AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY.  
By Sr William Alexander of MENSTRIE, Gentleman of his Privy Chamber.  
EDINBURGH.  
Printed by Andro Hart, and are to be sold at his shop, on the northside of the high street, a little beneath the Cross. [1613] With Licence   

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY.  

IF grief would give me leave, to let the world have part  
Of that which it [though surfeiting] engrosses in my heart:  
Then I would sow some tears, that so they more might breed,  
Not such as eyes use to distill, but which the heart doth bleed.  
As from a troubled spring like offspring must abound,  
So let my lines far from delight, hoarse [as their Author] sound  
I care not at what rate that others prise their worth,  
So I disburden may my mind, and power my passions forth.  
Though general be the loss, one shelf confounding quite  
The King's chief joy, the kingdoms hope, & all the worlds deligh  
And that each one of those, a diverse wound gives me,  
Whilst all concurring would increase, what not increased can be:  
Yet mine own part when weighed, so deep impression leaves,  
That my soul's powers all so possessed, no others it conceives.  
How can my heart but burst, while as my thoughts would trace.  
The great Prince Henry's gallant parts, and not-affected grace●  
Ah that I chanced so long [O worldly pleasure frail!]  
To be a witness of that worth, which I but live to wail!  
How oft have I beheld [a world admiring it]  
His Martial sports even men amaze, his words bewitch their wit;  
Whose worth did in all minds just admiration breed:  
When but a child, more than a man [ah too soon ripe indeed]  
Still temperate, active, wise, as borne to do great things;  
He really show what he was, a quint-essence of Kings.  
With stately looks yet mild, a Majesty humane  
Both love and reverence bred at once, entysed, yet did restrain.  
What acting any where, he still did grace his part,  
A courtly Gallant with the King, a stately Prince a part:  
When both together were, O how all hearts were won!  
A Sire so loving to behold, so dutiful a Son.  
He more than all his state his father's favour weighed,  
And gloried more him to attend, then when elsewhere obeyed.  
But heaven envied the earth, that one it so should grace,  
Who was not due unto the world, though lent to it a space:  
And strait they took their own, who now no more appears,  
Even when the Spheres & muses joined, did serve to count his years.  
What wit could not persuade, authority. not force,  
An union now at last is made [ah made by a divorce!]  
Both once did one thing wish, and both one want do wail,  
Thus misery hath matched us now, when all things else did fail.  
We might as all the rest, so this exception miss,  
I rather we had jarred in all, or we had joined in this.  
This the first tempest is, which all this I'll did toss,  
His cradle Scotland, England tomb, both shared his life and loss.  
O how the traitorous world, by flattering hopes betrays  
And scorns the confidence of man, who still through danger strays!  
But most of all the great, when at their fortunes hight  
Oft huge disasters do confound, not looked for till they light.  
That states which seemed most calm, strait storms in waves involve  
Who gathered were for greatest joy, with greatest grief dissolve.  
That Macedonian Sire, whose victories were rife,  
The day which did his daughter wed, did part himself from life.  
French second Henry to, slain in like sort was seen,  
As to triumph there with the rest, death had invited been:  
For whilst he tilting was, when all his troops among,  
A broken trees flown spark did prove more than his sceptre strong  
That Goth who vanquished Rome, and thousands did destroy,  
Even when his bride bend to embrace, died in his greatest joy.  
The last yet first French King for courage, valour, wit,  
Who by the sword acquyred the Crown, framed for a sceptre fit:  
Whilst mustering all his might, [being far from fear or doubt]  
He fraughted France with armed troops, as bragging all about.  
Then whilst his hopes most high, even kingdoms did appall,  
Hein that greatest pomp surprised, a villain's prey did fall.  
Thus hath it fatal been, confirmed in every age,  
That who did meet to act great parts, went weeping from the stage.  
Is it that God even then, would haughty thoughts disbend?  
Or that such times as eminent, vile traitors most attend?  
So when suspected least [O Ocean of annoy!]  
Lo, mourning mirth prevented hath, & grief encroached on joy.  
Yet not in such a sort, as with some in times past,  
Whose life being oft involved in blood, blood did dispatch at last:  
But he (still sacred) went not violated hence,  
The glory of a Gallant youth, a pattern for a Prince.  
What breast so barbarous is, which virtue can not charm?  
No hand, no, nor no heart in aught, could do or dream his harm.  
Since by his sight not blest, all count themselves accursed,  
By whom the world was big with hopes, which did not die but burst.  
Time did contract it seemed (his course so short foreseen)  
That worth in youth, which all his age should have extended been  
For O, to what strange height had his perfections flown,  
Had they as first, still by degrees proportionably grown!  
But superstition then, had statues made of gold,  
And some might have Idolatrized, as many did of old.  
The fates (it may be) stayed what after might him trap,  
As in Campania Pompey's death prevented had mishap:  
He happy was in this, which few have been before,  
When all opinions purchased were, to venture them no more.  
For all persuaded are, as acted in effect,  
That he might have performed as much as mortals could expect.  
Thus went he from the world, when with the best thought even,  
Whilst though but flourishing on earth, yet a ripe fruit for heaven.  
The Lord oft twixt the King and dangers huge did stand,  
And many so to save, him saved, as life of all the Land:  
For scorning all their crafts who ugly evils did found,  
What private plots did God disclose, what open force confound.  
Yet when he was to part, [O what a wondrous odds!]  
Who was by nature the King's Son, but by adoption Gods:  
Nought urging else his end, save nature that declined,  
Bright Angels did bear hence that flower, as other flowers the wind,  
Both Devils and men when joined to kill for whom God cares,  
May draw a star as soon from heaven, as hurt one of their hairs:  
And whom he will remove when as their time once comes,  
No guards can guard, no Physic help, one fit force o'ercomes.  
But ah that treasure's loss, which I can not digest  
Is still the centre of my mind, the point where it must rest:  
And each great part of his, which I did erst perceive,  
My fancies representing new do thoughts attendance crave.  
What wonder though my plaints be thus for him employed  
Who my affections free till then, when Virgins, first enjoyed?  
And hear me [happy Ghost] that fame may spread them forth,  
I vow to reverence and enroll the wonders of thy worth:  
That even though childless dead, thou shall not barren be,  
If Phoebus' help to procreate posterity for thee.  
Thus where that others did abandon thee with breath,  
As still alive I travel yet, to serve thee after death.   
FINIS.   

To his Majesty.  

THE world's affection now this tragic trial proves,  
Heaven heap mishaps upon his head, whom it not highly moves.  
But though the weight be great, which makes each heart to bow,  
That men when mad, rage's not so much as reason doth allow:  
And that [thrice royal Sire] since that it first was known,  
All by imagining your grief have doubled so their own.  
Yet since to many due, waste not on one your cares,  
As all your subjects wail your state, have pity Sir on theirs.  
Lest that this grief though great, a greater do out-go,  
If from your son turned to yourself, you eke, not end our wo.    

A SHORT VIEW of the state of man.  

MU wretched man, when comed where woes abound,  
Ere to the Sun, unclose his eyes to tears?  
Whom when scarce borne, one strait to prison bears,  
Loosed from the belly, in the Cradle bound.  
Then rising by the rod, he doth attend  
The mysteries of misery at length,  
And still his burdens growing with his strength,  
Huge toils and cares his youth's perfection spends.  
Last, helping Nature's wants, O dear bought breath!  
He must have eyes of glass, and feet of tree,  
Till like a bow his body turns to be,  
Which age hath bended to be shot by death.  
O, o I see that from the mother's womb,  
There's but a little step unto the tomb.   
S.W.M.  
FINIS.