An ELEGY Upon the Death of the Most Illustrious Princess HENERETTA MARIA, Duchess of Orleans, etc.  

WHat ails the Town? what is it clouds their eyes?  
And speaks them Martyrs to grief's cruelties;  
What sudden change hath turned our joy to sorrow,  
When swelled Lungs, breath from the air did borrow,  
To express that joy, which must not last till morrow.   

Me thinks that joyful news I still do hear,  
Heneretta's Landed now at Dover Peer,  
There th' Air did dance at the Guns Mus'cal sound,  
And how each Hollow, did that sound confound,  
To see her Landed safe on English Ground.   

But han't you seen a black Cloud at Noonday  
To bereave Phoebus of his brightest Ray.  
So when our Joy was raised up to the height,  
Death interposed his Shade, t'Ecclips that light  
And turn our Noon of Joy, to Sorrow's Night.   

Heneretta Dead! and Heaven no notice give  
By Blazing Comets, that do only live  
Upon those Vapours, which th'Earth doth expire  
In Sigh, when Heaven her Princes do desire,  
To attend their Service, at its Sacred Quire.   

Prince's are Gods a Solocoesm 'twould be,  
For to desire the Death of 'tis Deity,  
Is the World defensive, Tutelars will have  
Their Lives, for her Protection she must crave;  
No help can come from such as sleep in Grave.   

Death if for Lives thou thirst's? why dost not go,  
And take whole thousands to thy Shades below  
Of Common sort, such we can well thee spare,  
But when to Royal Branches thou comest near,  
We all the Lapping of that Tree do fear.   

Alas I thirst not (death doth now reply)  
For Royal Blood, it was her Destiny:  
The Fatal Sisters surely did Combine,  
To Spin and make for her a Silken Line,  
Which was the sooner broke for being fine.   

Kings, Queens, or Princes, all must yield to Fate,  
When their decree is past complaints too late:  
Ask Sacred Urns, and they will soon reply,  
The Fates of Old decreed Mortality,  
And all must yield to this their destiny.   

Rivers of Water then give now to me,  
I'll soon exhale out their Humidity,  
That now from thence I may some Water have  
Enough, to moisten this, too early Grave,  
Yet scarce enough, though I the Sea should Crave.   

Hence let us seek some doleful Gloomy Shade,  
By Nature only for our Sorrows made,  
There we'll bewail's our most unhappy Fate,  
Of our lost Royal Princess, who of late,  
Was th'only Female Branch of Britain's State.   

Nor need we fear, she'd visit us again;  
If Heaven proud of her, did not detain;  
There now among the Heavenly Saints she's set  
A Jewel fit for such a Cabinet,  
May we by her Example thither get.   

To speak her Worth, we Mortals strive in vain,  
That Honour Angels, can alone attain:  
Yet my endeavers, Reader do not blame,  
If I attempt t'Illustrate still her Fame,  
By an Accrostick of her Maiden Name.    

An Accrostick.  

Here Majesty in Dust doth lie,  
Earth's Goddess see's Mortality,  
Nostre-Dame our Dame doth hid,  
Earth's lustre doth in darkness bide,  
Rejoicing Heaven, her Soul doth claim,  
Earth her Princess, Heaven her Saint doth name,  
Thus Alt'red, she in Marble Sleeps,  
The Altar now her Body keeps,  
And every Stone for Sorrow weeps.   

May Streams of Water ever flow,  
And every Eye a Delluge know,  
Rather than she should want a Tear,  
I think Heaven would condense the Air,  
And make us all a Delluge Fear.   

Stay Traveller then yet a while:  
Tarry and view this Funeral Pile,  
Even Urns our Judgements may inform,  
Worthies have trembled at a Worm,  
And dost thou see a Princess lie,  
Remember then that thou must die,  
The low Tree fall as well as high.   Quis talia fundo, tempore a Lachrymis sic transit illa, cujus Foelicitati, non est. T. R.  

LONDON, Printed by E. Crouch, for T. Passenger, at the three Bibles on London-Bridge. 1670. 67.