ON THE DEATH Of the Renowned GENERAL GEORGE Duke of Albemarle.  

I Bring mean Things, as Hecuba who gave  
Her Hair a Sacrifice at Hector's grave.  
Oh for Wild's teeming Muse! mine's at that pass,  
As was old Helen's, when she broke her Glass.  
My Fancy's dull, my Muse wants feet to go,  
My clumsy hand is like his Gouty Toe.  
Oxford and Cambridge were invited Guests;  
My Verses press like Beggars unto Feasts,  
But yet Monk's farewell-Volley to advance,  
I'll fire my Pistol with their Ordinance.  
And that his Funeral-pile may blaze the higher,  
I'll throw waste paper to augment the fire.  
His Metal will make Mercuries of Blocks,  
And with his Steel, inflames my Tinderbox.  
What though I add my Sackcloth to their Sable,  
My Verse suits with the cause, being Lamentable.   

Why sits upon each face black sorrows Cloud?  
Why are the sighs so deep, the groans so loud?  
Such face poor England had of Consternation,  
When she beheld her Father's Decollation:  
Our Greife's renewed, Great George's breath doth cease,  
The great Restorer of his Country's Peace.  
Luxurious Death could nothing please thy Palate,  
But thou must have Anchovy's for thy Salad?  
Foul Cannibal, did ravine so prevail,  
That Worth nor Loyalty could be his bail?  
But yet thou canst not boast of Victory,  
His posture showed, He scorned to stoop to thee.  
He greeted thee, (whom Nature much abhors),  
Sitting, as Kings do treat Ambassadors.  
So would Vespasian entertain his fate,  
So Egypt's Queen sunk so her Chair of State.   

Whom done't thy fall concern? A Star so bright  
Setting, leaves every one with's lesser light.  
By thee the Gentry kept their Dignity,  
From Tyler's Level, or Cade's Parity,  
Prelates own thee their Mitres, Kings their Crowns,  
Nobles their Coronets, Scholars their Gowns;  
Thy Country owes its Peace, being freed from dread,  
Unto thy heart, three Kingdoms own their head.   

A King and People sweetly met in thee,  
He had his Crown, and they an Amnesty.  
His way not spread with Carcases but Roses;  
His breast not hit with bullets, but with Poseys,   

The Canons than did speak another sense,  
And powder smell as sweet as frankincense,  
Baleon's Briarian claps, joy signalise,  
And Windows view him with their Argus eyes.  
Thou didst out-wit the many headed Beast,  
Out-didst those called the Glory of the West,  
Egbert first Monarchized an Heptarchy,  
But thou redeemest us from an Anarchy.  
Great Warwick's title [MAKE-KING] was his shame,  
The clouded Trophy of a Guilty fame.  
But yet a glorious Character in thee,  
The lawful purchase of thy Loyalty.   

Lower your Sails, you Heroes famed for War,  
You'll all be found but Comets to this Star,  
The Candid Lilies of his peace outvies  
The Blushing Roses of red Victories.  
Who by your bustling made the World to groan;  
Not to support but to usurp a Throne:  
For your Advetures we may thank your pride,  
Not done to hold the Stirrup, but to ride.   

State-Hypocrites, with Maiden's modesty,  
Do oft resolve to take, but yet deny.  
Like some men's formal Nolo Episcopari;  
Or Oliver's demur, Nolo Reguar●e.  
Not he, (alas forsooth) He'll not be King,  
But kecking at the name, devoured the thing.  
Thus men will pick the Marrow, leave the Bone,  
Swallow the plum, and spirit away the stone.   

But yet our MONK will not so mind his own  
Ambition, as to seek a Triple-Crown.  
Nor force, nor fraud, shall him i'th' Chair install  
'Gainst Justice Vote, that virtue Cardinal.  
He knew a bastard title ne'er would do't,  
Which as a Sea weed grows without a Root;  
A claim (like Vermin) sprung from sweat and dust,  
The lawless offspring of a Soldier's lust;  
Which Madam Fortune to a Buffcoat bare,  
Who stole a Crown 'mongst other plundered Ware.  
But can that thrive which hath such feeble roots?  
The Son rides not, though in his Father's boots.  
When all the stir and bustle at his fall,  
Was bread and butter thrown against the wall;  
The furious Action of th' Usurper's Son,  
When news was brought, his Highness-ship was gone:  
Thus Mushroom Titles spring up in a day,  
Answer their birth, by fading soon away.   

Misplaced Sceptres are not humed but hissed,  
Like the Priest's Censer in a Layman's fist.  
MONK then is not Coach-ruling Phaeton,  
But Morningstar to usher in the Sun.  
He sees the Crown can fit no head but one,  
And He a Royal Stem, a Martyrs Son.  
The best of British, Danish,  blood,  
Meet in his veins to make his title good.   

Nor can his Country's obligation cease,  
From's Father's patience and his Grandsire's peace.  
Him, he conducts unto his Royal Throne,  
And longed for Peace is born without a groan.  
But thine Eclipse doth most thy brightness show,  
When Fortune Judge on both sides proved a shrew,  
When the Dutch water-snakes by help of fate,  
Set on our Herc'les in his weakest state;  
With half a Navy he would make a stand,  
His English heart would fight them with one hand,  
He scorned so to degenerate from his Nation,  
To shun a foe without a Salutation,  
He will not be rebuked by Greenvil's Ghost,  
Whose single ship attaqu'd the Spanish Host.  
And he will make them find him e'er they go,  
A surly, though an unprovided foe.   

Not Sparta's handful, routing Xerxes' host,  
Nor Hannibal's climbing the Alps in Frost.  
Nor Cocles swimming with his Sword in's hand,  
Nor Cato's March through Lybian Snakes and sand.  
Nor Caesar's Acts can thy retreat outdo,  
In that thou foughtest with Foes and Fortune too.   

When thou hadst lost thy Bullets in their sides,  
When not befriended by thy Sails or Tides,  
When foes (puft up with Luck and Brandy) proud,  
Thy Canons hoarse with speaking long and loud,  
When thy maimed Vessel like a tired Horse,  
Did vex thy active soul, and check thy force.  
When friends remote, but adversaries near,  
Thou couldst stand fight, do any thing but fear.  
Thou didst retire but only to refit,  
Not to put up thy Sword, but sharpen it.  
So great Alcides tired at Cacus den  
Withdrew and breathed, then set on him again.  
I'll raise the Cypress of June's Agony  
Above the Bays of July's victory;  
When thou didst chase them with revengeful ire,  
And celebrate the Joy with Schelling's Fire.   

But now insulting Death to make a mock.  
Of Fortitude, feeds on a fight Cock.  
Yet for his loyalty and warlike parts  
He is embalmed in Tears, and Tombed in hearts.  
We prise his dust, as Turks his namesakes bones,  
And celebrate our grief with pensive groans.  
The aim'd-at Gowns shall be for mourning Weeds,  
And threatened Steeples be his Pyramids.  
He doth deserve a Monument far higher  
Than Paul's old Fabric topped with Strasburg Spire.  
His Name we will in Chronicles insert,  
Which is advanced by duty and desert,  
We'll pray that after-ages may inherit,  
The Loyalty and Valour of his Spirit.  
And that such worth may be by others shown,  
But never have such cause to make it known.   By T.J. Master of Arts.  

LONDON, Printed for Robert Clavel, 1670. 60.