ON THE DEATH Of the Renowned GENERAL GEORGE Duke of Albemarle.
I Bring mean Things, as
Hecuba who gave
Her Hair a Sacrifice at
Hector's grave.
Oh for
Wild's teeming Muse! mine's at that pass,
As was old
Hellens, when she brake her Glass.
My Fancy's dull, my Muse wants feet to go,
My clumsie hand is like his Gouty Toe.
Oxford and
Cambridge were invited Guests;
My Verses press like Beggars unto Feasts,
But yet
Monk's farewell-Volley to advance,
I'le fire my Pistol with their Ordinance.
And that his Funeral-pile may blaze the higher,
I'le throw waste paper to augment the fire.
His Metal will make Mercuries of Blocks,
And with his Steel, inflames my Tinder-box.
What though I add my Sackcloth to their Sable,
My Verse suits with the cause, being Lamentable.
Why sits upon each face black sorrows Cloud?
Why are the sighs so deep, the groans so loud?
Such face poor
England had of Consternation,
When she beheld her Father's Decollation:
Our Greife's renew'd, Great
George's breath doth cease,
The great Restorer of his Country's Peace.
Luxurious Death could nothing please thy Palate,
But thou must have Anchovy's for thy Sallet?
Foul
Cannibal, did ravine so prevail,
That Worth nor Loyalty could be his baile?
But yet thou canst not boast of Victorie,
His posture shew'd, He scorn'd to stoop to thee.
He greeted thee, (whom Nature much abhors),
Sitting, as Kings do treat Embassadors.
So would
Vespasian entertain his fate,
So
Egypts Queen sunk so her Chair of State.
Whom don't thy fall concern? A Starr so bright
Setting, leaves every one with's lesser light.
By thee the Gentry kept their Dignity,
From
Tyler's Level, or
Cade's Parity,
Prelates owe thee their Miters, Kings their Crowns,
Nobles their Coronets, Scholars their Gowns;
Thy Country owes its Peace, being free'd from dread,
Unto thy heart, three Kingdoms owe their head.
A King and People sweetly met in thee,
He had his Crown, and they an Amnesty.
His way not spread with Carcasses but Roses;
His brest not hit with bullets, but with Poseys,
The Canons then did speak another sense,
And powder smell as sweet as frankincense,
Baleon's Briarian claps, joy signalize,
And Windows view him with their
Argus eyes.
Thou didst out-wit the many headed Beast,
Out-didst those call'd the Glory of the West,
Egbert first Monarchiz'd an
Heptarchy,
But thou redeem'st us from an Anarchy.
Great
Warwick's title [
MAKE-KING] was his shame,
The clouded Trophy of a Guilty fame.
But yet a glorious Character in thee,
The lawful purchase of thy Loyalty.
Lower your Sayles, you Heroes fam'd for War,
You'l all be found but Comets to this Star,
The Candid Lillies of his peace outvies
The Blushing Roses of red Victories.
Who by your bustling made the World to grone;
Not to support but to usurpe a Throne:
For your Advetures we may thank your pride,
Not done to hold the Stirrup, but to ride.
State-Hypocrites, with Maidens modesty,
Do oft resolve to take, but yet deny.
Like some mens formal
Nolo Episcopari;
Or
Oliver's demur,
Nolo Reguar
[...]e.
Not he, (alas forsooth) He'l not be King,
But kecking at the name, devour'd the thing.
Thus men will pick the Marrow, leave the Bone,
Swallow the plum, and spirt away the stone.
But yet our
MONK will not so mind his own
Ambition, as to seek a Triple-Crown.
Nor force, nor fraud, shall him i'th' Chair install
'Gainst Justice Vote, that virtue Cardinal.
He knew a bastard title n're would do't,
Which as a Sea weed grows without a Root;
A claim (like Vermin) sprung from sweat and dust,
The lawless off-spring of a Soldier's lust;
Which Madam Fortune to a Buff-Coat bare,
Who stole a Crown 'mongst other plundred Ware.
But can that thrive which hath such feeble roots?
The Son rides not, though in his Father's boots.
When all the stir and bustle at his fall,
Was bread and butter thrown against the wall;
The furious Action of th' Usurper's Son,
When news was brought, his Highness-ship was gone:
Thus Mushrome Titles spring up in a day,
Answer their birth, by fading soon away.
Misplaced Scepters are not hum'd but hiss't,
Like the Priest's Censer in a Layman's fist.
MONK then is not Coach-ruling
Phaeton,
But Morning-Star to usher in the Sun.
He sees the Crown can fit no head but one,
And He a Royal Stem, a Martyrs Son.
The best of
British, Danish, Gallick blood,
Meet in his veins to make his title good.
Nor can his Country's obligation cease,
From's Father's patience and his Grandsires peace.
Him, he conducts unto his Royal Throne,
And long'd for Peace is born without a grone.
But thine Eclipse doth most thy brightness shew,
When Fortune Judg on both sides prov'd a shrew,
When the
Dutch water-snakes by help of fate,
Set on our
Herc'les in his weakest state;
With half a Navy he would make a stand,
His
English heart would fight them with one hand,
He scorn'd so to degenerate from his Nation,
To shun a foe without a Salutation,
He will not be rebuk't by
Greenvil's Ghost,
Whose single ship attaqu'd the
Spanish Host.
And he will make them find him e're they go,
A surley, though an unprovided foe.
Not
Sparta's handful, routing
Xerxes host,
Nor
Hannibal's climbing the Alpes in Frost.
Nor
Cocles swimming with his Sword in's hand,
Nor
Cato's March through
Lybian Snakes and sand.
Nor
Caesar's Acts can thy retreat out-do,
In that thou fought'st with Foes and Fortune too.
When thou had'st lost thy Bullets in their sides,
When not befriended by thy Sailes or Tides,
When foes (pust up with Luck and Brandy) proud,
Thy Canons hoarse with speaking long and loud,
When thy maim'd Vessel like a tired Horse,
Did vex thy active soul, and check thy force.
When friends remote, but adversaries near,
Thou could'st stand fight, do any thing but fear.
Thou did'st retire but only to refit,
Not to put up thy Sword, but sharpen it.
So great
Alcides tir'd at
Cacus den
Withdrew and breath'd, then set on him agen.
I'le raise the Cypress of
June's Agony
Above the Bayes of
July's victory;
When thou didst chase them with revengeful ire,
And celebrate the Joy with
Schelling's Fire.
But now insulting Death to make a mock.
Of Fortitude, feeds on a fighting Cock.
Yet for his loyalty and warlike parts
He is embalm'd in Tears, and Tomb'd in hearts.
We prize his dust, as
Turks his name-sakes bones,
And celebrate our grief with pensive groans.
The aim'd-at Gowns shall be for mourning Weeds,
And threatened Steeples be his Pyramids.
He doth deserve a Monument far higher
Than
Paul's old Fabrick topt with
Strasburg Spire.
His Name we will in Chronicles insert,
Which is advanc'd by duty and desert,
We'l pray that after-ages may inherit,
The Loyalty and Valour of his Spirit.
And that such worth may be by others shown,
But never have such cause to make it known.
LONDON, Printed for Robert Clavel, 1670. 60.