An elegy upon the Death of King Charles.  

BRight Soul! instruct us Mortals how to mourn,  
How to approach, yet not profane thine Urn.  
To come with human Sighs, or Eyes,  
Were sure too bold a Sacrifice.  
Lest a foul tear or nauseous gust  
Should scatter or defile thy Dust,  
We should in homage to thy Shrine  
Weep out our humour Crystalline,  
Which there congealed might Sapphirs turn  
By borrowing Lustre from thine Urn.  
They only know such Losses to Condole,  
Who can for every Sigh, breathe out a Soul.   

Bright Soul! instruct us to that just respect  
With which thy Hallowed Ashes must be decked.  
To build them trophies were unjust:  
Thy virtue's canopy thy Dust.  
To write upon them were unsafe:  
Thy name is thy best Epitaph.  
To carve thy Statue were amiss:  
Thy Book thy best Colossus is.  
T'enclose thy relics were uneven:  
No Shrine is fit for them, but Heaven.  
Can Nothing lend thee Lustre? may we turn  
Nothing, if nothing can adorn thine Urn.   

CHORUS.  
Hark, hark, how each Orb his Tune doth keep,  
While Peals of angel's ring;  
And since we cannot fitly weep,  
Let's try how we can sing.  
Since Charles advanced beyond the King,  
Is placed above his wain,  
'Twere sure a sacrilegious thing  
To weep him down again.  
Then let our accents all conspire  
With heavens' loud harmonyes;  
While this short Anthem fills the choir,  
He's welcome to the skies.