AN ELEGY, Sacred to the memory of our most Gracious Soveraigne Lord King CHARLES, who was most barbarously murdered by the Sectarie of the Army January 30. M Dc lxix.

TUmble ye Phaetons, since you've your desire,
For you have set the Vniverse on fire,
Which burns like sulpherous Erna's flame,
From whence at first your Fiery spirits came.
What will you next, since your Great Work is done,
With murder'd Carkasses scale the bright Sun
And so take Heav'n by Storme: Mighty Iove,
At Cromwells presence quickly will remove.
You've murder'd many thousands at one blow,
And wrought Three Kingdoms finall overthrow;
You all-exceeding Tyrants, thirst you still
For Royall Blood? If't be your Trade to kill,
Then Kill us all; we had farre better die
Then live enslav'd to Rebells Tyranny.
His Blood was but a draught for to swill up,
Alas, it could not yeeld you each a supp;
You are the Ocean, from whence doth spring
Rivers of Murder; Your curst souls can sing
Nothing but Bloody Aathems; can contract
The Quintisence of mischiefe, and enact
What pleases you, Murder, Theft, Blasphemy;
Grow rich and thrive by Rapes and Robery.
Such a prodigious Magick ever thriv'd,
T' make that treason, Traytors themselves contriv'd.
Had you none else t' murder but your King? sad Fate!
Your legall King, whose Ʋertues were your hate;
Why might not Goring or Capel have led,
The way for him unto Death's frozen Bed!
And in his swarthy Kingdome taken place
Which lesser losse to us, and Death's more grace?
Was there no other left that might give light
None else but th' King, the chiefest of all men!
Might serve his turne in his sad gloomy Den▪
It is too true, that He alone might best
Appease Death's wrath, if ever he would rest;
For they have slaine at once in Him alone,
Vertues for many, a miracle for One.
B [...]adshaw beware; goe tell thy mates in evill,
But why doe I thus lavish breath in vaine,
On those whose Fury hath no eares; Refraine
My weeping Muse—Bloody Saints farwell,
Iudas betray'd his King, roars now in hell.
But is he Murderd:—too too true, Alasse
My heart is full,—I cannot let him passe
Without Deep Sighs,—nor can any eyes forbeare
To waste his sad Remembrance with a teare.
I saw him dye, pursu'd through crooked wayes
To's end; would make sad England blush out her dayes.
Is this your way Kings Glorious to make,
To Butcher Him; when Vertue, for His sake
Was growing into fashion with the great,
The which alone makes Noble Lines compleat,
Extinguish'd now in him, when was most need;
Oh cursed, cruell, and abhorred Deed!
A sad Presage, no doubt, of future ill,
Or dire Prognostique of the angry Will
Of Heaven, disposed to refine away
The Ore of Ophier from the Drossie clay.
The weeping Sacrifice which on thy Shrine
We offer here to that bright Name of thine
Great Monarch: By'all that worth, or vertue prize;
Would back Redeem with treasure of their eyes
The World thou hadst in thee, if not a Spheare
That compassed the World, touch'd not there;
Measur'd the magnitude thereof, and knew
Was nothing in the world t'admire, but Rue,
As, although wrapped here in this fraile mould,
Thy Contemplations they were rays'd; nor could
Thy gentle Soul in highest Union, bend
Her towring wing to any second end.
The happy souls above, were those with whom
Thou Treatedst daily; nor hadst other home
Then Heaven; less Iacobs Ladder did attend,
By which they stoop'd to thee, and thou ascend,
And by your mutuall visitts either great,
Untill for all yee might together meer.
Fair-faux I would know (wer't not Treason) why
He might no longer live! Thou hast hereby
Gain'd nothing; wee lost much; we lost our King.
And in Him lost our selves, and every thing,—
Our skilfull Pilate, to advise us sound,
Whether we were, or in, or outward bound,
Not to adventure, having sprung a leake,
The Treasure of our Souls, in Barke too weak,
To know the Shelfs that under water lay,
Might stop our Course, and wrack us in our Way;
So shun the Bay whereat the Syrens waite
T'insnare frail Mortals with their Magick Baite.
Sure Iove was angry He should longer stay,
Because in Heaven 'twas Coronation Day.
Though He was Martyr'd, yet he now doth beare
Honor on Earth, in Heaven a Blazing Star.
Rest then in Peace, the Glory of this Age,
Whose forced Death doth direfull Plagues presage;
Wee weep our owne, nor any losse of thine,
That with sad teares doe wash thy Sacred Shrine;
No strain'd Hypurboles adorne thy Herse,
Thy SELF art both a Monument and Verse.

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