Dying tears. Or, Englands joy turned to mourning, for the loss of that vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Glocester, 3d. son to our late soveraign King Charles the first: who departed this life the 13 of September, in the year of our Lord, 1660. Prepare for death before you dye, if you would live eternally. To the tune of, Aim not too high. 1660 Approx. 6 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2009-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). B02868 Wing D2958A ESTC R174796 47012412 ocm 47012412 174380

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B02868) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 174380) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English Books, 1641-1700 ; 2686:28) Dying tears. Or, Englands joy turned to mourning, for the loss of that vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Glocester, 3d. son to our late soveraign King Charles the first: who departed this life the 13 of September, in the year of our Lord, 1660. Prepare for death before you dye, if you would live eternally. To the tune of, Aim not too high. 1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. Printed for Charles Tyns ..., London, : [1660] Date of publication taken from Wing (2nd ed.) Contains 4 illustrations. Reproduction of original in: University of Glasgow Library.

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 eng Gloucester, Henry Stuart, -- Duke of, 1640-1660 -- Poetry. Ballads, English -- 17th century. Broadsides -- England -- 17th century. 2008-05 Assigned for keying and markup 2008-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2008-09 Sampled and proofread 2008-09 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2009-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
Dying Tears. OR, Englands Joy turned to mourning, for the loſs of that Vertuous Prince, Henry Duke of Gloceſter, 3d. Son to our late Soveraign King Charles the firſt: Who departed this life the 13. of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1660. Prepare for death before you dye, If you would live eternally. To the Tune of, Aim not too high.

C • • re the wonders that our God hath done, Great are the mercies which to us are ſhown Yet we forget to ſay that God is juſt, Even though he turn the living into duſt. Now learn, O England, learn for to lament His death; who from us hath been long abſent; And at the laſt is come on Engliſh Shore To lay his Corps; whoſe death we now deplore. Juſt in the prime and blooming of His age, Dear Gloſter's raviſhed from this mortall Stage: Yet though his body can no more revive, Pet his rare Vertues ſeem to be alive. Scarce had fair England bidden welcome home This our moſt vertuous Prince, but death doth come; Scarce had his weary body taken reſt, Behold grim death doth come and takes his breath. How can fair England weep enough and mourn, His comely Corps we can't enough adorn: O death, our hopes, our Treaſure, in an hour Haſt thou diſperſ'd, which makes ſalt tears to ſhowr O envious death! how dar'ſt thou in his prime, To cut down him, in whom all vertues ſhine: Therefore wee'l ſeek his vertues for to blaze, Upon his Tomb we will ſet forth his praiſe. No ſooner in his vertues we did truſt, But preſently this Prince is turnd to duſt: O then what courſe of lives would Mortalls take, Seeing that Princes cannot death forſake. Great Emperours and Kings lye at the ſtake, To day they live, to morrow their graves they make Death is a debt we owe, which we muſt pay: When death doth call, poor mortalls muſt they.
The Second Part to the ſame Tune,

O That loud man, would but view o're his says, And ſeriouſly conſider his own wayes: Now that all things below are vanity, But ſouls Redeemer 'tis that lives on high. The God of Love pour forth his mercies great On our Dread Soveraign, even from his mercy ſeat; O give him grace and wiſedome to conſider That where his Brother's gone, he muſt go thither. For Kings and Princes are but a ſpan, When death both come with's grimly dart in hand To give the ſtroak: whilſt nature bios adieu To all its pleaſures, and it's Comfort too. O that our God would pour his ſpirit upon Our King and Prince, that they may both live long; O let them know 'tis not the arm of fleſh That's able to withſtand Deaths powerfull cruſh. 'Tis not mans honour nor his powerfull hand, Nor his Riches that are at his command, Neither his friend at all can him deliver From death's ſad ſtroke, which ſtrikes but once for ever. O learn with bleſſed David for to prove That Gods thy portion and thy only love; Then death ſhall not affright thee, nor the grave; But this ſhall thee rejoyce, thy ſoul to ſave. Death is no ſting, the grave cannot contain The Righteous ſoul that makes 〈◊〉 his aim, But wicked men when once laſs in the Men, Their ſouls in torments ever after burn. But this is not our Gloſter Caſe, for he Was the true partern of Nobility: Saint like he liv'd, and he the ſame did dye, As ſoon as dead to Heaven his ſoul did fly. When France did harbour this out Noble P • His Mother did endeavour to convince Him to turn Papiſt; but with courage bold He ſaid his true Religion he would hold The learned Jeſuite could not him deceive, Their damned Doctrine he would not believer Nor all the Learned men that France could yield Could make this Chriſtian prince to quite the field. But now he's dead! alas, where is he gone, His Corps to duſt, his ſoul to Heaven is come: O then Rejoyce, O England, and be glad, That God has carried him, then to good from had. Concluding, now I end my mournfull Song. Which to all men in England doth belong, Prepare for death before before you dye, If e're you mean to live eternally.

London, Printed for Charles Tyns on London-Bridge.