AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE MONCK, General of His MAJESTY's Forces, Duke of ALBEMARLE, etc.  
(As it was Presented to the Late, and Most Deserving DUKE His SON.) Having appeared about the same time an Extraordinary STAR.  

CAn thy Stars, Heaven! think thy MONK e'er meant  
To seek for blazing from thy Firmament?  
Ambitious Snuffs! He needs not them to tell  
He Great was, his own Metal sounds that knell.  
Ah long-tailed walking Wisps above! ye show  
But by your too much Moon, all's Night below:  
That Flame I doubted was the Rump on fire  
(Some Jubilee blaze) in th'Air, t' light Him higher:  
When Heavens Christmas Candle's head was light,  
Much did I fear Great GEORGE's only height  
Could reach such rage; I knew too well he'd fall,  
When Gods turned Link-boys for some Funeral.   

Dire Death! before thou ne'er couldst tyrannize,  
With Him lies more than in the Earth 'gain lies:  
England the worst is past, the Best is gone;  
Hereafter thou wilt scarce know how to moan:  
The Plague's a scab to this, his Pile brings more  
Ruin to th' City, than the Fire before.   

Brave Metempsucosis of GEORGE long passed,  
Thou but ascend'st to tell us what we'd lost  
Before thy Birth again; and that no more  
Such Gallantry of Soul has CHARLES in store:  
We need not dread more lightning in our Skies,  
Jove can but All have for a Sacrifice.   

Thrice constant Spirit, thou 'rt too Loyal grown;  
(Since Caesar's loss but Thou with joy couldst crown)  
All-pale and dying Him why leav'dst? didst fear  
Rebellion once more in the Hemisphere?  
No fire-nosed Vulcan does in Heaven sit,  
Thou didst not hope a Traitor there to meet:  
A lower Orb for their High-treason's meant,  
Which is as black as are the Harb'rers in't.   

Farewell our Magazeen, we're robbed; in vain  
May plund'red Troops now cry, Call GEORGE again.  
Hell upon Earth, or Hell upon Hell! see  
All's double-grim! there's not a Century  
But's died again; their former Mourning may  
But be th' Lining to another to day:  
All Black-Guards now are! Lo! they ne'er were bred  
To fly their Colours, though their General 's dead.  
Dead; (as I live) yet live in spite of Fate  
He surely must, that could our King create:  
Gods cannot die, and He could be no less,  
Who was th' Guardian to such Sacredness.   

Dead! that I were but cloyst'red in his Tomb,  
That he had lived, and I enjoyed his Home:  
Else, since so Great and Good can have a Pit,  
I wish I (Russian-like) had leapt into't:  
Thus, golden Oar (like th' Wiseman's Chemic stone)  
Mixed with my common Sand, had made Us one:  
Then (whilst below Pikes dragging were, Guns dumb,  
With Flags as dismal as their Kettle Drum,)  
How boldly I should have had fired my pass,  
'Twixt Nol and th' Prince of Air to happiness?   

Compendious discipline to worth, we've seen  
In Him more must'red than the World again:  
He was our Health, to Him our Lives we owe,  
Since Fate quelled Him, We do desire to bow:  
Oh quick some Knife! I'll to his Grave and try  
My transfused blood; if that serve not, I'll die:  
Or bring my Gansa's, I'll to th' Moon; from thence  
To Him in th' Orb Imperial I'll advance:  
These if denied, I'll Mars invoke, who shall,  
With all the Law of Arms, revenge his Fall.   

Ye Destinies, now cut your own threads, dare  
Ye let me live and strike an Officer?  
He who before still (like the Gorgon's head)  
Though's Foes not Stone he made, he made as dead:  
Base coward Atropos, me thinks I see  
Thee pale, and proud, yet blush at Victory:  
As if some mighty Conquest thou hadst won,  
But that again thou cam'st not fairly on:  
Can MONCK and truest Valour fail, can He  
Be vanquished by a poor Anatomy?  
Ha! than I fear our Arms must too lie dead,  
Nor do I wonder since they've lost their Head:  
Who having first his King set on his Throne,  
Took now (too soon) possession of his Own.   
Thornburgh Freeman.   

LONDON, Printed by and for Thomas Ratcliff, and Thomas Daniel, and are to be sold at their House in New-street, betwixt Shooe-lane and Fetter-lane. 1670.