SOME tears dropped o'er the hearse Of the INCOMPARABLE PRINCE HENRY Duke of GLOUCESTER.  
FAtal September to the Royal Line,  
Has snatched one hero of our hopeful Trine  
From Earth; 'tis strange heaven should not praedeclare  
A loss so grievous by some Blazing Star,  
Which might our Senses overjoyed, alarm,  
And time give to prepare for so great Harm.  
The springtide of our Joy was newly Flood,  
Paying our Thankful Vows for so much good  
We gather now, under a gracious KING;  
Inspired Bards began strong Lays to Sing,  
When (ôh sad Fate!) Ebbed are our Flowing Seas,  
And epics changed to Doleful Elegies.  
Cruel Extremes! thus robbed of Joys the chief,  
Thrown down like lightning into Seas of Grief.  
'Tis past the reach of Mortals to divine,  
Why heaven so soon has broke our Threefold Line;  
We may not pry without a black offence  
Into th' Arcana's of his Providence,  
But may believe, since with a Bounteous Hand  
God has restored the Blessings of this Land,  
That he has flung us into Griefs extreme,  
Not out of Wrath to Us, but Love to Him.  
He was Fair Fruit sprung from a Royal Bud,  
And grown as great by fair Renown as Blood;  
Ripe too too soon; for in a Youth so green  
An Harvest was of gray-haired wisdom seen.  
Minerva's Darling, Patron of the Gown,  
Lover of Learning, and Apollo's Crown  
He was; the Muses he began to nourish,  
Learned Men and Arts under his wings did flourish;  
But lest we should commit Idolatry,  
Heaven took him from our Sight, not Memory;  
For though he's carried to th' Immortal Sphere,  
Our Loves will make his Fame Immortal here.  
'Tis Autumn now, and Ceres to our hands  
Has poured the Annual Blessings of our Lands;  
We've robbed the teeming Trees of all their fruit,  
And left them naked till the Spring recruit  
Their store again; till than they hang their head,  
And stand like Mourners, leaves for tears they shed;  
So the high powers cropped from the Royal Stem,  
What was too good for us, and fit for them,  
Whilst we lament, till a new Spring arise,  
And Charles his First-born clear our weeping eyes.  
A general Sadness locks up every Tongue,  
Amazedness has struck the laureates dumb:  
And who would weep, through too much Grief forbears,  
Excess of Grief gives yet no vent for Tears,  
But when the Coming Springs begin to rise,  
Grief then will draw a deluge from our Eyes;  
Till then these Loyal Drops fallen into Verse,  
Shall wash the Cypress on his Royal hearse.   

London, Printed by W. Godbid for Henry Brome at the Gun in Ivy-lane, and Henry Marsh at the Princes-Arms in Chancery-lane near Fleetstreet. M. DC. LX.