AN ELIGIE UPON THE Universally-lamented Death of the thrice Noble and Vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Gloucester.

ANd is his breath expir'd? hath His Chaste Soul
Shak'd off her clayie fetters? Ah, condole,
Mourn and lament your Fate Distressed Isles
Of Britains growing Empire, hence all smiles
Adieu. Up, said Melpomenie, Ah, rouse
Thy thirsty soul, and in thy tears carouse
Thy fill; come, banquet on the Sable Verse,
My Muse shall sacrifice unto His Herse:
Turn from all other Objects, for here's One
Presents thee with an Inundation
Of lasting Grief. But what's my private woe,
When all the Nations Tears do overflow.
Yet stay, forbear a while, let's not believe
He thus could dye, and yet the Heavens not grieve
At th'worlds Great Loss! what? do impetuous showers
Of tears from th' Weeping Clouds (preventing ours)
Distil; Or doth the Day's Bright Lamp streight burn
Dull as a Torch to light us to His Ʋrn?
Is the dismantled Skies Bright Azure-Back,
Streight over-clad in Sad and Mournful Black?
No, see Olymphus face serene and clear,
Free from the signal of one Chrystal tear;
Phaebus in's wonted lustre shines, the Skies
Are not adorned for His Obsequies;
Sure then He still survives, and his soft breath's,
But whispering Mercy in the ears of Death:
View but His cheeks, where though the Roses are
Seeming t'retreat, the Lillies spring more fair
Then ere they did: Though's eyes they do not keep
Their Rays in ure, they are but clos'd in sleep:
The former lustre of his Ruby Lips,
(Which now seem Snow) feel but a short Eclipse:
By want of Sanguine heat, life doth impart,
And send at present to His drooping heart
His dormant pulses (which erewhile exprest
His health) are laid but sweetly down to rest:
Cease then to think Him Dead, wait but a while,
And gently he'll awake, see, see Him smile.
But ah, our expectations are deceiv'd,
And those so sweet Idea's we conceiv'd
Would turn to Substance, are but Shadows fled
Away on Airy Wings, for loe He's DEAD:
He's dead, and coffin'd up, fit to receive
The cold embracing of His ROYAL GRAVE.
False Phansie, why ha'st mockt us? why betray'd
Our lingring Hopes thus into Lyes? and staid
The current of our Tears so long? Ah, why
Would'st thou perswade us that He could not dye,
Unless the troubled Heavens had mourn'd and wept
To see Him dead, whil'st thou feign'd He but slept;
When oft we see the best of Nature falls,
Unmourned for by Supernaturals.
He's gone: Ope wide the floodgates of your eyes,
That streams may pass. When common beauty lies
Interr'd in dust, when death hath cropt the Rose
Of Youth scarce blown, what flinty hearts are those
Vent not a tear? But now that Death takes hence
The Lovsly'st of the Land, our YOƲNGEST PRINCE,
Shall we be parsimonious of our store?
No, we'll even weep, till we can shed no more.
Now if I could, I'd mount the Radiant Seat
Of Sacred Angels, humbly to entreat
A Quill pluckt from their Wings, and crave a Fount
Of Highest Eloquence, and then recount
The Grandeur of His VERTƲES; for below,
No Pen, no Strains are found that can them show.
To say He was a PRINCE of Noblest Blood,
Great by His Birth, yet not so Great as Good:
To say He was so Learn'd, ere's age could reach,
A score of years, He could His Tutors teach:
To say He was a PRINCE whose Life was spent
In Grief and Cares, yet never discontent:
To say He was but Young when ravish'd hence,
Yet Old in WISDOM and EXPERIENCE:
To say (what shall I say?) He was become,
The PRICNELY DARLING of all Christendom,
Were but (by these unworthy lines) to tell
A Truth the World already knows so well.
Go ask the Church of Rome, she (sighing) saith,
Ah, all my Batteries could not shake His Faith.
Go ask the nimble French, what was His Wit,
They'll quickly tell you they admired it.
Go ask the serious Spaniard, they'll aver,
He was a PRINCE did need no Counsellour.
Go ask the German Princes, ask the Dutch,
The Nations round, they'll say they found as much:
We onely (soon unhappy made) alas,
Have scarce experimented what He was.
Now what is Man, O what's the Noblest Man?
The Slave of Death (whose Life is but a Span,)
A weary Passenger, still on his way,
Here much esteem'd, a Nothing in a day.
What is this Life? but even expected Death,
A Stage of Mockeries, a little breath
Reserved in a Bladder, prickt 'tis lost;
A doleful Warfare, and to all (not most)
A Sea of Miseries, a Vial fill'd
With blood, which being quickly broke, 'tis spill'd.
How infinitely happy then is His
Bright Soul, releas'd from such a Life as this:
There blessed Spirit rest, rest in that Peace,
And these Celestial Joys shall never cease:
GLOƲSTERS Great Name on Earth ne'r can b' involv'd
In Laethes Streams, until the Worlds dissolv'd.

London, Printed for Thomas Parkhurst, at the lower end of Cheapside.

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