AN elegy UPON THE Universally-lamented Death of the thrice Noble and virtuous Prince, Henry Duke of Gloucester.  
ANd is his breath expired? hath His Chaste Soul  
Shaked off her clayie fetters? Ah, condole,  
Mourn and lament your Fate Distressed Isles  
Of Britain's growing Empire, hence all smiles  
Adieu. Up, said Melpomenie, Ah, rouse  
Thy thirsty soul, and in thy tears carouse  
Thy fill; come, banquet on the Sable Verse,  
My Muse shall sacrifice unto His hearse:  
Turn from all other Objects, for here's One  
Presents thee with an Inundation  
Of lasting Grief. But what's my private woe,  
When all the Nations Tears do overflow.  
Yet stay, forbear a while, let's not believe  
He thus could die, and yet the Heavens not grieve  
At th'world's Great Loss! what? do impetuous showers  
Of tears from th' Weeping Clouds (preventing ours)  
Distil; Or doth the Day's Bright Lamp straight burn  
Dull as a Torch to light us to His urn?  
Is the dismantled Skies Bright Azure-Back,  
Straight over-clad in Sad and Mournful Black?  
No, see Olymphus face serene and clear,  
Free from the signal of one crystal tear;  
Phoebus' in's wont lustre shines, the Skies  
Are not adorned for His Obsequies;  
Sure than He still survives, and his soft breath's,  
But whispering Mercy in the ears of Death:  
View but His cheeks, where though the Roses are  
Seeming t'retreat, the lilies spring more fair  
Then ere they did: Though's eyes they do not keep  
Their Rays in ure, they are but closed in sleep:  
The former lustre of his Ruby Lips,  
(Which now seem Snow) feel but a short Eclipse:  
By want of Sanguine heat, life doth impart,  
And send at present to His drooping heart  
His dormant pulses (which erewhile expressed  
His health) are laid but sweetly down to rest:  
Cease then to think Him Dead, wait but a while,  
And gently he'll awake, see, see Him smile.  
But ah, our expectations are deceived,  
And those so sweet ideas we conceived  
Would turn to Substance, are but Shadows fled  
Away on Airy Wings, for lo He's DEAD:  
He's dead, and coffined up, fit to receive  
The cold embracing of His ROYAL GRAVE.  
False fancy, why hast mocked us? why betrayed  
Our lingering Hopes thus into lies? and stayed  
The current of our Tears so long? Ah, why  
Wouldst thou persuade us that He could not die,  
Unless the troubled Heavens had mourned and wept  
To see Him dead, whilst thou feigned He but slept;  
When oft we see the best of Nature falls,  
Unmourned for by Supernaturals.  
He's gone: open wide the floodgates of your eyes,  
That streams may pass. When common beauty lies  
Interred in dust, when death hath cropped the Rose  
Of Youth scarce blown, what flinty hearts are those  
Vent not a tear? But now that Death takes hence  
The louslyest of the Land, our youngest PRINCE,  
Shall we be parsimonious of our store?  
No, we'll even weep, till we can shed no more.  
Now if I could, I'd mount the Radiant Seat  
Of Sacred Angels, humbly to entreat  
A Quill plucked from their Wings, and crave a Fount  
Of Highest Eloquence, and then recount  
The Grandeur of His VERTVES; for below,  
No Pen, no Strains are found that can them show.  
To say He was a PRINCE of Noblest Blood,  
Great by His Birth, yet not so Great as Good:  
To say He was so learned, e'er's age could reach,  
A score of years, He could His Tutors teach:  
To say He was a PRINCE whose Life was spent  
In Grief and Cares, yet never discontent:  
To say He was but Young when ravished hence,  
Yet Old in WISDOM and EXPERIENCE:  
To say (what shall I say?) He was become,  
The PRICNELY DARLING of all Christendom,  
Were but (by these unworthy lines) to tell  
A Truth the World already knows so well.  
Go ask the Church of Rome, she (sighing) saith,  
Ah, all my Batteries could not shake His Faith.  
Go ask the nimble French, what was His Wit,  
They'll quickly tell you they admired it.  
Go ask the serious Spaniard, they'll aver,  
He was a PRINCE did need no counsellor.  
Go ask the German Princes, ask the Dutch,  
The Nations round, they'll say they found as much:  
We only (soon unhappy made) alas,  
Have scarce experimented what He was.  
Now what is Man, O what's the Noblest Man?  
The Slave of Death (whose Life is but a Span,)  
A weary Passenger, still on his way,  
Here much esteemed, a Nothing in a day.  
What is this Life? but even expected Death,  
A Stage of Mockeries, a little breath  
Reserved in a Bladder, pricked 'tis lost;  
A doleful Warfare, and to all (not most)  
A Sea of Miseries, a Vial filled  
With blood, which being quickly broke, 'tis spilled.  
How infinitely happy then is His  
Bright Soul, released from such a Life as this:  
There blessed Spirit rest, rest in that Peace,  
And these Celestial Joys shall never cease:  
glousters Great Name on Earth ne'er can be involved  
In Lethe's Streams, until the Worlds dissolved.   

London, Printed for Thomas Parkhurst, at the lower end of Cheapside.