-cas't it selfe in yonder blue;
Yonders a building of a stately'r frame,
My thoughts are light with sacred flame,
And to themselves describe the same;
New-Jerusalem 'tis call'd,
With Chrysolite and Berill wall'd,
And with our high'st Church Steeples pedestall'd:
The Architect was he of whom 'tis said
An Artist he Bezal el made,
And taught Vitruvius his trade,
Form'd craggy rocks and fertile feilds,
And all that land or water yeilds,
He bidd's mater'als be, and builders builds;
A court it is wherein none die, none mourn,
A Senate which doth ne're adjourn,
Where joy for scarlet robes is worn;
Therefore it was that HENRY dy'd,
Thither in fiery Coach to ride,
And change his Brothers for his Fathers side;
There Gloucester's coronetted, crown'd with light,
Thick glory makes him all o're bright,
No Cromwels keep him from his right;
And now he has begun to Reign,
Now he hath once possess'on ta'ne,
No Pustulae do force him thence again.
Haile, Prince Triumphant, and excuse our love,
Which greives at what the Quires above
Sing so much for, so much approve;
VVe've done, we will no more complain,
Because thou dy'dst in no great pain,
And endlesse ease with little smart did'st gain;
Wee'l end our Th [...]nody, and dry our teares,
Because thou dy'dst well struck in yeares,
As by thy well-lead life appeares;
Thou livedst long in little space,
Condensing time as it did passe,
Each Houre a Month, each Month a Lustrum was:
And now shall we those happy times behold
Which were the Silver Age of old,
And had'st thou stay'd would be of Gold:
The Norman Aera's out of date,
Wee'l ill events count from thy fate,
From CHARLES's reigne successes fortunate:
Hee'l be obey'd to Europes utmost strand,
And o'r more Nat'ons have command
Than thou possessest feet of land;
And under him shall Ovids rise,
And Ovids such as may suffice
Fit Aen'ids and fit Il'ads to devize:
Let them Sing CHARLES's day, and HENRY's night,
Let them for him new Fasti write,
For thee new Elegy's indite:
Let them be what I would have bin,
Let them compleat what I begin:
These sheets are too too scant to wind thee in.
FINIS.