To the Memory of the ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE GEORGE Duke of Buckingham.  

WHen the dread Summons of Commanding Fate  
Sounds the Last Call at some proud Palace-Gate,  
When both the Rich, the Fair, the Great, and High,  
Fortune's most darling Favourits must die;  
Straight at th' Alarm the busy Heralds wait  
To fill the Solemn Pomp, and Mourn in State:  

Scutcheons and Sables than make up the Show,  
Whilst on the Hearse the mourning Streamers flow,  
With all the rich Magnificence of Woe.   
If Common Greatness these just Rights can Claim,  
What Nobler Train must wait on Buckingham!  
When so much Wit, Witt's Great Reformer, dies,  
The very Muses at thy Obsequies,  
(The Muses that melodious cheerful Choir,  
Whom Misery could ne'er untune, nor tyre,  

But chirp in Rags, and even in Dungeons sing,)  
Now with their broken Notes, and flagging Wing,  
To thy sad Dirge their murmuring Plaints shall bring.   
Wit, and wit's god, for Buckingham shall mourn,  
And His loved Laurel into Cypress turn.   


Nor shall the Nine sad Sisters only keep  
This mourning Day: even Time himself shall weep,  
And in new Brine his hoary furrows steep.   
Time that so much must thy great Debtor be  
As to have borrowed even new Life from Thee;  
Whilst thy gay Wit has made his sullen Glass  
And tedious Hours with newborn Raptures pass.   

What tho' black Envy with her rancorous Tongue,  
And angry Poets in embittered Song  
(Whilst to new tracks thy boundless Soul aspires)  
Charge thee with roving Change, and wand'ring Fires  
Envy more base did never Virtue wrong;  
Thy Wit, a Torrent for the Banks too strong,  
In twenty smaller Rills overflowed the Dam,  
Tho' the main Channel still was Buckingham.   

Let Care the busy Statesman overwhelm,  
Tugging at th' Oar, or drudging at the Helm.  

With labouring Pain so half-souled Pilots plod,  
Great Buckingham a sprightlier Measure trod:  
When o'er the mounting Waves the Vessel rod,   
Unshocked by Toils, by Tempests undismayed,  
Steered the Great Bark, and as that danced, He played.   

Nor bounds thy Praise to Albion's narrow Coast,  
Thy Gallantry shall Foreign Nations boast,  
The  Shore with all the Trumpets of Fame  
To endless Ages shall resound thy Name.  
When Buckingham Great CHARLES Ambassador,  
With such a Port the Royal Image bore,  

So near the Life th' Imperial Copy drew,  
As even the Mighty Lovis could not View  
With Wonder only, but with Envy too.   
His very Fleur-de-Liz'es fainting Light  
Half drooped to see the English Rose so bright.   

Let Grovelling Minds of Nature's basest mould  
Hug and Adore their dearest Idol, Gold:  
Thy Nobler Soul did the weak Charms defy,  
Disdained the Earthy Dross to mount more High.  
Whilst Humbler Merit on Court-Smiles depends  
For the Gilt Shower in which their Jove descends;  
Thou mount'st to Honour for a Braver End;  
What others borrow, Thou cam'st there to lend:  
Didst sacred Virtues naked Self adore,  
And leftest her Portion for her sordid wooer;  
The poorer Miser how dost thou outshine,  
He the world's Slave, but Thou hast made it thine:  
Great Buckingham's Exalted Character  
That in the Prince lived the Philosopher.  
Thus all the wealth thy Generous Hand has spent  
Shall Raise thy Everlasting Monument.   

So the famed Phoenix builds her dying Nest  
Of all the richest Spices of the East:  
Then the heaped Mass prepared for a kind Ray  
Some warmer Beam of the Great God of Day,  
Does in one hallowed Conflagration burn,  
A precious Incense to her Funeral Urn.  
So Thy bright Blaze felt the same funeral Doom,  
A wealthier Pile then old Mausolus Tomb.  
Only too Great, too Proud to imitate  
The poorer Phoenix more Ignoble Fate,  
Thy Matchless Worth all Successors defies,  
And scorned an Heir should from thy Ashes rise:  
Gins and finishes that Glorious Sphere  
Too Mighty for a Second Charioteer.   
FINIS.   

This may be Printed,  
R. P.   

LONDON, Printed for R. Baldwin. 1687.