To the Sacred memory of the crown of majesty, KING CHARLES I.  
 depiction of King Charles I at the block 
te domine 〈◊〉, non timeo.   

RIch Magazine of virtue, in whose breast  
The grace's centred, and You made their Nest,  
And so conjoined, flowed a crystal stream,  
Would richly add unto the rarest theme.  
Pardon the impotence of my weak style,  
Which would applaud— but rather doth revile,  
In falling short of showing thy large spirit,  
And so committing Rape on thy fair merit.  
Grasp all the wit of man, you never can  
Depute thy Ashes a fit Guardian.  
Set envy on the Tenters, urge a Reason  
How spotless Charles could act a dram of Treason,  
And she is dumb! Robbed of this one pretence,   

He stole from England all her Innocence.  
And could such worth be stifled? Oh! 't was thus,  
His worthy self was far too good for us.  
Dear Saint! If thy blessed soul can think upon  
Those crying judgements which are crowding on  
Thy poor distressed England, let it be  
A zealous wish to stop our misery,  
And not for public vengeance, that God's hand  
May scourge the Actors, not destroy the Land:  
In which ripe time, we would be glad to see  
Our common prophecies made history;  
But yet our fears presages understood,  
Say, they'll be writ in characters of blood.   

And why not so? To save us God did cause  
His Son to bleed, as thou didst for our laws.  
For which (in spite of Power) thou shalt have  
Ineach true heart a lasting tomb and Grave,  
Which shall be seen by those that live to see  
Thy Cause reviewed by thy Posterity.  
Inthe mean time lie speechless all our laws  
That plead the civil, or Diviner Cause,  
Stabbed by thy Crowns-possessors. Who besides  
Have gained the glory of bold Regicides;  
And are exact Faith-breakers, but in this,  
(Their only specious Parenthesis)  
They are not wholly perjured, for we see  
They've made thee glorious to eternity:  
So by Red-art this Paradox approve,  
The work of Malice, was an act of Love.  
Thy words, and actions, Life and Death made good;  
Our Rights were dearer to thee then thy blood.  
And at the last, when seized on by proud Fate,  
Thou for thyself wouldst not capitulate:  
Scorning to sell a Law, to save a crown,  
But that thou might'st preserve That, laid This down:  
That so we can no more the worthiness  
of what thou Wert, than what thou Art express.  
But when succeeding Kings thy story see,  
May thy blessed Life their fairest pattern be:  
And thy sad Death direction to prevent  
Those dangers that to Crowns are incident,  
By giving Power to that Monster rude,  
The hydra-headed fickle multitude:  
And weep— But here my limping Muse must stay,  
Thy Cause is God's, and God will have the day.  
And with all reverence unto thy hearse,  
Write this weak Epitaph in Country Verse,  
Which shall not dare once to approach thy tomb,  
But to shrink back to give more worthy room,  
Who there will crowd, it, to Idolatrize,  
And as thy Person, so thy Ashes prize.   

EPITAPH.  

BEhold, sad Reader— Oh! behold here lies  
The great contemner of proud Miseries.  
The Extract of all virtue beyond Sense,  
The cream and crown of Christian patience.  
The conqueror of Passions, Prince of Hearts;  
The rich engrosser of applausive parts.  
The first great Charles that sat on Britan's thrones,  
The willing Martyr of two Nations.  
The quintessence of Honour, who translated,  
May be admired, but not imitated.  
The Saint of England, who though dead here be,  
Shall live with honour to eternity.    
Ramrahbocai