THE French KING'S LAMENTATION For the Death of so many of his Generals, and his Ill Success in Ireland and Germany, where he Lost so many of his Commanders, particularly in the Defeat given by Prince Lovis of Baden, to the Turkish Army.  
29. Aug. 1691 With Allowance.  
LONG has my Breast been with Impatience swelled,  
While I the Doubtful Chance of War beheld,  
Though I by Proxy Fought with others Arms,  
And in my Palace lived most safe from Harms;  
As Men who sit securely on the Shoar  
Can view a Storm, and hear the Billows roar:  
Yet when I hear how fast my Generals fall,  
Something within me does for Pity call;  
PITY!— 'tis Childish, for great Souls like Mine,  
Should never at the Will of Fate repine:  
But when Grim Death does such Great Heroes call,  
'Tis fit some Sighs attend their Funeral;  
A Monarch's Tears Embalm their Memory more  
Than all the Spices of the Eastern Shore.  
But oh! such  Passions wrack my Breast,  
And I with mighty Loads of Grief Oppressed,  
In Change of Pleasure cannot find relief,  
(But yet there is a Pleasure sure in Grief.)  
Had Private Sentinels by Thousands fell,  
And Troops and Regiments gone quick to Hell;  
Were their Commanders safe I had not cared,  
Those Wretches are like Shave of my Beard  
Which grows again, for 'tis my Subject's care  
To get me Children to supply the War:  
But when a Gen'ral gets a Mortal Harm,  
▪ 'tis like the losing of a Leg or Arm,  
Which Loss can never be repaired again;  
What Praises then are due to Valiant Men  
St. Ruth, thou best of Generals and of Friends,  
Thou Trusty Drudge to my Ambitious Ends;  
Who didst with Heretics take mighty Pains,  
To set their Judgement right, Knocked out their Brains:  
Oh! 'twas a Saucy Bullet snatched thee hence,  
But against Chance how can there be Defence?  
Yet to thy Memory I will Altars raise,  
And little Babes shall learn to Sing thy Praise;  
Thy mighty Fame thy Murdered Corpse survives,  
St. Ruth shall Flourish while my Glory lives;  
Historians shall thy mighty Acts rehearse,  
And Poets writ thy Praise in Lofty Verse.  
But must the Great Tyrconnel be forgot?  
Tyrconnel worthy of a Braver Lot,  
Shall Generals like Common Mortals Die,  
And in a Scorching Fever Gasping lie?  
'Twas his hard Fate to be so Poorly Killed,  
Commanders should Expire within the Field:  
'Twas strange he should so well Two Kings Obey,  
James gave Command, but Lewis gave him Pay;  
Promises may to Arms the Brave Invite,  
But 'tis the Ready Gold which makes 'em Fight:  
More Ill News Still? the Turks by Thousands Killed,  
And Baden Lovis conqueror in the Field;  
My Trusty Friends in Turkish Habits Slain,  
The Army routed, and their Baggage ta'en;  
Sure Fate Designs to crush me with my Woes  
By repetition of such Overthrows,  
But let the Angry Stars do what they will,  
Lewis I am and will be Lewis still.  
My Tears are still to more Commanders due,  
But Grief does best by Dumb Expressions show:  
My hopes are frustrate, and the Irish Coast  
No longer must of my Assistance boast,  
The Fatal Battle was at Aghrim fought,  
Such dreadful Terrors to my Fancy brought,  
As Gamesters who have deeply lost at Play,  
With their last Stake throw all their hopes away.  
O Ireland, what Sums thy Quarrel Cost,  
What store of Blood was in thy Country lost?  
My Folly I but now too late repine,  
Let who will take thee, for thou'lt ne'er be mine.   

LONDON, Printed for T. Tillier. MDCXCI.