ENGLAND'S Lamentation FOR THE Duke of Monmouth's Departure: Reflecting on his Heroic Actions.  
IS Monmouth banished? must HE not stay here?  
Can he, Eclipsed, so quickly disappear?  
Methinks we sink, and our disjointed State,  
Rolls headlong down the Precipice of Fate:  
Our Anchor's weighed, and this great Island-Boat,  
Like the famed Delos, on the Sea does float,  
A Sea whose Waves bear a far redder hue,  
Than those which Pharoh's mighty Host o'r-threw;  
In which each Papist like a Rock does sit,  
Ready to split us, when we dash on it.  
That King's unsafe, who sits upon a Throne,  
Whose strongest Pillar's lost, and leans, alone,  
On the weak shoulders of a yielding Crew,  
Who never yet a greater Burden knew,  
Than their own flesh, which they could scarcely save  
From falling in the Dirt, before the Grave.  
That King art thou, great Charles, now Monmouth's gone,  
Monmouth was truly Loyal to thy Throne,  
Would Atlas-like, with his strong Shoulders bear  
The Weight of our declining Hemisphere:  
Who, maugre all Shocks of mighty Foes,  
Stood fixed, nor valued all the Threatening Blows.  
He, whom the Scots next to their God and Thee,  
Feared, and Adored, like a new Deity.  
He, who so lately quelled the numerous crowd  
Of fresh spawned Rebels, that Proclaimed aloud,  
War 'gainst the Government, nor could they fear,  
Till within Scotland Monmouth did appear;  
Whose very Sight shot Death among them all,  
More seemed with Fear than by the Sword to fall.  
This is the least our Glorious DUKE hath done,  
France loved that Valour once which Maestricht won,  
With which, like the 
† Alexander.  Pellaean Conqueror,  
Himself his Standard on the Rampire's bore,  
Whilst the amazed French stood idly by,  
Deserving not to share the Victory.  
They Wondered then, and since as much have feared,  
When He at Mons so Terrible appeared,  
Like Mars, all o'er with Blood and Dust besmeared,  
When He, like the Great Troján Hector fought,  
And wheresoe'er he came, such Wonders wrought,  
That as of old, now Jove, with Scales in hand,  
Weighing each Fate, did on Olympus stand,  
And found the English, though in number less,  
In Valour equal, could not choose but bless  
Th' Attempt: whilst smiling, he might see from far,  
The Bloody labours of the God of War:  
Till Luxemburgh was forceed his Ground to quit,  
And Victory, which on a Hill did sit,  
Doubtful to which she might her Favour show,  
Now clapped her Wings, and to the English Flew,  
The English who deserved her best, and knew,  
Best by their Valour always to maintain,  
That which their Valour nobly did obtain.  
Thus the brave DUKE proved English Spirits are,  
In Fight, as daring now as e'er they were.  
And thus he got himself Renown, to be,  
For that sent hence, as the State's Enemy.  
Sure, Poisonous Envy did their Breasts invade,  
Who did your Majesty to THIS persuade;  
You were abused when you banished thus,  
Him, the Delight of Yourself and us.  
They knew, whilst he did in your Bosom lie,  
Their Daggers could not reach Your Majesty:  
Therefore t'effect their Villainous Intent,  
He, who alone could their dire Acts prevent,  
Must be removed, that so your Breast might be,  
More open to each daring Enemy.  
Know then, Great Charles, Thou art more hurt than He,  
For th' Wise and Valiant ne'er can Exiled be.  
J. F▪   

LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1679.