A FAITHFUL SUBJECT'S SIGH, ON The universally-lamented Death, and Tragicall End, of that Virtuous and Pious PRINCE, our most Gracious Soveraigne, CHARLES I.

King of Great Brittaine, most Barbarously Butchered by His Rebellious Subjects.

By a Gentleman now resident in the Court of Spaine.

Printed in the Year, 1649.

CAROLƲS STƲARTƲS, Scotus, Magnae Britanniae, REX.

Anagramma.

AGNƲS CANIBƲS Esus, Corona exaltatur, Martyr est.

Chronogramma.

CharLs 150 the trVe 5 PICtVre 106 of ChrIst 101 CrVCIfI'D 707,

Great BrIttaIn's 2 VertVoVs 15 KIng 1 noVV 10 GLorIfI'D 552.

A Faithfull Subjects Sigh, &c.

FAme speak it softly, in thy lowest tone,
Else say He lives still; though (alas!) he's gone.
Our King hath chang'd His Court for Heavens White-hall,
There He Reignes free, but here He liv'd in Thrall.
To th'upper-house of Heav'n for all His wrongs
He now appeales, where no Tumultuous throngs
Of Commons may Intrude for Justice calling;
Which comes with vengeance on ye (Leave your bawling)
And will commit you all to her Black-rod,
Then Vote'gainst the Star-Chamber of your God;
Bold, matchlesse villaines, as ye have pull'd downe
His Throne on Earth, and stampt upon His Crowne.
Old Time! I challenge thee to match but this
Most horrid Treason, and from thy Abisse
Of Monuments, and darke Lethaean Cell
Where Monsters sleep, draw one to Parallel
The English Rebell; rake Hell and extract
From thy worme-eaten blinde Records, an Act
So black, so Hellish; as, when Charls now slaine,
Was past by Subjects on a Soveraigne:
Time draw the Curtaines of Antiquity,
Shew such a cruell bold impiety.
But yet re-draw them, and strive to conceale
Our shame, our wretched shame; oh don't reveale,
How much our Gyant-Traytors have out-went
And over-grown thy Pigmy-President.
Oh for poor Englands honour, let it not
Be said the English should exceed the Scot
In Treason and Disloyaltie! that shee,
Who was Heav'ns Condidate, should branded be,
And stigmatiz'd with such foule Infamy;
That shee, who for the lap of Gregory,
Was Great with Angels once, should now disgrace
Her former Births, thus with a spurious race
Of Divels; Now what will be answered
To those that aske me for thy Churches Head?
Poor England! Now thy Head is Triumphant,
Whilst that thy Church is truely Militant.
Thou for thy Lucius, that wert so renown'd,
Mother to th' First baptized Monarch Crown'd;
Who forth' First Christian wert Glorify'd,
Un-Christian-like, thy King first Crucify'd.
Thou to whose pious wombe (like a rich mine)
Teem'd Christ's first Ensigne-bearer, Constantine,
The eldest Christian Caesar, should'st now lie
Impregnated within this curst progeny
Of Vipers; most true Vipers, that do knaw
Their way to life through their poor Mothers maw:
Nay, base unnaturall wormes, when borne, these suckt
Her brest Heart-bloud out; left not till they pluckt
Their Mothers Head off. Where's S t George? Appear
For England now with thy victorious Spear,
Against a Dragon ready to devoure
Thy bleeding Lady, quickly from its power;
Redeeme thy England, like her Champion,
And kill this Hydra, nurst in Alcoran;
That hath an hundred Heads, and from each spets
'Gainst God himself, its loathsome venom'd threats,
Hath his Vicegerent slaine, whom Innocent
Of th'subtile windings of a Parliament;
Which (like this monstrous Serpent's Taile) Him caught,
Involv'd within its poys'nous wreaths, and wrought
By those false Treach'rous foldings, and made-Laws
Within the reach of those curst Devils-claws,
That now have Butcher'd Him. Oh with what face
Could they impeach the sacred divine Grace
Of so great Majesty, and not struck Blind
With the bright rayes thereof! as once we find
Those Sodomitick troopes were just so bent
'Gainst those two Heavenly Courtiers to Lot sent;
As now 'gainst this Angelick Hero, those
Base Buggerers of Freedome, Heavens foes!
How chance there flew not Fire-bals from those Eyes
(Those dread Celestiall Torches) such vile Flyes,
Such swarmes of Waspes and Beetles to reduce
And scorch to Atomes, that durst to Accuse
So Good, So Great a King? but what Damn'd Slave
What Stygian Rascall was't the SENTENCE gave,
And could condemne his PRINCE; nay, and to dye
By th'Fatall Axe of Traytors, Publiquely?
Wonder ye Heav'ns, the Earth clave not asunder
To swallow such a Judge! and through him under
The Bench of Radamanthus, there to feele
The vulture, Furies whip, Ixion's wheele,
Whilst all the Hissing Convent of Hell prye,
Amaz'd to see so strange a Prodigie;
And blush, a Moderne Rogue to come Behinde.
But could Three-headed Cerberus, that black Fiend,
That snarling Curre of Pluto's Kitchin, get
On one of the Three snakie Sisters, yet
So foule a Monster, as could dare to be
The Actor of so dire a Tragedy:
And put in Execution that Black Deed,
Making his Gracious, Sacred Soveraign Bleed!
O Yron-heart! O Rockie Soule! not reele
With a Repentant Palsie, when the Steele
He brandisht o're That Head! O cruell stroke
That hath cut downe Druina's Royall Oake;
When the hard Axe wept Teares of Bloud, and He
That held it, Flinty-breasted unmov'd See
Ne're stagg'ring at the Act! And could the Sun
Still hold his journey, and not frighted run
Behinde the Cloudes, there put on sable weeds,
And from the East dispatch his Fiery steeds
Back ward unto the West; withdraw his light,
And in that Morne bid this darke World Good-night!
Or could Dame nature unrelenting keep
Her constant course! 'Tis true she made Heaven weepe
In an abundant manner; for the Skies
In Tears seem'd to dissolve at's Obsequies.
But no more shew of Sorrow? 'Tis most strange
Nature infring'd thus, made no greater change;
Shifting her weeke-dayes Garments for His sake
To put on mourning Robes; would she not take
No Livery of Luto, nor vouchsafe to wear
No badge of Grief, nor anger to cause fear
In those remorslesse villains, and to shake
Their cruell Hearts with Terrour, by Earth-quake
Or Blazing-Star, and Comet fiery red,
To make those Doggs know whom they murdered?
True, Grandame Nature, thou did'st well resent
Thy God our Saviours Passion, thou did'st rent
The Temples vale asunder, and did'st split
The vaults ofth' Earth, which such an Ague fit
Lay trembling in, that therewithall she wak'd
The sleeping Ghosts, out of their darke Tombes shak'd,
To stand and wonder at that darker Night
When thou had'st spread black curtaines o're the Light,
To solemnize Christ's funer all rights; but know
A Truer Symbole of our Christ then now
Ne're suffered since; then surely for His sake
Some lamentable change thou ought'st to make,
O're our most Gracious Soveraign now dead,
By His owne People (base Jewes) Martyred:
And 'twixt two Theeves too, Crucified, which were
The INDEPENDENT and the PRESBYTER.
And as the Chief Priests and the Pharisees
Held Councell 'gainst our Saviour, so these
Of our Sanhedrim with the Libertine,
In such a Parliament did now combine
'Gainst Christ's Anointed; where in vaine they sought
Him to surprize, 'till they Him also Bought,
And Covenanted with the Scot for Gold,
Who Judas-like, his Native Master sold.
Then as the Dove in th' Talons of the Kite,
Secur'd by's Rebels in the Isle of Wight:
Where (as Christ in the Garden was) for Pray'r
Secluded, and devoted to prepare
Himselfe, for th'houre He knew was drawing nigh
To apprehend Him, they a Company
Of Treacherous villaines sent Him to betray,
And by that Kisse of Treaty lead the way
For them to gripe Him; then hir'd the loud cry
Of th' Multitude, that should say, Crucifie.
Yet some of th' Jewish Jury could confesse
(Like Pilate) that they found their Lord Guiltlesse;
Washing their hands, not hearts, saying they saw
No fault in Him; but ye have made a Law
(Said those dissenting Lords) whereby 'tis fit,
We to your Swords, Him (and our selves) submit:
So His life He laid down, for th'sins of's Foes
(Like Christ) for the peculiar faults of those
That shed His Bloud; who their good King accus'd
Of th'salfe-same Crimes, wherewith they Him abus'd.
In all things Christ's true Picture, and who dies
So like's Redeemer, I dare Canonize.
And for that Earthly Crown which here He bare
(That Crown of Thornes so full of prickling Care,
And sharpe Afflictions) I dare averre this,
He wears Martyrs one in Paradise.
FINIS.

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