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heaven_n day_n earth_n rest_v 4,824 5 9.3255 5 true
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A84336 An elegy, sacred to the memory of our most gracious sovereigne Lord King Charles who was most barbarously murdered by the sectaries of the army January 30. MDCxlix. 1649 (1649) Wing E447; Thomason 669.f.13[78]; ESTC R211198 1,628 1

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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 Vertues 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 't was 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