The muse's Tears For the Loss of the Illustrious Prince HENRY Duke of Gloucester, Deceased on Thursday the 13th, of September, 1660.  
By J. Crouch Gentleman.  {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}. 
LONDON, Printed for the Author; 1660.   

The muse's tears For the loss of the Illustrious PRINCE HENRY Duke of Gloucester, Deceased on Thursday the 13th, of September, 1660.  By J. Crouch Gentleman. {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman}. 

GOod heaven's what strange Wheels keeps you rolling thus  
So full of Eyes, and yet so dark to us?  
Now bright, and orient was the pearly Chain  
Of Providence? and straight how dim again?  
Great Gloucester dead that Minion of Renown?  
Another Head dropped from the Imperial Crown?  
Both Globes begin to smoke must shortly burn  
And make the Chaos, once their womb their urn.  
Must this brave Salamander die in's bed,  
When a whole field of flames ne're-singded his head,  
The sands of Dunkirk his high prowess know,  
They ne'er were scattered into atoms so  
Those Sands whose infinites shall ever be,  
His in-exhausted virtues Algebree:  
Where on the Anvil of his enemy's scull,  
He broke his sword as sharp as that was dull,  
While the astonished French stood still to see  
The Triumphs of a conquered Enemy.  
And shall a Miracle fetch this hero home:  
To hang his early Trophies upon his tomb,  
Good Heavens anoint your Prophet's weeping Eye  
And Consecrate Him for your Sacred spy,  
That in this Maze of Changes he may find  
Some dark cause why your Stars are so unkind:  
Why after such fair Aspects from them all,  
A Glorious Star must like a Meteor fall.   

Must this Duke's blood the flames of Justice quench  
Due from the scarlet of that murdering Bench,  
Must he appease his father's injured Ghost,  
Till expiated by an Holocaust!  
Propitious heaven your milder Laws dispense  
Fat not your Altars still with innocence:  
Lambs have been slain too long, O set them by  
And let the Rugged bulls of Basan die.  
And must Ambassadors come to kiss that Hand  
Which used Brigades and Armies to command,  
And it unactive find must they salute  
Marble for Duke! find all that Eloquence Mute,  
That tongue now silent, whose commanding charms  
Had equal strength & conquest with his Arms?  
Those lips lately so warm, now cold and faint,  
Whose Vestal heat was tempered for a Saint?  
O rigid State? no Knee, no Head to bow,  
Alas, our Duke is too much Spaniard now,   

Yet such brave Podrums was becoming State  
To attend if not his Person, yet his Fate  
Mock Princes though they swell must not die so  
But ushered hence with monstrous purveyors go:  
No embassy of Whale before he fell,  
That belluine fish emblem of Death and Hell.   

Or was our Duke an Holy Envoy sent  
To his blessed Sire in heaven to represent  
How a good Monck had brought his good Charles home  
To right his Death and Crown his martyrdom:  
Pardon the curious scruting of our Verse,  
Apollo would sit Crowner on this hearse.   

Must that disease which does so ill befriend  
The Noble Blood conduct him to his End?  
His ermines drink new spots that he may lie  
In his own Purples and more Princely Die:  
Must he pour out his blood instead of Breath,  
And cut a new way to mature his Death,  
'twas sure no Act of Ignorance, but Fate  
To pass the Great Duke out o'th' World in state,  
Through the Basilick Vein: The old Red Sea  
Was still the soldiers and the Christians Way:   

But shall He die that was so wise, and good,  
A Rose nipped in the perfumes of its bud?  
Let not our Ruder sorrows do him wrong  
Say the Duke died too soon, but not too young,  
Be wise and quit your superstitious care  
He wants not now twelve months to make him Heir;  
Precedency of time here does not bind  
Heaven is inherited by Gavelkind,  
All here are Saints but not of equal fame,  
And all Saints Kings, though all Crowns not the same  
Heaven is a warm place, ripens fruit i'th' bud,  
And lengthens little by the Lines of good,  
Saints need no calendar, nor can there be  
Immature Nonage in eternity,  
All things above are full and perfect made,  
In that Meridian bodies have no shade.  
I'm sure he's now full grown, if ever Moon  
Knew full, or Sun the Zenith of the Noon.  
Things that move quick & sure still best proceed,  
Old men halt slow to Heaven, the young make speed.  
I'll observe at our Treats here, that civil guest  
Who makes most speed is still the welcomest  
When he that starts up at the banquet's end,  
Loseth the kindness both of feast and friend.   

Put on Blacks you that never Cypress wore,  
Colours must be disloyal, or else poor:  
Let not the wisdom of our King repine  
For losing this one punctum from his Line  
Let Roy le Uolt seal to the Acts above  
A Duke survives that merits all his love,  
While Henry reaps the fruits of duty, gone  
To see his Father like a pious Son  
Nor let our Sables be so black and rude  
To press our eyes even to ingratitude  
Turn tears to praises, Heaven is still so kind  
To leave a Royal Pare so good behind.   

Farewell, sweet Duke, we leave thee to thy rest,  
What Heaven decrees, though ne'er so bad is best.   
FINIS.