LOYAL TEARS Poured on the hearse Of that Most EXCELLENT PRINCE HENRY Duke of GLOUCESTER.  
OH Times! Unequal and Injurious Days:  
Oh Fates! whose Cypress hath outgrown the Bays:  
Oh month! Unfortunate to all that's Good:  
Oh Place! the poison of this Royal Blood.  
Whom shall we blame, where shall we lay the weight  
Of such a Heaviness? Forgive the State,  
The public Weal, whose opened empty Veins  
Scarce can endure to hear his Bloody Pains.  
And have we just but seen him, is he come  
Only to Die, t' ennoble but the tomb?  
Are all the honours, all the Glories done,  
Most Arbitrary Death? (Mu such a Son  
Die violently too) Stay, and give place to Fame,  
Whose great'st Attempt is but to reach his Name.  
What Autumn's this, why do we boast Increase?  
Death's Harvest's valued in this Single Peice:  
And what the Plague in numbers would infect  
(A judgement witched for by every Sect)  
The smallpox in this great and glorious Youth  
Did in effect fulfil, and curse with truth  
Their Divinations. Now, what dress of Grief  
Shall give our Sorrow and our Loss belief?  
Which then of the three kingdoms shall expire,  
And shine together in the Funeral Fire?  
O you bright Citizens of Heaven know  
There's nothing worth Him but the KING below.  
We had an Earthly TRINITY before,  
The Stamp of that which you above adore;  
And you agreed to have our Saint away,  
Urged by the rival Worship of last May.  
Now they are Gemini, and the Royal Line  
Grows less with Fortune, and advanced, Decline.  
What Rebels Pride and Staring Insolence  
Braved not to Kill, see the unwarded Fence  
Of a just Triumph laid it in the Grave,  
And virtue, honour, goodness could not save.  
Well then, to Grieve is to comply with Fate,  
And make the Tyrant proud, and keep his state.  
We quarrel not at this most partial Lot,  
Only we ask our sovereign, Why Not?  
'Tis a true Parentation to the Dead  
When Son and 
* Duke of Richmond.  Kinsman followed Him that bled,  
No other Life to Expiate that Crime?  
King's may, but Destinies allow no Time.  
Our Loss is greater than we dare to own,  
Let it not be among late Rebels known.  
Great Soul! whose Limits scarce can be defined,  
Better by Heaven than thy Moderate Mind:  
Thou ow'st not any thing to Life or Glory,  
Our Grief shall be thy chiefest only Story.   

London, Printed by W. G. 1660.