CR HONI SOIT x MAL Y PENSE Dieu ET MON DROIT. royal blazon or coat of arms AN ELEGY, Sacred to the memory of our most Gracious sovereign Lord King CHARLES, who was most barbarously murdered by the sectary of the Army January 30. M Dc lxix. TUmble ye Phaeton's, since you've your desire, For you have set the universe on fire, Which burns like sulphurous Erna's flame, From whence at first your Fiery spirits came. What will you next, since your Great Work is done, With murdered carcases scale the bright Sun And so take heaven by storm: Mighty Jove, At Cromwell's presence quickly will remove. You've murdered many thousands at one blow, And wrought Three Kingdoms final overthrow; You all-exceeding Tyrants, thirst you still For royal Blood? If't be your Trade to kill, Then Kill us all; we had far better die Then live enslaved to rebel's Tyranny. His Blood was but a draught for to swill up, Alas, it could not yield you each a sup; You are the Ocean, from whence doth spring Rivers of Murder; Your cursed souls can sing Nothing but Bloody Aathems; can contract The quintessence of mischief, and enact What pleases you, Murder, Theft, Blasphemy; Grow rich and thrive by Rapes and Robery. Such a prodigious magic ever thrived, T' make that treason, traitors themselves contrived. Had you none else t' murder but your King? sad Fate! Your legal King, whose virtues were your hate; Why might not Goring or Capel have led, The way for him unto Death's frozen Bed! And in his swarthy kingdom taken place Which lesser loss to us, and Death's more grace? Was there no other left that might give light None else but th' King, the chiefest of all men! Might serve his turn in his sad gloomy Den▪ It is too true, that He alone might best Appease Death's wrath, if ever he would rest; For they have slain at once in Him alone, Virtues for many, a miracle for One. B●adshaw beware; go tell thy mates in evil, But why do I thus lavish breath in vain, On those whose Fury hath no ears; refrain My weeping Muse— Bloody Saints farewell, Judas betrayed his King, roars now in hell. But is he murdered:— too too true, alas My heart is full,— I cannot let him pass Without Deep Sighs,— nor can any eyes forbear To waste his sad Remembrance with a tear. I saw him die, pursued through crooked ways To's end; would make sad England blush out her days. Is this your way Kings Glorious to make, To Butcher Him; when virtue, for His sake Was growing into fashion with the great, The which alone makes Noble Lines complete, Extinguished now in him, when was most need; Oh cursed, cruel, and abhorred Deed! A sad Presage, no doubt, of future ill, Or dire prognostic of the angry Will Of Heaven, disposed to refine away The Ore of Ophier from the drossy clay. The weeping Sacrifice which on thy Shrine We offer here to that bright Name of thine Great Monarch: By'all that worth, or virtue prize; Would back Redeem with treasure of their eyes The World thou hadst in thee, if not a sphere That compassed the World, touched not there; Measured the magnitude thereof, and knew Was nothing in the world t'admire, but Rue, As, although wrapped here in this frail mould, Thy Contemplations they were raised; nor could Thy gentle Soul in highest Union, bend Her towering wing to any second end. The happy souls above, were those with whom Thou Treatedst daily; nor hadst other home Then Heaven; less Jacobs' Ladder did attend, By which they stooped to thee, and thou ascend, And by your mutual visitts either great, Until for all ye might together mere. Fair-faux I would know (Were't not Treason) why He might no longer live! Thou hast hereby Gained nothing; we lost much; we lost our King. And in Him lost ourselves, and every thing,— Our skilful Pilate, to advise us sound, Whether we were, or in, or outward bound, Not to adventure, having sprung a leak, The Treasure of our Souls, in bark too weak, To know the shelves that under water lay, Might stop our Course, and wrack us in our Way; So shun the Bay whereat the Sirens wait T'ensnare frail Mortals with their magic bait. Sure Jove was angry He should longer stay, Because in Heaven 'twas Coronation Day. Though He was martyred, yet he now doth bear honour on Earth, in Heaven a Blazing Star. Rest then in Peace, the Glory of this Age, Whose forced Death doth direful Plagues presage; We weep our own, nor any loss of thine, That with sad tears do wash thy Sacred Shrine; No strained Hypurboles adorn thy hearse, Thyself art both a Monument and Verse. FINIS.