A POEM ON THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN. By a Gentlewoman of Quality.  
Licenced, February 26th, 1694-95.  
LONDON: Printed for R. Cumberland at the Angel in St. Paul's Churchyard, and are to be sold by J. Whitlock near Stationers-Hall. 1694-95.   Ornate mourning border: memento mori  

A POEM.  
GReat Britain now for many Years must Mourn,  
MARIA's Dead, the Best that filled a Throne;  
Yet thou liest struck in deepest Lethargy,  
And canst not yet thy greatest Sorrows see;  
Weep then, and let thy Tears for ever run,  
As Exhalations drawn up by the Sun:  
Let every thing within thy Island lie  
Useless in Silence, and stand neglected by;  
Nor let the Day break from on high  
Put on here her Gaudy Livery,  
But be as Mute and Negligent as we.  
What need be Spring or Summer here,  
That such a Badge of Sorrows wear?  
Or Sun or Moon to give us Light?  
Here wants no Day, but a perpetual Night.  
The Pious MARY She is gone on High,  
And Seated in the Heavenly Hierarchy;  
And Weeping Albion now can only raise  
Monuments to Her Eternal Praise;  
Proud to Record it throughout all the Earth,  
That here this Virtuous Queen first had her Birth.  
No Tongue can tell, nor Pen can write the Story  
Of MARY's Praise, of MARY's Everlasting Glory.  
But hold, Great Britain yet, and be not drowned in Grief,  
You may Lament, but here you'll find relief;  
Stay then thy Floods of Tears, MARIA has left behind  
A King that's Great, Good, Merciful and Kind;  
A Prince that's Famed abroad, Beloved at home,  
Fights for your Cause, and values not a Throne;  
Mars in the Field, Solomon at Council-Board,  
Mildly sways the Sceptre, fiercely brandishes the Sword;  
Sticks at no Pains, Great Britain to defend,  
Exposing His Royal Person purely for that end;  
But when Proud Lewis to Fetters he can bring,  
He'll value not to be Albanion's King,  
A Place too narrow for so great a Spirit,  
The World one Empire, were not worth his Merit:  
Sent from Above, where MARY She is gone,  
Heaven could not spare them both, but leaves us one.  

The Procession.  
Ha! What is't I see, what do my Eyes behold?  
An Open Chariot of the purest Gold,  
In which is seated full of Majesty,  
Either some Mighty Princess or some Deity;  
Encompassed round she is on every side  
With Cherubims, and winged Angels are her Guide;  
All hushed in Silence at this glorious Sight,  
Brighter than Day, though in the darkest Night.  
Ha! surely yet I Dream, or am not well awake,  
Who is't that doth this Solemn Progress take?  
Assist me Gods, and let me quickly know,  
Whether this Glorious Light intends to go:  
What Place is fit this Guest to entertain,  
That has so many Thousands in her Train.  
Leave off vain Man, and thou wilt quickly see  
No Earthly Temple can her Reception be:  
Her Pious Soul to Heaven's already gone,  
Her Earthly Body's going to a guilded Throne,  
Where Albion now can only make  
Hecatombs to MARY's ever blessed state;  
And Round the Choir sit and sing  
Praises to Heaven for our most Gracious King.   
FINIS.