CR
HONI SOIT QVI MAL Y PENSE
DIEV ET MON DROIT.
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.
FINIS.