THE French King's Lamentation, For the LOSS of his Great GENERAL, the DUKE OF LUXEMBURG. A POEM.  

HA'! what no Luck; have I my Fortune Run  
Quite out of Breath; what? Luxemburg too gone?  
My Guilded Lillys now begin to Fade,  
I find my burning and my Plundering Trade,  
Are at a stand, must I no further go,  
I now may Flutter but no longer Crow.  
A stop to my ambition now I see,  
Dull is the Sword, whetted by Tyranny.  
A while it may destroy, but still at last,  
Its blunted Edge will fail and his hopes blast,  
That useth it, when a more Active Arm  
With Justice comes to give a fierce Alarm.  
Brings Combatants, as Equal to the Field,  
Whilst Sheltered Nations Fight behind His Shield.  
I often Braved all Europe when but Weak,  
But now one comes who does in Thunder Speak.  
I think a Lady's Chamber safer far,  
Than the Grim Face of such a Dangerous War,  
Whilst Luxemburg by Conjuration Drove,  
On my Designs, and few against me strove,  
My Gold was Currant then to Buy a Town,  
And that kept up my Tottering Renown.  
My Brother Turk was Gulled then with my Fame,  
And Mahomet did me his Champion Claim,  
To Ruin Christendom, and Plant his Name.  
But now I Stagger, my Great General,  
Tripped up by Death, Trips me up in his Fall.  
So when a Mountain's Top, Loosened by Rain,  
Unnerved, comes Rushing down into a Plain.  
The Sheltered Cedar it finds there, it Crushes,  
And Lays its Top among the Humble Bushes.  
I who Did Boast, I for my Glory Fought,  
By such a Loss, am to my Wits-End brought.  
I Prisoned him once for a Witch 'tis True,  
O'erruled by Miss, and by my Flattering Crew,  
But now what would I give, it were not done.  
For in his Loss, my Kingdoms Bulwarks' gone.  
Now after great Expense, and Loss of Blood,  
With which I've Crimsoned Europe in a Flood.  
I shall be once more Painted Spewing Towns,  
And fear at every Post-Horn, Fortune's Frowns.  
Well what must be, must be too late I find,  
I wish in time, I had been far more kind,  
And not my Subject's Ruin long Designed,  
The Protestants I Banished Tortured Racked,  
The countries' Ruined and the Cities Sacked.  
The Leagues I Broke, and Injuries I have done,  
Like rapid torrents in my mind now run,  
And Rattle in my Ear, I m near undone.  
My Wealth is Wasted, and my People Poor,  
I have too long run upon Fortune's Score.  
In vain I strove t'outwind those that Pursue,  
Who fear not War, nor Start at Dangers new.  
O I am Sick, my Ague Fit Returns,  
By Fits it Strives, and by Fits it Burns,  
My Fistulo, too brings tormenting pain,  
And against Fate I see I strive in vain.  
The loss of Luxemburg, my hopes do Blast,  
That totters which I once thought to hold fast.  
And tells me I must honest prove at last.  
What I unjustly got must rendered be,  
If any thing I'd save or good days see.   
FINIS.   

Licenced according to Order.   

LONDON Printed for I Whitlock near Stationers-Hall. 1695.