AN ELEGY Upon the Decease of the most Incomparable Pious LADY, the PRINCESS ELIZABETH, Who Died in Carisbrook Castle in the Isle of Wight, Septemb. 8. 1650.  
Printed Anno Dom. 1650   

BY THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE MOST UNPARALLELLED VIRTUOUS LADY THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH THIS (UNWORTHY UNFEIGNED) GRATEFUL COMMEMORATION OF HER SAID HIGHNESS HOPES TO BE ETERNISED.   

AN ELEGY, etc.  

THe Virgin Dove her Silver wings hath spread,  
And to the sacred Citadel is fled:  
Affecting heavens white Towers better, than  
Wight's ' fatal Isle, and Cars'brooks loathed Den.  
Ah! that hoarse Vote some drowsy Asp did spit  
Keener then forked Darts, or Swords new-whet.  
Why Thither? Some well-chosen Cell had been  
The likely issue of a courteous sin.  
The law of Pity might meek Saints forbidden  
In the Damns milk to seethe the tender Kid.  
How quick, how deep a sense! In her nice breast  
All Passions were to their Large shape impressed.  
The dainty Air doth not so throughly hold  
The utmost Marks of wavering Hot and Cold.  
But oh! Her Father's fall the rest excelled,  
And in her sufferings the just Sceptre held.  
Then Filial Kindle flamed: She in-ward burned;  
On its sweet self the Pious Rage returned.  
These Wounds now bleed afresh through every poor  
Of her lanced Heart; and what by fits before  
In broken Swounds did but Detain her breath,  
Relapse of Grief matures to a full Death.   

Of all the Daughters Humane sorrow bore  
None so great Darling, nor so rich an Heir.  
Ye that large Meekness could all Wrongs assuage,  
And Circumscribe their undetermined Rage.  
Her prudent Heart did each Condition state  
High as her birth, and humble as her fate.   

But I presume not with rude steps to press  
Into her Closet, and devout Recess.  
Amidst her wakeful Nights, and lonely Days,  
Hid Conflicts, and unuttered Groans to raise:  
The Vials of her precious Tear's unseal,  
Or trace her winged Sighs, or chafe her Zeal;  
When she sunk on low Knees before the God  
Tired Soul its heavy Burden would unload:  
Which may in time, strung on heavens mindful file,  
Tread down Oppression, and redeem the Isle.   

I stand aloof: my too much unscaled Eye  
Dares not into these veiled Beauties pry.  
My narrow Thought shall not this Praise profane,  
Nor by rash Sacrilege some part detain▪  
Besides, the Furnace is too hot I find:  
The fiery Laver that Baptised her Mind.  
Her Cupful of Red mighty Wine so wreaks,  
And flings about, that our frail Bottle breaks.  
Not is this Fear a Shame. Trials are weighed:  
And ponderous Crosses on strong Shoulders laid.   

He knows who hears in secret: and prevents  
Our Works while couched but in sincere Intents.  
He can articulate the Collected Sense  
When dumb Amazement swallows Eloquence.  
Who those Afflictions did to her assign  
Sees her Vast Sorrows farre-extended Line:  
And to unpityed anguish lent an Ear  
Which humble inward Throbs did more endear.   

Now though pale Grief hath culled her blooming years,  
Planted along the Bank of flowing Tears;  
An Orphan scorned, and thralled to the commands  
(Her Dame thrice changed) at last of servile hands:  
Though she, poor Innocent, in ominous Wight  
Must be restrained, (which slew by a new slight)  
Nor did attain to her dear Mother's Face,  
Or Sov'reigne Brothers passionate Embrace.   

Yet the just God doth righteous Cries regard,  
And Faith reaps an unfailing sure reward:  
For these Black Waters but enhance each Gem  
Which sparkles in her Orient Diadem.   

Nor can the riper Sinners hence much boast;  
One Royal Captive loosed, one Hostage lost.   

Only let Gloucester feel this weighty stroke,  
And now gins to draw in Sorrow's yoke:  
His cheerful Inn'cence still smiled at smart,  
As Hardened came upon Afflictions Dart:  
Like some coy Virgins which fond Love deride,  
Mocking the Passion that they never tried:  
But now the barbed shaft his Vitals stain,  
And feel sore Vengeance of their long Disdain.  
Great Sir! Who can thy Solitudes delight,  
Season thy Pleasures, or thy time invite?  
Who with Wise Upright Counsel now can chalk,  
What way thou shouldst o'●e their spread Trammels walk?  
Or thee, with near Example and Advice  
Into Religion's narrow Path entice?  
Sat down and Cry, thy Guide, thy Guide is gone:  
Cry, Cry aloud, till God attend thy Moan.   

But her Good Name shall sweeten every Ear;  
As flowing Odours roll a fragrant Sphere.  
Unenvied Glory's he● late Ashes crown,  
Or foe, or friend, all bring a just renown.  
Her Banishers with Joy aghast look wan,  
Judge their own Counsels, and their Wishes ban.  
Virtue delights still to be thus arrayed  
In the pure Memory of a Princely Maid.  
Her Fun'ralls like they should all Cost forbid  
Whose hands have reared up her own Pyramid.  
And her tried Patience breathes a balmy Air,  
Sweet as fumed Incense, or the Lips of Prayer.   
FINIS.