THRENODIA.  
On the DEATH of the High born Prince HENRY, DUKE of GLOUCESTER.  
By Arthur Brett, Student of Christ-Church.  — HENRICOS ostendunt fata, nec ultrà Esse sinunt.— 
Oxford, Printed by H: Hall, Printer to the University, for Ric: Davis, 1660.   

THRENODIA.  

WHat ails the Town? what is it it bemoans?  
I can meet nought but doleful tones,  
Nought but sobs, and sighs, and groans;  
Each Lady Niobe appears;  
And as for the Philosophers,  
They're Heraclitus' all by their Tears.   

Now Warlike Trumpets cease to pierce our Ear,  
Look we the last Trump to hear?  
Do we a Dissolut' on fear?  
Is th' Universal Fever nigh?  
Is the Earth-An'mal like to die?  
And is it for mankind, mankind doth cry?   

Either the World is like to be undone,  
Or one that's worth the World is gone,  
Brother to Monarchy and Son.  
YE who from the two great Cities come,  
Of these sad tidings gi's the sum;  
Mutes! high astonishment has struck 'em dumb.   

But what's not heard from others may be read,  
The joy of England's joy is fled,  
Charles' beloved Gloucester dead:  
Fate has given a dismal stroke,  
The Royal Three sh' has basely broke,  
And lopped a Bough of Britain's stately Oak.   

Infinite Worlds! Where are they? give'um me,  
I'll soon draw out their siccity;  
Water alone each Globe shall be:  
That they being turned all Sea, all Wave,  
Drops big enough I thence may have,  
Wherewith to moisten this too early Grave.   

Thy Whirlwind Bottles Ae'lus hither send,  
A Bottle on a Sigh I'll spend,  
Till their whole store come to an end:  
Till death more boisterous than they,  
With fear look paler yet, and say  
She is resolved no more Dukes to slay.   

Thus, thus would I my sorrow testify;  
For as for Verse or Elegy,  
Who should me 'nspire doth breathless lie;  
They that have seen the Corpse, declare  
It is Apollo lies dead there,  
They knew him by his ruddy Face and Hair.   

With smaller losses we can be content,  
Slight-bottomed Passion's quickly spent,  
Such stripling sorrows find a vent:  
But, Giant grief, where's one for thee?  
River's may roll into the Sea:  
But whither shall the Ocean emptied be?   

Lachesis shunned the Palace formerly,  
Such was her Maiden modesty,  
She seemed afraid to come too nigh:  
In at the Window she did look,  
But now she hath the boldness took  
The House to enter, and find out the Duke.   

Then to appease the incensed Deities,  
We saw't with overflowing eyes,  
There bled a Royal Sacrifice:  
But now behold another Urn,  
The other could not serve the turn,  
A Royal Holocaust must also burn.   

In this Fort-Royal glowing, burning hot,  
A Fever had possession got,  
Although a Fever, killed him not:  
That meant to Come, and See, and slay;  
But coming had no power to stay,  
The Mar'us looked his Murderer away.   

Thou dealest subtly, most hardhearted Fate,  
The Sickness is we know not what;  
It seemeth this, it seemeth that:  
When at Whitehall thou comest to kill,  
That which doth perform thy will,  
The Executioner is muffled still.   

But he is now expired, and in his Face  
We see too plain, too plain, alas!  
Which of thy Assassins it was:  
The best corrupted, worst doth grow,  
Cursed Ax'ome, thou'rt too true we know,  
Even in Royal Blood it holdeth so.   

In th'Purple Stream some putrid Matter bred,  
Which having got to the th'Fountain-head,  
There Life it hath smothered:  
Thence to th'surface it hath run,  
As if the death it brought 'twould shun,  
Where now it blushes for what it has done.   

Fate thou'rt unjust, and so thy deeds evince,  
And so I take thee ever since  
Thou dealedst thus with such a Prince:  
Thou didst betempest him before,  
And when we thought thou hadst given o'er,  
Thou throw'st him on a rock instead of shore.   

How diff'rently the Isle doth entertain  
Its exiled Lords, returned again?  
It gives Two ease, gives the Third pain:  
It proves Their Country, His long home;  
Yields Them a Court, but Him a Tomb;  
Opens to Them her Arms to Him her Womb.   

Had he been with his Sister ta'en away,  
And gone with her the selfsame day,  
In the Elys'an Fields to play:  
Had then unripe, imperfect he  
Acted this his Tragedy;  
Imperfect too had been our misery.   

But now he's ripe, complete, and perfect quite,  
Now for to take him from our sight,  
This is the Quintessence of spite:  
There's on thy Dart a point of Steel,  
And poison on that point, we feel;  
This wound is double, and so hard to heal.   

Bold as thou art, thou hast not feared to do  
What providence scarce was consc'ous to,  
Of which the Powers above ne'er knew:  
Had Heaven been conscious to the deed,  
'Twould not have struck with so much speed,  
But would have warned, and bid us first take heed.   

Some fiery tail had hovered in the sky,  
Wounding our hearts, thence through our eye;  
And made us weep proaem'ally:  
Some blazing jellies in the Air,  
Had given us notice to prepare,  
That, what we looked for, we might better bear.   

Compared with Death, while it its prey doth seek  
Lions are tame, and Tigers meek;  
Their teeth are blunt, their stomaches weak:  
Therefore we fear what may betid,  
We fear what yet remains beside,  
The ravenous thing mayn't yet be satisfied.   

Where's highborn YORK? o, where's the Hero? Where?  
If he's on Land, he's sick we fear;  
If he's at Sea, he's sinking there:  
We fear the Beast, seeking its food,  
Makes at him through his Wall of Wood,  
It knows the sweetness now of Royal Blood.   

Is this the entrance-fee that CHARLES must pay?  
Must he wear Cypress with his Bay,  
And lose a limb to win the day?  
Though undervalved of late,  
They're costly things, these Chairs of State;  
Three Crowns are dearly bought at such a rate.   

States soon take fire, and they are quenched as soon;  
Empire (unconstant as the Moon)  
Is won and lost, and lost and won:  
For here an armed General,  
Heaven dropping shield, and man and all,  
Our exiled King may help us to recall.   

But when a brother deadly heats accost,  
If he's once lost, he's ever lost,  
We can but follow them at the most;  
The flame burns in, and so burns sure,  
All we can do is to endure,  
For there is no Aumarle can work this cure.   

No wonder, when he first to sing began,  
Henry was liked by every man,  
Alas! it was the dying Swan;  
To him the Sisters did combine  
To spin for thread a silken line,  
Which was the sooner broke for being fine:   

Who'll ever seek by noble deeds to rise?  
Who'll care to be val'ant or wise?  
When he should enjoy't he dies;  
We mount up Glory's hill in vain,  
The highest top whereof t'attain  
'S but to be ready to fall down again.   

Ah! dearest DUKE, I ask it with regret,  
Why hast so soon thy Coffin met?  
Why didst thou only rise to set?  
Where are thy acts of Chivalry!  
Why must we a Chasm see  
In the Great STEWARTS growing History?   

What will become of that so glorious Name?  
Who shall now bear up the same,  
And with it fill the rolls of Fame?  
That Name which to Three Nations dear  
We loved in thy Uncle here,  
And in thy Grandfather the world did fear?   

True bud of the Imper'al Family!  
The Roses strive again in thee  
For the superiority;  
Thy ruddy Flower itself did spread  
All o'er thy cheeks, but now thou 'rt dead  
The White has got the better of the Red.   

Thy Sire, when as he say his destiny,  
When Monarches wept and peasants we  
Groaned for him as now for thee,  
Something he left in charge, what was't?  
Child, mind my words, they are my last,  
And make not to a Di'dem too much haste;   

Until thy Brother's first are served, stay;  
Thus did he urge, thus did he say.  
And thou didst promise to obey;  
Now what is this that thou hast done?  
Thou takest before CHARLES a Crown,  
His mole's making, thy Immortal's on.   

Old Bards would wonder, should they live again,  
To see performed what they did feign  
Of the three brethren's equal reign;  
To one the land doth homage owe,  
The Second sways the ebb and Flow,  
The Third now rules the blessed shades below.   

But stay, he hath not yielded yet to fate,  
Me thinks it is not yet too late  
Men of Art to invocate;  
Mes'e and Solomon arise,  
Royal Physit'ans, and devise  
A Rem'dy ere this Royal pat'ent dies,   

Old Galenist, new Paracelsian,  
Conceited Rosi-crucian,  
Do what you should, do what you can:  
What? is there no Riverius  
Will earn a Mosque from thankful us,  
And go into an Aesculapius?   

Who e'er thou art, fix this bright planet here,  
Couse him not yet to disappear,  
Not yet to mount his upper sphere;  
Thy sure reward it shall be this,  
Even take that Apotheωsis  
Of which through Thee he shall at present miss:   

Comfortless man whose comforters are these,  
These poor, poor factors for our ease,  
Disciples of Hypocrates!  
Fond they their fonder hopes do feed,  
Thinking to find there-in and read  
What ne'er what carved on root, nor writ on weed;   

Whose Art indeed it doth for Physic go,  
Called Practical, but is not so,  
Whose sons do at their best but know;  
Time Twenty of their years devours,  
While they get skill in stars and flowers,  
Which to their lives can't add half Twenty hours:   

we'll make our galley-pots in pieces fly,  
Let Rec'pes unconsulted lie,  
And lay The Justitutions by,  
A volume which prolongs our breath  
As it its Author keeps from death,  
It owes a figure all the force it hath.   

Death, thou wilt enter, do we what we will,  
Thy last years empty weekly-bill  
With this great personage to fill;  
September see's his obsequies,  
Since May's cool brightness testifies  
That English Kings Sans pestilence can rise;   

Thou didst not lay the crowded city waist,  
'Twas a still air the Summer past,  
That stillness brings a storm at last;  
Thou 'rt kind, but after such a sort  
We give thee no Gramercy fort,  
A city plague's lesse than th' small-Pox at Court:   

When Worcester for herself and master grieved,  
And men in iron were deceived  
Missing what peace hath since atcheiv'd,  
Life was a petty, worthless thing,  
Men for a wall themselves did bring  
Twixt hateful thee and their beloved King;   

They saved their Prince by being breathless made,  
Thy passage with their corpse was stayed,  
Thy thirst was with their blood allayed;  
We know who then in danger stood,  
Though HENRY be not quite so good,  
we'll give as many lives, and better blood;   

Slaughter the commons, mow the Gentry down,  
Rage both in country and in town,  
But come not thou so near the Crown;  
So they may blunt thy arrow's head,  
We I let thee strike whole 1000's dead,  
And in their blood die thy white-facet horse red;   

But there's no Incus in this set of bones,  
It has no ear to lend our groans,  
Hears nor for poor, nor mighty ones,  
It neither place, nor person shuns,  
To cottage and to palace runs,  
And puffs out smaller stars, and blows out Suns:   

Hold, Tyrant sickness, hold thy hand a while  
Till Princess Mary tread our Isle,  
And take her brother's last sweet smile;  
he's dear to heaven, to earth he's dear,  
Seraphims expect him there,  
A mortal Angel comes to see him here:   

Stay then, but thou art used for none to stay,  
No not a week, no not a day,  
But this night's Duke's to morrow's clay:  
Thou wilt be ferry'ng men of note  
Over the Lethaean moat,  
Though with their weight they break thy Charon's boat.   

We would prevail: but since we know not how,  
we'll beg no more, we'll dare thee now,  
Dismalnesse, bend thy horrid brow:  
An 100 times more ugly be  
Than we do pourtract Tragedy,  
His father taught him not to care for thee:   

he'll die as mighty Hercules did die,  
When he did in mount Oeta fry,  
Fired into a Deity:  
'tis chemic heat in's blood doth swim,  
'Twill sublimate terrestr'al him  
And so make of a Duke a Cherubin:   

Fiat was lately spoke, and t●end our wo●●  
Spite of false friends and real soes  
Three Luminaries there arose:  
Eclipse ye one 〈◊〉 crew,  
Extinguish him, fell sister's d●,  
This World by 'tis self may be conte●● with two   

But let it not be talked of every where:  
Would that the Mar-Clarsum were  
To stop the news and keep i● here:  
For as it passes o'er the Seas  
'Twill take fromthence new bitterness  
And make some hearers grieve unto excess.   

Others will scoff, and say to our disgrace  
The Land can't brook the Royal race,  
But like Inhabitants, like place,  
They'll turn old Proverbs into new,  
They'll say what they may well think true  
VVee'r mala gente, mala terra too:   

Let not the tidings get into the Port,  
Lest cruel mirth possess that court,  
And our disaster prove their sport:  
He that to shine himself alone  
Stabs younger brethren though his own,  
At such a story'l rather laugh than mourn:   

he'll full those Horns which for his Arms he bears  
When of Britain's loss he hears,  
Christ'ans will own the Cross for theirs:  
If it be to the Austr'ans told,  
Philip will weep in showers of Gold,  
Sorrow will make young Leopold look old:   

If it be known unto the Palatine,  
'Twill breed new troubles, sour his wine,  
Draw down his cheeks another Rhine;  
To France whoever traveleth,  
While he relates of Gloucesters' death  
he'll blast the Flowered Luce's with his breath;   

And then th' afflicted mother cannot choose  
But her infant joys refuse,  
When she understands the news  
Of such a separation  
Wrought betwixt her and her son,  
separate before but in opinion;   

Some think the road to heaven through Italy,  
Climbling seven hills they be nigh  
In their conceit unto the sky;  
Some think the road as fare from thence  
As it may be thither hence,  
To Europe's centre from 'tis circumference;   

The Prince had been allured for Rome to make,  
And bid the Latin way to take,  
But did the Latin way forsake;  
He bravely kept the Golden Mean,  
And has nor changed nor shaken been  
By an enticeing Woman, Mother, Queen:   

We safely may our dearest friends neglect  
When they the truth itself reject,  
The virtue here is Disrespect;  
Since to believe what Parents say  
Where Sacred Oracles say Nay,  
Were to adore whom we should but obey:   

Mighty Henretta of her aim must miss,  
She has her Zeal, and He has his  
Dutiful in all but this;  
What though the Hug'notte are or'e-run?  
What though new-doctrined R●chell's won?  
She finds an 100 Rochell●s in her Son:   

Morneys may faint, and throw down sword and shield,  
Reformed Citadels may yield,  
Protestant Armies lose the Field:  
But Charles' race will stand it out,  
Being at Twelve or thereabout  
In judgement Clear, in resolute on Stout:   

He was not to be won by force or art,  
But from his mother did departed:  
That stuck not much unto her heart:  
But this unto the quick will touch,  
Exceeding t'other wound as much  
As not to be 's worse than not to be such:   

But she and we the loss must kindly bear,  
We ours therein, sh' her greater share:  
What Heav●n has need of Earth must spare:  
Earth, which if no change it knew,  
If its darlings ne'er withdrew,  
what's heavens free gift would look upon as due.   

No matter then what cruel critics guess,  
Who judge of Virtue by Success,  
By outward chance of right ousnesse:  
The Laws of Charity they'll break,  
They will most learnedly mistake,  
And on so black a text black comments make:   

I, they must be profoundly curious,  
And know why things are thus and thus;  
Lend 'em thy Tube Hevelius,  
Not to behold with rare delight  
Dark spots in Sol's Meridian light;  
Or Infects crawling in the Moon by Night.   

They'll look beyond the Sun, and Saturn too,  
heavens Councel-Chamber they will view,  
And see what th' All in All doth do:  
They will their Maker's thoughts descry  
Who can't their Fellow-creatures spy,  
Which one would think more obv'ous to the eye.   

If hence they gather signs of Heaven's hate,  
And from so soon-snacht GLOVCESTER's fate  
Another fall Prognosticate,  
I find at Court a Motto fit  
To answer their presumptuous wit,  
Honiscit qui mal y pense 's it.   

When the wise Ptolemy's first course was done,  
In came the ghastly Skeleton,  
That was the next to be set on:  
That King by feeding so their sight,  
By blending Horror with Delight,  
Taught his Attendants how to feed aright.   

Thus with our Lord doth boundless Wisdom do  
(And what is that to me or you?)  
Here's a sad spectacle to view:  
Here's a Memento at the least,  
Here is served in his dearest guest  
At this his glorious Restauration Feast.   

If Storms affright the Land, and vex the Seas,  
Shake our Towers, overturn our Trees,  
Let 'em go judge even what they please:  
But here is no tempest'ous day,  
No massy Elms lie cross the way,  
'Tis the still voice that calleth him away.   

When purer Matter's upward, heav'n-ward bound,  
No rumblings in the Air are found,  
It passes without stir or sound:  
Whilst what doth to the Centre tend,  
Earth's bowels in its way must rend,  
And therefore cannot but with noise descend.   

Dying the world he never troubled,  
Nor troubles it now he is dead,  
By being richly buried:  
His worth's to him a Hearse alone,  
A stately and a lasting one,  
It makes a Mausolaeum of one Stone.   

Each English heart to his memorial  
's a Monument Pyramidal,  
Charles' breast an Escurial:  
He needeth no solemnity,  
But like his Sire entombed may be;  
Who gave ignoble Graves Nobility?   

Those Coats of Arms we on the dead bestow  
Are richest which no Art do know,  
On which no Pearls, no Gold they throw:  
And he who's plainly, meanly clad,  
Is owned such lustre to have had,  
That Art and Nature thereto could not add.   

Lay but a piece of Marble where he lies,  
Marble for its qualities  
Hard to the touch, white to the eyes:  
If any ask for what intent,  
Of him an Emblem it may be meant,  
Who was so Constantly so Innocent.   

If this be done, well done! ye Overseers;  
Monuments whos'ever rears  
Gives Death a Triumph, woe' our Tears:  
And Tears already are too rife,  
See who it is that mourns in Chief,  
The same is King of England, and of Grief.   

Muses, if e'er you showed your dainty Art,  
Now put on Verse and play your part,  
And dance 'bout pensive Charles' heart:  
Take Horace's sweet Lyre awhile,  
And Virgil's high majestic Style,  
Augustus 'twixt these two may chance to smile.   

Go, visit him as you are used to do,  
When thoughts what thoughts have spent renew,  
And we're his Care, his Solace you:  
Upon his Meditat'ons wait,  
His Mirth increase, his Grief abate,  
Which cause it fills his heart is very great.   

Tell him, unless he quickly comfort take,  
Our Comfort and our Health's at stake,  
We suffer while our head doth ache:  
There's much to tell him, but in sum  
Tell him of's Brother what's become,  
Something of that must be the Medium.   

If Souls turn Stars when they from hence are flown,  
Of the first Magnitude he's one,  
And shines in the bright Northern Crown:  
If the renowned Philosopher  
'Bout Transmigration did not err,  
He's now some new born Eastern Emperor.   

If Spirits departed from their Earthly Cell  
In the Air like Genii dwell,  
 one more Guard'an-Michael:  
If they whom shades of Death enwrap  
Do but sleep, he takes a nap  
In the Elys'an Sultanesses lap.   

But why relate I Whimsies such as those?  
Why do I pret'ous minutes lose,  
One or tother to suppose?  
Stellification, fancy is,  
And so is Metempsychosis;  
Gen'i are Dreams, Soul-sleepers all men hiss.   

Show him who you and us protect on gives,  
Show him how without cause he grieves,  
For why, in bliss His HENRY lives;  
The Dukes of Gloucester, signify,  
Are so near kin to Majesty  
Like English Kings themselves they never die:   

His Corpse indeed have had their Burial,  
As all His Royal Kindred shall,  
In th' Abbey (ah! too) near Whitehall;  
The Cover's here interred, true;  
But the Jewel upward flew,  
And has new-cased itself in yonder blue;   

Yonder's a building of a stately'r frame,  
My thoughts are light with sacred flame,  
And to themselves describe the same;  
New-Jerusalem 'tis called,  
With Chrysolite and Berill walled,  
And with our highest Church Steeples pedestalled:   

The Architect was he of whom 'tis said  
An Artist he Bezal el made,  
And taught Vitruvius his trade,  
Formed craggy rocks and fertile fields,  
And all that land or water yields,  
He bids mater'als be, and bvilders builds;   

A court it is wherein none die, none mourn,  
A Senate which doth ne'er adjourn,  
Where joy for scarlet robes is worn;  
Therefore it was that HENRY died,  
Thither in fiery Coach to ride,  
And change his Brothers for his Father's side;   

There Gloucester's coronetted, crowned with light,  
Thick glory makes him all o'er bright,  
No Cromwel's keep him from his right;  
And now he has begun to Reign,  
Now he hath once possess'on ta'en,  
No Pustulae do force him thence again.   

Hail, Prince Triumphant, and excuse our love,  
Which grieves at what the Quires above  
Sing so much for, so much approve;  
VVe've done, we will no more complain,  
Because thou didst in no great pain,  
And endless ease with little smart didst gain;   

we'll end our Threnody, and dry our tears,  
Because thou didst well struck in years,  
As by thy well-lead life appears;  
Thou livedst long in little space,  
Condensing time as it did pass,  
Each Hour a Month, each Month a Lustrum was:   

And now shall we those happy times behold  
Which were the Silver Age of old,  
And hadst thou stayed would be of Gold:  
The Norman Aeras out of date,  
we'll ill events count from thy fate,  
From Charles' reign successes fortunate:   

he'll be obeyed to Europe's utmost strand,  
And o'er more Nat'ons have command  
Than thou possessest feet of land;  
And under him shall Ovid's rise,  
And Ovid's such as may suffice  
Fit Aen'ids and fit Il'ads to devise:   

Let them Sing Charles' day, and HENRY's night,  
Let them for him new Fasti write,  
For thee new Elegies indite:  
Let them be what I would have been,  
Let them complete what I begin:  
These sheets are too too scant to wind thee in.   
FINIS.