An elegy upon the Death of Our Dread sovereign Lord King Charles the MARTYR.  

Come, come, let's Mourn; all eyes, that see this day,  
Melt into showers, and Weep yourselves away:  
O that each Private head could yield a Flood  
Of Tears, whilst Britain's Head streams out His Blood;  
Could we pay what His Sacred Drops might claim,  
The World must needs be drowned once again.  
Hands cannot write for Trembling; let our eye  
Supply the Quill, and shed an elegy.  
Tongues cannot speak; this Grief knows no such vent,  
Nothing, but Silence, can be Eloquent.  
Words are not here significant; in This  
Our Sighs, our Groans bear all the Emphasis.  
Dread SIR! What shall we say? Hyperbole  
Is not a Figure, when it speaks of Thee:  
Thy Book is our best Language; what to this  
Shall e'er be added, is Thy meiosis:  
Thy Name's a Text too hard for us: no men  
Can write of it, without Thy Parts and Pen.   

Thy Prisons, Scorns, Reproach, and poverty  
(Though these were thought too courteous injury)  
How couldst Thou bear? Thou Meeker Moses, how?  
Was ever Lion bit with Whelps till now  
And did not roar? Thou England's David, how  
Did Shimei's Tongue not move Thee? Where's the Man?  
Where is the King? Charles is all Christian.  
Thou never wantedest Subjects, no; when they  
Rebelled, Thou mad'st Thy Passions to obey.  
Hadst Thou regained Thy Throne of State by Power,  
Thou hadst not then been more a Conqueror.   

But Thou, thine own Soul's Monarch, art above  
Revenge and Anger, canst Thou tame Thy Love?  
How couldst Thou bear Thy Queen's Divorce? must she  
At once Thy Wife, and yet Thy widow be?  
Where are Thy tender Babes once Princely bred,  
Thy choicest Jewels, are They sequestered?  
Where are Thy Nobles? Lo, in stead of these  
Base savage Villains, and Thine Enemies:  
Egyptian Plague! 'twas only Pharaoh's doom,  
To see such Vermin in His Lodging-room.  
What Guards are set, what Watches do they keep?  
They do not think Thee safe, though locked in Sleep.  
Would they confine Thy Dreams within to dwell,  
Nor let Thy fancy pass their sentinel  
Are Thy Devotions dangerous? Or do  
Thy prayers want a Guard? These faulty too?  
Varlets, 't was only, when they spoke for You.   

But lo a Charge is drawn, a day is set,  
The silent LAMB is brought, the Wolves are met.  
Law is arraigned of Treason, Peace of War,  
And Justice stands a Prisoner at the Bar.  
This Scene was like the passion-tragedy,  
His Saviour's Person none could Act, but he.  
Behold what Scribes were here, what Pharisees!  
What bands of soldiers! What falls witnesses!  
Here was a Priest, and that a Chief one; who  
Durst strike at God, and His Vicegerent too.  
Here Bradshaw, Pilate there: This makes them twain,  
Pilate for Fear, Bradshaw condemned for Gain.  
Wretch! couldst not thou be rich, till Charles was dead?  
Thou might'st have took the Crown, yet spared the Head.  
Th' hast justified that Roman judge; he stood  
And washed in Water, thou hast dipped in Blood.   

And where's the slaughter-house? Whitehall must be,  
Lately His Palace, now His Calvary.  
Great Charles, is this Thy Dying-place? And where  
Thou were't our KING, art Thou our MARTYR there?  
Thence, thence Thy Soul took flight; and there will we  
Not cease to Mourn, where Thou didst cease to be.  
And thus, blessed Soul, he's gone: a Star, whose fall,  
As no eclipse proves ecumenical.  
That Wretch had skill to sin, whose Hand did know  
How to behead three Kingdoms at one blow.  
England hath lost the Influence of Her KING,  
No wonder that so backward was Her Spring.  
O dismal day! but yet how quickly gone?  
It must be short, Our SUN went down at Noon.   

And now, ye Senators, is this the Thing  
So oft declared; Is this your Glorious King?  
Did you by Oaths your God, and country mock,  
Pretend a Crown, and yet prepare a Block?  
Did you, that swore you'd Mount Charles higher yet,  
Intend the Scaffold for His Olivet?  
Was this, Hail Master? Did you bow the knee  
That you might murder Him with loyalty?  
Alas! two Deaths! what cruelty was this?  
The axe designed, you might have spared the Kiss.   

London, didst thou Thy Prince's Life betray?  
What? could thy Sables vent no other way?  
Or else didst thou bemoan His Cross? then, ah!  
Why wouldst thou be the cursed Golgotha?  
Thou once hadst Men, Plate, Arms, a treasury  
To bind thy KING, and hast thou none to free?  
Dull beast! thou shouldst, before thy Head did fall,  
Have had at least thy Spirits Animal.   

Did You, ye Nobles, envy Charles His Crown?  
Jove being fallen the Punie-gods must down:  
Your rays of honour are eclipsed in Night,  
The Sun is set, from whence You drew your Light.   

Religion vails herself; and mourns that she  
Is forced to own such horrid villainy.  
The Church and State do shake; that Building must  
Expect to fall, whose Prop is turned to Dust.   

But cease from Tears. Charles is most blessed of men;  
A God on Earth, more than a Saint in heaven.   
June 16 1644  
FINIS.