ON THE DEATH OF HER ILLUSTRIOUS GRACE ANNE Dutchess-Dowager of Albemarle, Who Sickened with, and Died twenty days after the Duke Her Husband; He the Third of January, and She the Twenty third of the same Month, 1669.  

SCarce had I breathed the DUKE'S Elogium  
In panting Prose, before a Second Doom  
Invoked my Genius to appear in Verse,  
And offer Incense to His DUCHESS Hearse;  
Though Her Embalming needeth here no more  
Than Gold in Peru, or a Map on Shore.   

A Dame of deep Endowments, and more true  
Intrinsique value than the Dull Age knew.  
Whose Zeal and Loyalty through the Realm did ring,  
Fervent to GOD, and Cordial to the King.  
Whose Oeconomique and Domestic Cares  
Proclaimed her Prudence in her own Affairs,  
Which with Her Frugal-Conduct, might engage  
Th' Examples of most Madams of our Age,  
Who wrack their wealth on Riots, and consume  
Whole Signories in●●inting and Perfume.   

But I'll not Satyrize, nor blast my Bays  
With their Reproaches, which must Crown Her Praise;  
Whose Unstained Name, Clear Innocence, and Truth  
(The Green Ingredients of her Vernal youth)  
Increasing with her, did corroborate  
The Growing Graces of her Greatned State,  
Which, like tall Trees did from low Roots produce  
Fruits of more Substance, and of sweeter Juice:  
Witness Her Secret Alms well seen and known  
In our Horizon, though no Trump were blown,  
Which shamed their Charity, and such Zealots chid,  
Whose lefthand reckons what their right-hand did.   

Nor did that Grandeur on Her Husband's side,  
Or Her own Fullness swell her into Pride,  
Who both the difference, and Decorum knew  
'Twixt a great Duchess and good Christian too.   

Compassionate she was, and humbly prone  
To Condescension in her highest Zone:  
Thus the Sun shines alike, and sheds his showers  
On Barren Heaths, as well as Beds of Flowers.   

Friendly to all, and affable to those,  
If not the Churches, and great CHARLES his Foes:  
Her Constant Soul disdeining to comply  
When Hope lay low, and Anarchy parched high,  
And most men's Bowls ran biased to the Times,  
Crowns with their Sceptres being counted Crimes;  
Of such Transcendency as never would  
Admit of expiation but by Blood.   

Then like some Star in this Cymmerian night  
Of Error, did Her Loyalty shine bright,  
And with unwearied Industry, and pain,  
Strive to bring home three Realms on Charles his Wain.  
Scotland enveloped in a Mist, felt then  
The Influence of Her Tongue, and Brother's Pen,  
Which steeled the Sword, new-formed in the Forge  
Of England's Champion truer than ST. GEORGE.  
And as some weightier Horologe impow'rs  
The Exterior Gnomen to direct his hours,  
Though that Automaton too, both heard and seen,  
Is actuated by occult Powers within:  
So in that Grand Affair, each Spring and Lock  
Lent life and vigour to this Vocal Clock,  
Which striking in such season, did confound  
Our BABEL-STATE alarumed at the Sound,  
Whence waking Royalists rose to pay their due:  
Thanks jointly (Madam) to blessed GEORGE and YOU.   

And must You Two so tamely now retire  
From the World's Theatre, whose Souls gave Fire  
Prometheus-like, to three inanimate  
Cadaverous KINGDOMS, buried in a State?  
Must You Both mixed, co-interred lie  
In the same Monument, who Both did die  
In the same Month? Thus Heaven and Earth thought just  
You should not be divided in your Dust,  
Whom neither Sickness, Life, nor Death could part,  
Both Individual in each others Heart.   

And though Illustrious Madam YOU can't Rest  
In a more glorious Shrine than in His Breast;  
Yet 'twere great pity that a single Grave  
Should Confine HIM, who well deserved to have  
Three Kingdoms for his CLOISTER, and have been  
Portrayed in, CHURCHES, as was that good Queen;  
Were but brave London's Patriots put in trust  
To pay this Duty to their Champion's Dust,  
The voice of whose Loud Actions shall strike dumb  
The Present, and amuse the Age to come.    

Imprinted at LONDON, Anno Dom. 1669.