Dying Tears. OR, England's Joy turned to mourning, for the loss of that virtuous Prince, Henry Duke of Gloucester, 3d. Son to our late sovereign King Charles the first: Who departed this life the 13. of September, in the Year of our Lord, 1660.  
Prepare for death before you die,  
If you would live eternally.  
To the Tune of, Aim not too high.  
 
 


C●●re the wonders that our God hath done,  
Great are the mercies which to us are shown  
Yet we forget to say that God is just,  
Even though he turn the living into dust.   

Now learn, O England, learn for to lament  
His death; who from us hath been long absent;  
And at the last is come on English Shore  
To lay his corpse; whose death we now deplore.   

Just in the prime and blooming of His age,  
Dear Gloster's ravished from this mortal Stage:  
Yet though his body can no more revive,  
Pet his rare virtues seem to be alive.   

Scarce had fair England bidden welcome home  
This our most virtuous Prince, but death doth come;  
Scarce had his weary body taken rest,  
Behold grim death doth come and takes his breath.   

How can fair England weep enough and mourn,  
His comely corpse we can't enough adorn:  
O death, our hopes, our Treasure, in an hour  
Hast thou dispersed, which makes salt tears to shower   

O envious death! how dar'st thou in his prime,  
To cut down him, in whom all virtues shine:  
Therefore we'll seek his virtues for to blaze,  
Upon his Tomb we will set forth his praise.   

No sooner in his virtues we did trust,  
But presently this Prince is turned to dust:  
O than what course of lives would mortals take,  
Seeing that Princes cannot death forsake.   

Great Emperors and Kings lie at the stake,  
To day they live, to morrow their graves they make  
Death is a debt we owe, which we must pay:  
When death doth call, poor mortals must they.    

The Second Part  
to the same Tune,  
 
 

O That loud man, would but view o'er his says,  
And seriously consider his own ways:  
Now that all things below are vanity,  
But soul's Redeemer 'tis that lives on high.   

The God of Love pour forth his mercies great  
On our Dread sovereign, even from his mercy seat;  
O give him grace and wisdom to consider  
That where his Brother's gone, he must go thither.   

For Kings and Princes are but a span,  
When death both come with's grimly dart in hand  
To give the stroke: whilst nature bios adieu  
To all its pleasures, and its Comfort too.   

O that our God would pour his spirit upon  
Our King and Prince, that they may both live long;  
O let them know 'tis not the arm of flesh  
That's able to withstand Deaths powerful crush.   

'Tis not man's honour nor his powerful hand,  
Nor his Riches that are at his command,  
Neither his friend at all can him deliver  
From death's sad stroke, which strikes but once for ever.   

O learn with blessed David for to prove  
That Gods thy portion and thy only love;  
Then death shall not affright thee, nor the grave;  
But this shall thee rejoice, thy soul to save.   

Death is no sting, the grave cannot contain  
The Righteous soul that makes 〈◊〉 his aim,  
But wicked men when once lass in the Men,  
Their souls in torments ever after burn.   

But this is not our Gloster Case, for he  
Was the true partern of Nobility:  
Saint like he lived, and he the same did die,  
As soon as dead to Heaven his soul did fly.   

When France did harbour this out Noble P●  
His Mother did endeavour to convince  
Him to turn Papist; but with courage bold  
He said his true Religion he would hold   

The learned Jesuit could not him deceive,  
Their damned Doctrine he would not believer  
Nor all the Learned men that France could yield  
Could make this Christian prince to quite the field.   

But now he's dead! alas, where is he gone,  
His corpse to dust, his soul to Heaven is come:  
O then rejoice, O England, and be glad,  
That God has carried him, then to good from had.   

Concluding, now I end my mournful Song.  
Which to all men in England doth belong,  
Prepare for death before before you die,  
If e'er you mean to live eternally.     

London, Printed for Charles Tyns on London-Bridge.