Regale Lectum Miseriae: or, a Kingly bed of Miserie In which is contained, a dreame: with An Elegie upon the Martyrdome of Charls, late King of England, of blessed Memory: and Another upon the Right Honourable The Lord Capel. With A curse against the Enemies of Peace, and the Authors Farewell to England. By John Quarles |
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 | Regale Lectum Miseriae: or, a Kingly bed of Miserie |  |
AN ELEGY UPON That never to be forgotten CHARLES, THE FIRST; Late (but too soon Martyr'd) King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland.
VVho with unmoved Constancy, lay'd downe
His Life, t'exchange it, for a heav'nly Crowne.
Ian. 30. 1648.
------ In edibus Regum
Mors venit ------
Mors venit ------
49
My shivering body, oh what stormy weather
Was that, which violently tost me hither;
Where am I now? what rubicundious light
Is this? that bloodyes my amazed sight?
What Reformation's this that's newly bred,
And turnes my white, into so deep a Red.
Awake my fancy, come, delude no more,
Say; are my feet upon the English shore?
Sure not; these are usurping thoughts that raine
Within the Kingdom of a troubl'd braine:
If this be England, oh what alteration
Is lately bred within so blest a Nation;
My soul is now assured; for I see
Those lofty Structures where mild Majestie
Did once recide; abounding with a flood
That swells (& almost moates them round) with blood,
England, sad object, that wer't lately crown'd
with a most glorious prince; how art thou drownd
In Royall blood? was not thy master-veine
Open'd of late; ah, who can stop't againe?
Look round about thee, and thou shalt discry
How every face imports an Elegy.
Review thy self, see how thou art ingrain'd
With guiltlesse blood? was ever Land so stain'd?
Needs must your hearts expect a cloudy night
Now Sol is set, and Cynthia wants her light:
And dost thou thinke, O England, to immure
Thy self in blood, and alwayes rest secure?
Oh no, assure thy self, there is a hand
That rules above, which will correct thy land:
Be well advis'd, oh Nation; learn to know
That language cannot ebb, when blood shal flow,
All hearts all eyes, all hands, all tongues, all Quills
Will think, will weep, will write, & speak their wills,
I'le not invoke; this Subject will invite
Th'obdurest hearts, and teach that pen to write
Which never fram'd a Letter, and infuse
The seed of Life, into a barren Muse:
Thou Great Instructer, teach me to distill
An Eagles Vertues, with an Eagles quill:
Rais'd by a fall, my Muse begins to sing
The melancholly farewells of a King.
Was that, which violently tost me hither;
Where am I now? what rubicundious light
Is this? that bloodyes my amazed sight?
What Reformation's this that's newly bred,
And turnes my white, into so deep a Red.
Awake my fancy, come, delude no more,
Say; are my feet upon the English shore?
Sure not; these are usurping thoughts that raine
Within the Kingdom of a troubl'd braine:
If this be England, oh what alteration
Is lately bred within so blest a Nation;
My soul is now assured; for I see
Those lofty Structures where mild Majestie
Did once recide; abounding with a flood
That swells (& almost moates them round) with blood,
England, sad object, that wer't lately crown'd
with a most glorious prince; how art thou drownd
In Royall blood? was not thy master-veine
Open'd of late; ah, who can stop't againe?
Look round about thee, and thou shalt discry
How every face imports an Elegy.
Review thy self, see how thou art ingrain'd
With guiltlesse blood? was ever Land so stain'd?
51
Now Sol is set, and Cynthia wants her light:
And dost thou thinke, O England, to immure
Thy self in blood, and alwayes rest secure?
Oh no, assure thy self, there is a hand
That rules above, which will correct thy land:
Be well advis'd, oh Nation; learn to know
That language cannot ebb, when blood shal flow,
All hearts all eyes, all hands, all tongues, all Quills
Will think, will weep, will write, & speak their wills,
I'le not invoke; this Subject will invite
Th'obdurest hearts, and teach that pen to write
Which never fram'd a Letter, and infuse
The seed of Life, into a barren Muse:
Thou Great Instructer, teach me to distill
An Eagles Vertues, with an Eagles quill:
Rais'd by a fall, my Muse begins to sing
The melancholly farewells of a King.
And is he gone! did not the dolefull Bells
Desolve, when as they told his sad Farwells.
If he be gone? what language can there be
Remaining in this land, except, Ah me.
Ah me, Ah lasse, how is this realme unblest
In such a losse?—I cannot speak the rest:
My heart is full of arrowes short of late
From the stiffe Bowe of a commanding State.
Each wound is mortall, yet in spight of paine;
I'le pull them out, and shoot them back againe;
And when my tongue shall empty out my heart,
Let death surprize me with a single dart,
I'le strive t'out-face Rebellion; and my eyes
Shall scorne all new invented Tyrannies;
Sorrow will not be tongue-tyd, tydes must run
Their usuall courses, till their strength is done,
I have a streame of grief within my brest,
That tumbles up, and down, and cannot rest,
I am resolv'd (let death diswade) to speake
What Reason dictates, or my heart must break,
I'le mount the stage, let standers by behold
My actions, for my sorrows must be bold,
I feare not those, whose powers may controul
The language of my tongue, but not my soul;
Advance dejected seuls, hear reason call,
Let not the truth be passive, though we fall.
Blush not to owne those teares, which you have spent
In private, for a Publick discontent;
Let not your tongues be Pris'ners to your lippes
When Iustice calls, oh let not fear ecclipse
The light of truth, rouse up your selves, draw neare
When Iustice findes a tongue, finde you an eare.
The day's expir'd, bright Sol hath drawn his head
Within the curtaines of his Tethean bed,
Where shall we hide our slumbring soules, and lay
Our wearied limbes, till he renewes the day?
A day! Alasse, have not our wretched eyes
Seen a great fall? can we expect a Rise?
Should Heav'n (who justly may) command his powres
T'expell his light, as we have lately ours,
What should we doe? where should we finde a sun,
That have by too much doing, quite undone
Our wilfull selves? by snuffing out that light
Which he inspir'd, to guard us from the night
Of sad confusion; Ah, how could we spoile
So pure a lampe, and so usurpe that oyle
Which was ordain'd to nourish us? We run
To light a Candle, and put out the Sun;
In vaine we waste our times, and range about
To look for new lights, now the old Light's out,
We seek; and we may finde; but heav'n knows when
Old lights were made by God, & new by men.
Shake England, for thy Grand Vpholders downe,
Thy feet have lately spurn'd against thy Crowne,
Thy hands are daub'd with blood, one ruine calls
An other, to the others funeralls;
Destruction thunders, and the earth is fill'd
With doleful ecchoes; blood that hath been spill'd
By unjust hands (like Seas) begin to roare,
As if 'twould take revenge upon the shore:
The whistling woods, and their subjected springs
Sends forth Elegious blasts, each corner rings
With unaccustom'd sounds; All things expresse
(By their prognosticating looks) unhappinesse;
Deploring Philomel does now repeate
Contristed notes, upon her Thorny seate;
She has forgot those sweet nocturnall notes
Which lately charm'd all sorrow, now she dotes
Upon her woefull, her prolixed tones,
And findes no sweetnesse in her bitter groanes:
Desolve, when as they told his sad Farwells.
If he be gone? what language can there be
Remaining in this land, except, Ah me.
Ah me, Ah lasse, how is this realme unblest
In such a losse?—I cannot speak the rest:
53
From the stiffe Bowe of a commanding State.
Each wound is mortall, yet in spight of paine;
I'le pull them out, and shoot them back againe;
And when my tongue shall empty out my heart,
Let death surprize me with a single dart,
I'le strive t'out-face Rebellion; and my eyes
Shall scorne all new invented Tyrannies;
Sorrow will not be tongue-tyd, tydes must run
Their usuall courses, till their strength is done,
I have a streame of grief within my brest,
That tumbles up, and down, and cannot rest,
I am resolv'd (let death diswade) to speake
What Reason dictates, or my heart must break,
I'le mount the stage, let standers by behold
My actions, for my sorrows must be bold,
I feare not those, whose powers may controul
The language of my tongue, but not my soul;
Advance dejected seuls, hear reason call,
Let not the truth be passive, though we fall.
Blush not to owne those teares, which you have spent
In private, for a Publick discontent;
Let not your tongues be Pris'ners to your lippes
When Iustice calls, oh let not fear ecclipse
55
When Iustice findes a tongue, finde you an eare.
The day's expir'd, bright Sol hath drawn his head
Within the curtaines of his Tethean bed,
Where shall we hide our slumbring soules, and lay
Our wearied limbes, till he renewes the day?
A day! Alasse, have not our wretched eyes
Seen a great fall? can we expect a Rise?
Should Heav'n (who justly may) command his powres
T'expell his light, as we have lately ours,
What should we doe? where should we finde a sun,
That have by too much doing, quite undone
Our wilfull selves? by snuffing out that light
Which he inspir'd, to guard us from the night
Of sad confusion; Ah, how could we spoile
So pure a lampe, and so usurpe that oyle
Which was ordain'd to nourish us? We run
To light a Candle, and put out the Sun;
In vaine we waste our times, and range about
To look for new lights, now the old Light's out,
We seek; and we may finde; but heav'n knows when
Old lights were made by God, & new by men.
Shake England, for thy Grand Vpholders downe,
Thy feet have lately spurn'd against thy Crowne,
57
An other, to the others funeralls;
Destruction thunders, and the earth is fill'd
With doleful ecchoes; blood that hath been spill'd
By unjust hands (like Seas) begin to roare,
As if 'twould take revenge upon the shore:
The whistling woods, and their subjected springs
Sends forth Elegious blasts, each corner rings
With unaccustom'd sounds; All things expresse
(By their prognosticating looks) unhappinesse;
Deploring Philomel does now repeate
Contristed notes, upon her Thorny seate;
She has forgot those sweet nocturnall notes
Which lately charm'd all sorrow, now she dotes
Upon her woefull, her prolixed tones,
And findes no sweetnesse in her bitter groanes:
The Commons of the aire conspire to throw
Their Soveraigne downe, and will not fly so low
As formerly; but are resolu'd to be
Oppugnant to the Eagles Majesty.
How pregnant is Rebellion every where,
Not onely here on earth, but in the aire?
Can thunder roare, and not the lofty found
Be heard? can Cedars fall unto the ground,
And not be seen? can Mountaines shrinke away
And not observ'd? or can there be a day
Without a Sun? or can there be a night
Without some darknesse? can there be a light
Put out unwanted? or can murther be
Committed upon sacred Majestie,
And not lamented? sure no humane heart
Can be so brazen, as not to impart
Some sorrow to the world, for such a losse,
When gold is gone, how uselesse is the drosse:
Now mournfull Muses, light your Torches all,
T'attend your glory to his Funerall;
Shall your Mecænas dye, and you stand still,
And not appeare upon Parnassus hill?
Away, away, invoke Appolloes aide,
Tell him that your Mecænas was betray'd
To an unlawfull death, and you desire
To sacrifice a verse; And then retire:
Their Soveraigne downe, and will not fly so low
As formerly; but are resolu'd to be
Oppugnant to the Eagles Majesty.
How pregnant is Rebellion every where,
Not onely here on earth, but in the aire?
Can thunder roare, and not the lofty found
Be heard? can Cedars fall unto the ground,
59
And not observ'd? or can there be a day
Without a Sun? or can there be a night
Without some darknesse? can there be a light
Put out unwanted? or can murther be
Committed upon sacred Majestie,
And not lamented? sure no humane heart
Can be so brazen, as not to impart
Some sorrow to the world, for such a losse,
When gold is gone, how uselesse is the drosse:
Now mournfull Muses, light your Torches all,
T'attend your glory to his Funerall;
Shall your Mecænas dye, and you stand still,
And not appeare upon Parnassus hill?
Away, away, invoke Appolloes aide,
Tell him that your Mecænas was betray'd
To an unlawfull death, and you desire
To sacrifice a verse; And then retire:
Could I translate my heart into a verse,
I'de pinne it with my soul upon his herse.
Could I command the word, I'de make it burne
Like a pure lampe upon his sacred Vrne:
Could I command all eyes, I'de have them make
(As a memoriall for Great Charles his sake)
A sea of teares, that after ages, may
Lament to see, but not lament to say
He dy'd without a teare; and it should be
Call'd the salt Sea of flowing Loyaltie:
Could I command all hearts, I'de make them spend
Some drops of blood upon his tombe, and send
Millions of sighes to Heav'n, that may expresse
His death was Englands great unhappinesse;
Could I command all tongues, I'd make them run
Devision on his praise, till time were done;
Could I command all hands, I'de strike them dead
Because they should not rise against their head.
Could I command all feet, I'de make them goe
And give the Son that duty which they owe
To His deserts------
I'de pinne it with my soul upon his herse.
Could I command the word, I'de make it burne
Like a pure lampe upon his sacred Vrne:
Could I command all eyes, I'de have them make
(As a memoriall for Great Charles his sake)
61
Lament to see, but not lament to say
He dy'd without a teare; and it should be
Call'd the salt Sea of flowing Loyaltie:
Could I command all hearts, I'de make them spend
Some drops of blood upon his tombe, and send
Millions of sighes to Heav'n, that may expresse
His death was Englands great unhappinesse;
Could I command all tongues, I'd make them run
Devision on his praise, till time were done;
Could I command all hands, I'de strike them dead
Because they should not rise against their head.
Could I command all feet, I'de make them goe
And give the Son that duty which they owe
To His deserts------
------I'm in a desert, and I know not where
To guide my steps, that path which seems most faire,
Proves most pernicious to me, and will lend
My feet a good beginning, but no end.
Great Charles, oh happy word, but what's the next
(Bad's th'application of so good a Text)
Is dead; most killing word; what is he dead?
Nay more (if more may be) hee's murthered;
Ah then my thoughts are murther'd; my sad eyes
Shall never cease to weep his Obsequies:
I'le turne this place into a bubbl'ing spring
Of briny teares; and then I'le freely bring
A Sacrifice to sorrow, which shall be
A flaming heart that's crown'd with Loyaltie:
To guide my steps, that path which seems most faire,
Proves most pernicious to me, and will lend
My feet a good beginning, but no end.
Great Charles, oh happy word, but what's the next
(Bad's th'application of so good a Text)
Is dead; most killing word; what is he dead?
Nay more (if more may be) hee's murthered;
63
Shall never cease to weep his Obsequies:
I'le turne this place into a bubbl'ing spring
Of briny teares; and then I'le freely bring
A Sacrifice to sorrow, which shall be
A flaming heart that's crown'd with Loyaltie:
Now could I spend an age in thoughts, and tyre
The night with sighes, methinks I could inspire.
Sorrow it self, and teach it to proclaime
What ruine waites upon our new-bred flame:
But 'tis in vaine, perswasions have no powre
On them, whose resolutions can devoure
Both Law and Reason, two most horrid Crimes
In these pernicious, these contentious Times:
Come then my thoughts, and let us ruminate
Upon our sorrows; oh unhappy Fate,
Why didst thou snuffe out Charles his royall blaze
In the Aurora of his well-spent dayes?
But 'tis in vaine to blame thee, for thy hand
Cannot refraine to strike, if God command;
Heav'n saw he was too good to be enjoy'd
By us; but not too good to be destroy'd
For his owne glory; Let's rejoyce, we had
So good a King; but grieve, to thinke how bad
We us'd his goodnesse; VVe may justly say,
He gave in mercy, what he took away
In Iudgement, for his owne commands appointed
We should not touch, (much more slay) his anointed
And yet we have, (as if our hearts had sworn
To contradict his will) abus'd, and torn
His owne Vicegerent, to whose thriving hand
He gave the Scepter of a glorious Land:
But now (unhappy Land) thy glorie's fled,
Thy Crowne is fallen, and thy Charles is dead;
Goe then, deplore thy self, whilst others sing
The living vertues of thy martyr'd King;
His glory shall survive with Fame, when they
Shall lye forgotten in a heape of Clay
That were the Authors of his death, their bones
Shall turne to ashes, as their hearts are stones
But did my tongue expresse that they should be
Forgot; oh no, their long liv'd Tyrannie
Shall be perpetuall; harke, misfortune sings
The worst of Tyrants, kill'd the best of Kings.
He was the best; what impious tongue shall dare
To contradict my language, or impare
His living worth, and they that goe about
To blast his Fame, oh may their tongues drop out.
Pardon oh Heav'n, if passion make me breake
Into extreames, who can forbeare to speake
In such a lawfull cause? may we not claime
A Priviledge to speak in Charles his name.
Is any timerous? then let them keep
Their language, and reserve themselves to weep:
Is any Joyfull? let them keep their mirth
To please the Tyrants of this groaning earth.
Is any sorry? let them keep their grief
Till heav'n shall please to send their souls reliefe;
Did ever Iland finde so great a losse?
Was ever Nation crownd with such a crosse?
Could ever Kingdome boast they had a Prince
That could be more laborious to convince
The errours of his times, or contradict
The dictates of his rage, or be more strict
In his Devotions; ne're did Prince inherrit
So rich a Crowne, with so inrich'd a spirit.
The night with sighes, methinks I could inspire.
Sorrow it self, and teach it to proclaime
What ruine waites upon our new-bred flame:
But 'tis in vaine, perswasions have no powre
On them, whose resolutions can devoure
Both Law and Reason, two most horrid Crimes
In these pernicious, these contentious Times:
Come then my thoughts, and let us ruminate
Upon our sorrows; oh unhappy Fate,
Why didst thou snuffe out Charles his royall blaze
In the Aurora of his well-spent dayes?
But 'tis in vaine to blame thee, for thy hand
Cannot refraine to strike, if God command;
Heav'n saw he was too good to be enjoy'd
By us; but not too good to be destroy'd
For his owne glory; Let's rejoyce, we had
So good a King; but grieve, to thinke how bad
65
He gave in mercy, what he took away
In Iudgement, for his owne commands appointed
We should not touch, (much more slay) his anointed
And yet we have, (as if our hearts had sworn
To contradict his will) abus'd, and torn
His owne Vicegerent, to whose thriving hand
He gave the Scepter of a glorious Land:
But now (unhappy Land) thy glorie's fled,
Thy Crowne is fallen, and thy Charles is dead;
Goe then, deplore thy self, whilst others sing
The living vertues of thy martyr'd King;
His glory shall survive with Fame, when they
Shall lye forgotten in a heape of Clay
That were the Authors of his death, their bones
Shall turne to ashes, as their hearts are stones
But did my tongue expresse that they should be
Forgot; oh no, their long liv'd Tyrannie
Shall be perpetuall; harke, misfortune sings
The worst of Tyrants, kill'd the best of Kings.
He was the best; what impious tongue shall dare
To contradict my language, or impare
His living worth, and they that goe about
To blast his Fame, oh may their tongues drop out.
67
Into extreames, who can forbeare to speake
In such a lawfull cause? may we not claime
A Priviledge to speak in Charles his name.
Is any timerous? then let them keep
Their language, and reserve themselves to weep:
Is any Joyfull? let them keep their mirth
To please the Tyrants of this groaning earth.
Is any sorry? let them keep their grief
Till heav'n shall please to send their souls reliefe;
Did ever Iland finde so great a losse?
Was ever Nation crownd with such a crosse?
Could ever Kingdome boast they had a Prince
That could be more laborious to convince
The errours of his times, or contradict
The dictates of his rage, or be more strict
In his Devotions; ne're did Prince inherrit
So rich a Crowne, with so inrich'd a spirit.
He was the best of conquerours; he made
Conquests of hearts, although he was betray'd
By some inferiour spirits, which he found
Had lately started from the lowely grownd,
And were not worth a conquest; yet he gave
Them more respects then their deserts could crave
None could observe during the the time he stood
Before his Pilates, that his royall blood
Mov'd into fury, but his heart was prone
To hear their speeches, and retort his owne;
But when they found his language did increase
With sense, he was desir'd to hold his peace,
And some related that their furies bred,
Because his hatt inclos'd his royall head.
Good God, what times are these, when subjects dare
Presume to make their Soveraigne stand bare;
And when they sent him from their new-made place
Of Iustice, basely spit upon his face,
But he, whose patience could admit no date,
Conquer'd their envies, and subdu'd their hate.
Ah who could blame our Soveraigne to decline
Their wayes, and say, was ever grief like mine?
First when his feet approach'd into the Hall,
The ill-tun'd tongues of sycophants would call
Aloud for Iustice, though they never knew
What Iustice was, yet still they would renew
Their most confounding, and discordious noates,
And baul for Iustice with their sluce-like throats;
But he, that Lambe of Patience, never vented
A word of anger, but with speed prevented
Their louder cryes, and with a pleasing breath
Reply'd; If Iustice can be gain'd by death,
Ye shall not want it, only be content,
Ye may as soon endeavor to repent,
As now ye doe to spill my blood; advise,
Your souls will suffer for your forward cryes;
Having thus spoke, immediately he stept
Unto the barre, where for a time he kept
Himself in silence; like a sun he shin'd
Amongst those gloomy clowds which had combin'd
Themselves together, plotting to disgrace
His orient luster, and impal'd his face:
And with a thundring voice, they first salute
His ears with Tyrant, Traytor, and impute
Murder unto him: with a pleasing smile
He look'd upon them, and a little while
He made a pause; but by, and by, he broke
His silent lipps, and moderately spoke
To this effect: May I desire to know
From whence this great authority doth flow
That you pretend to act by? If it be
Derivative; I shall desire to see,
And know from whom; till then I shall deny
To give my tongue a licence to reply.
You are our Pris'ner Sir, you ought not to
Demand what your appointed Iudges doe,
For our Authority 'tis known at large
Unto our selves; pray answer to your charge,
Or else we shall proceed. I thought t'have seen
My Lords and Peers together, that had been
A means to make my fading hopes renew,
For most of them I know, but none of you.
As for my Charge, I owne it as a thing
Of small concernment, as I am a King
You cannot try me, what your new made laws
May doe, I know not, have a care, and pause
Before you act in blood, strive to convince
Your stubborn hearts, & know, I am your Prince;
Y'are but abortive Iudges, have a care,
Ye may be tangl'd in your own made snare:
Proceed; ye can but throw me to the earth,
They which parturiate needs must owne the birth,
God knows my heart; 'tis not my life, that I
Account of, but my Subjects Liberty,
That's all that I desire;—Sir, now we must
A little interrupt you, 'tis unjust
A Prisoner (as you are) should be allow'd
So great a priviledge; y'ave disavow'd
Our known Authority, and make a sport
Of reall Iustice, and affront the Court;
Feed not your guilty heart with such delay,
Waste no more time, for Iustice will not stay?
Conquests of hearts, although he was betray'd
By some inferiour spirits, which he found
Had lately started from the lowely grownd,
And were not worth a conquest; yet he gave
Them more respects then their deserts could crave
69
Before his Pilates, that his royall blood
Mov'd into fury, but his heart was prone
To hear their speeches, and retort his owne;
But when they found his language did increase
With sense, he was desir'd to hold his peace,
And some related that their furies bred,
Because his hatt inclos'd his royall head.
Good God, what times are these, when subjects dare
Presume to make their Soveraigne stand bare;
And when they sent him from their new-made place
Of Iustice, basely spit upon his face,
But he, whose patience could admit no date,
Conquer'd their envies, and subdu'd their hate.
Ah who could blame our Soveraigne to decline
Their wayes, and say, was ever grief like mine?
First when his feet approach'd into the Hall,
The ill-tun'd tongues of sycophants would call
Aloud for Iustice, though they never knew
What Iustice was, yet still they would renew
Their most confounding, and discordious noates,
And baul for Iustice with their sluce-like throats;
But he, that Lambe of Patience, never vented
A word of anger, but with speed prevented
71
Reply'd; If Iustice can be gain'd by death,
Ye shall not want it, only be content,
Ye may as soon endeavor to repent,
As now ye doe to spill my blood; advise,
Your souls will suffer for your forward cryes;
Having thus spoke, immediately he stept
Unto the barre, where for a time he kept
Himself in silence; like a sun he shin'd
Amongst those gloomy clowds which had combin'd
Themselves together, plotting to disgrace
His orient luster, and impal'd his face:
And with a thundring voice, they first salute
His ears with Tyrant, Traytor, and impute
Murder unto him: with a pleasing smile
He look'd upon them, and a little while
He made a pause; but by, and by, he broke
His silent lipps, and moderately spoke
To this effect: May I desire to know
From whence this great authority doth flow
That you pretend to act by? If it be
Derivative; I shall desire to see,
And know from whom; till then I shall deny
To give my tongue a licence to reply.
73
Demand what your appointed Iudges doe,
For our Authority 'tis known at large
Unto our selves; pray answer to your charge,
Or else we shall proceed. I thought t'have seen
My Lords and Peers together, that had been
A means to make my fading hopes renew,
For most of them I know, but none of you.
As for my Charge, I owne it as a thing
Of small concernment, as I am a King
You cannot try me, what your new made laws
May doe, I know not, have a care, and pause
Before you act in blood, strive to convince
Your stubborn hearts, & know, I am your Prince;
Y'are but abortive Iudges, have a care,
Ye may be tangl'd in your own made snare:
Proceed; ye can but throw me to the earth,
They which parturiate needs must owne the birth,
God knows my heart; 'tis not my life, that I
Account of, but my Subjects Liberty,
That's all that I desire;—Sir, now we must
A little interrupt you, 'tis unjust
A Prisoner (as you are) should be allow'd
So great a priviledge; y'ave disavow'd
75
Of reall Iustice, and affront the Court;
Feed not your guilty heart with such delay,
Waste no more time, for Iustice will not stay?
Pray give me leave to speak, great Charles reply'd
You ought not Sir to speak, we're satisfy'd
Already of your guilt, you must prepare
To heare your Sentence, and you must forbeare
Your vaine, and weake discourses: Is it so,
He then reply'd; that I am forc'd to goe
Away unheard; Alasse, 'tis not the voice
Of death can daunt my breast, ye may rejoyce
At my destruction; though you have no eare
To entertaine my language, heav'n will heare.
Take notice people; that your King's deny'd
To speake: was ever Iustice rul'd by Pride?
You ought not Sir to speak, we're satisfy'd
Already of your guilt, you must prepare
To heare your Sentence, and you must forbeare
Your vaine, and weake discourses: Is it so,
He then reply'd; that I am forc'd to goe
Away unheard; Alasse, 'tis not the voice
Of death can daunt my breast, ye may rejoyce
At my destruction; though you have no eare
To entertaine my language, heav'n will heare.
Take notice people; that your King's deny'd
To speake: was ever Iustice rul'd by Pride?
Thus having lay'd the burthen of their spight
Upon his head, they sent him from their sight;
But he (that was inspir'd by heav'n) did show
A countenance that did import their woe,
More then a sorrow for his death, his face
Was dy'd with honor, theirs, with foul disgrace,
His patience was their passions, and they found
His minde a kingdom, where his heart was crown'd
With constant love; oh that I could rehearse
His living vertues, with a living verse:
But now my Pen must leave him for a time,
And dwell upon the mountaines of that crime
Which they committed; Put a King to death!
Oh horrid action! what venomous breath
Pronounc'd that fatall sentence? may it live
To poyson Scorpions, and not dare to give
The least of sounds, to any humane eare.
Sure he was deaf himself, and cou'd not heare
The cadence of his language; for the sound
Had been sufficient to inflict a wound
Within his marble heart; oh such a deed
Stabbe Kingdoms to the hearts, and makes them bleed
Themselves to death; to loose so good a King,
By such base means, will prove a viperous sting
To this detested Land;—
Upon his head, they sent him from their sight;
But he (that was inspir'd by heav'n) did show
A countenance that did import their woe,
More then a sorrow for his death, his face
Was dy'd with honor, theirs, with foul disgrace,
His patience was their passions, and they found
His minde a kingdom, where his heart was crown'd
77
His living vertues, with a living verse:
But now my Pen must leave him for a time,
And dwell upon the mountaines of that crime
Which they committed; Put a King to death!
Oh horrid action! what venomous breath
Pronounc'd that fatall sentence? may it live
To poyson Scorpions, and not dare to give
The least of sounds, to any humane eare.
Sure he was deaf himself, and cou'd not heare
The cadence of his language; for the sound
Had been sufficient to inflict a wound
Within his marble heart; oh such a deed
Stabbe Kingdoms to the hearts, and makes them bleed
Themselves to death; to loose so good a King,
By such base means, will prove a viperous sting
To this detested Land;—
—If Kings transgresse,
And prove Tyrannical, we must addresse
Our selves to Heav'n, and by our Prayers desire
Th'assistance of his mercy, to inspire
Our Soules with true obedience, that we may
Strengthen our selves, and passively Obey
What actively we cannot; for Kings reigne
By God, we therefore ought not to maintaine
Our rage against them; he that shall controul
The actions of a King, burthens his Soul
With a most ponderous crime; If, to suppose
But Ill of Kings be sin; oh how have those
Transgress'd that have destroy'd their King, and made
Him subject, to bad subjects, that betray'd
Their Souls to Tyranny: Oh Heav'n forgive
What they have done, and let their sorrows live
Within their Souls; Oh make them to behold
Their errors; Let not Conquest make them bold.
Here stop my Muse, let's labour to accost
Our former glory, Charles, though we have lost
His Sacred Person, yet we must not loose
His happy memory; Ah who can chuse
But sigh, when as they seate his glorious name
Within their serious thoughts: If ever Fame
Receiv'd a Crown; It was from him, whose worth
My wearied Quill's too weak to blazon forth;
And when the best of my endeavor's done,
I shall but light a Candle to the Sun,
Yet I will spend my strength; a feeble light
Plac'd by a greater, makes it shine more bright:
And prove Tyrannical, we must addresse
Our selves to Heav'n, and by our Prayers desire
Th'assistance of his mercy, to inspire
Our Soules with true obedience, that we may
Strengthen our selves, and passively Obey
79
By God, we therefore ought not to maintaine
Our rage against them; he that shall controul
The actions of a King, burthens his Soul
With a most ponderous crime; If, to suppose
But Ill of Kings be sin; oh how have those
Transgress'd that have destroy'd their King, and made
Him subject, to bad subjects, that betray'd
Their Souls to Tyranny: Oh Heav'n forgive
What they have done, and let their sorrows live
Within their Souls; Oh make them to behold
Their errors; Let not Conquest make them bold.
Here stop my Muse, let's labour to accost
Our former glory, Charles, though we have lost
His Sacred Person, yet we must not loose
His happy memory; Ah who can chuse
But sigh, when as they seate his glorious name
Within their serious thoughts: If ever Fame
Receiv'd a Crown; It was from him, whose worth
My wearied Quill's too weak to blazon forth;
And when the best of my endeavor's done,
I shall but light a Candle to the Sun,
Yet I will spend my strength; a feeble light
Plac'd by a greater, makes it shine more bright:
81
He was ('tis not unknown to all the earth)
A Prince by vertue, and a Prince by birth.
In the exordium of his Reigne, he sway'd
The Scepter of this Land, (till time betray'd
Cupid to Mars) with a Majestique brow,
And made his cheerfull subjects hearts to bowe
In honor, and it could not be exprest
Whether he rul'd himself, or subjects best;
He was a Prince, whose life and conversation
Impoverish'd vices, and inrich'd his Nation
With good examples, honor never found
So sweet a harbour, vertue never crown'd
So rare a heart; Love reign'd within his eye,
And there was cloathed with Divinitie,
Vertue and Majesty did seem to strive
Within his Royall breast, which should suruive
In greatest glory, but 'twas soon decided,
Martha and Mary, would not be devided,
No more would they, there was a simpathy
Between them both, for if the one should dye,
The other could not live, they were combin'd
Within his breast, and could not be disjoyn'd.
Oh happy is that Land, where Vertue shall
Meet Majesty within a Princes hall.
He was a King, not onely over Land,
But over Passion, for he could command
His Royall self, and when approaching trouble
Assail'd his minde, his wisedome would redouble
His present patience, and he would allow
The worst of sorrows, a contented brow;
His undevided soul was alwayes free
To propagate the workes of Pietie;
His heart was still attracted to good motions,
By the true Loadstone of his firme devotions.
He alwayes studied how to recompence
Good deeds with full rewards: as for offence
He sooner would forgive it, then impose
A punishment; his meeknesse made his foes
Grow supercillious, and at last, they made
A private snare, and zealously betray'd
The Lord of Englands life, whose free consent
Granted them a trieniall Parliament
To salve the Kingdomes grievances, but they
Took not the grievances, but Him away;
It could not be distinguish'd which did Reigne
Mars or Apollo, most within his braine:
He was a Cæsar, and the equall fame
Of Warr, and Wisdome dwelt upon his Name;
As for his Martiall parts, Edge-hill will beare
An everlasting record, how his care
And resolution did maintain that fight,
Till day submitted to th'incroaching night;
Although Heav'ns Generall was pleas'd to bring
Such small conditions, to so great a King;
We must not judge, that 'tis successe, that can
Procure the title of a Valiant man,
For that, will but instruct him how to fly
Upon the wings of popularity;
As for his Theologick parts I may
Without presumption absolutely say
He was a second David, and could raise
A lofty straine to sing his Makers praise;
Read but his Meditations, and you'le finde
His breast retain'd a heav'n-enamel'd minde:
A Prince by vertue, and a Prince by birth.
In the exordium of his Reigne, he sway'd
The Scepter of this Land, (till time betray'd
Cupid to Mars) with a Majestique brow,
And made his cheerfull subjects hearts to bowe
In honor, and it could not be exprest
Whether he rul'd himself, or subjects best;
He was a Prince, whose life and conversation
Impoverish'd vices, and inrich'd his Nation
With good examples, honor never found
So sweet a harbour, vertue never crown'd
So rare a heart; Love reign'd within his eye,
And there was cloathed with Divinitie,
Vertue and Majesty did seem to strive
Within his Royall breast, which should suruive
In greatest glory, but 'twas soon decided,
Martha and Mary, would not be devided,
No more would they, there was a simpathy
Between them both, for if the one should dye,
The other could not live, they were combin'd
Within his breast, and could not be disjoyn'd.
Oh happy is that Land, where Vertue shall
Meet Majesty within a Princes hall.
83
But over Passion, for he could command
His Royall self, and when approaching trouble
Assail'd his minde, his wisedome would redouble
His present patience, and he would allow
The worst of sorrows, a contented brow;
His undevided soul was alwayes free
To propagate the workes of Pietie;
His heart was still attracted to good motions,
By the true Loadstone of his firme devotions.
He alwayes studied how to recompence
Good deeds with full rewards: as for offence
He sooner would forgive it, then impose
A punishment; his meeknesse made his foes
Grow supercillious, and at last, they made
A private snare, and zealously betray'd
The Lord of Englands life, whose free consent
Granted them a trieniall Parliament
To salve the Kingdomes grievances, but they
Took not the grievances, but Him away;
It could not be distinguish'd which did Reigne
Mars or Apollo, most within his braine:
He was a Cæsar, and the equall fame
Of Warr, and Wisdome dwelt upon his Name;
85
An everlasting record, how his care
And resolution did maintain that fight,
Till day submitted to th'incroaching night;
Although Heav'ns Generall was pleas'd to bring
Such small conditions, to so great a King;
We must not judge, that 'tis successe, that can
Procure the title of a Valiant man,
For that, will but instruct him how to fly
Upon the wings of popularity;
As for his Theologick parts I may
Without presumption absolutely say
He was a second David, and could raise
A lofty straine to sing his Makers praise;
Read but his Meditations, and you'le finde
His breast retain'd a heav'n-enamel'd minde:
Now Reader, close thine eyes, & doe not read
My following lines, except thy heart can bleed,
And thou not dye; ah heer's a mournfull text,
Imports a death, suppose what follows next,
And 'tis enough; oh that I could ingrosse
The language of the world, t'expresse this losse;
Break hearts, weep eyes, lament your Soveraigns fall,
And let him swimme unto his funerall
In Subjects teares; oh had yon seen his feet
Mounted the stage of blood, and run to meet
The fury of his foes, and how his breath
Proclaim'd a correspondency with death;
Oh then thy diving heart most needs have found
The depth of sorrow, and receiv'd a wound
That Time could not recure, oh such a fight
Had been sufficient to have made a night
Within this little world, hadst thou but seen
What foul-defending patience stood between
Passion, and him; with what a pleasing grace,
(As if that Death had blush'd within his face)
He look'd upon his people, which surrounded
His mourning Scaffold, whilst his thoughts abounded
With heav'nly raptures; his Angellike voice
Taught Ioy to weep and sorrow to rejoyce;
Teares blinded many, that they could not see
So bloody, so abhorr'd a Tragedie.
He look'd, as if he rather came to view
His Subjects, then to bid them all adue;
Feare had no habitation in his breast,
And what he spoke, was reddily exprest;
Heav'ns sacred Orator devinely tipp'd
His tongue with golden languages, and dipp'd
His soul in Loves sweet fountaine, so that all
That lov'd, admir'd, and griev'd to see him fall;
Whilst he (submitting Prince) devoutly pray'd
That heav'n would pardon those that had betray'd
His body to the grave; as from his soul
He had forgave them all, and did condole
Their sad conditions; having spent his breath,
He yeelded (like a lambe) unto his death.
Much more he utter'd; but my burthen'd Quill
Recoyles, and will not prosecute my will;
My Pen, and I, must now abruptly part,
Pardon (oh Reader) for love bindes my heart
With chaines of sorrow, let me crave, what I
Shall want in language, that thou wilt supply
In Meditation; but before I let
My quill desert my hand, I'le make it sett
This Tragi comick period to my story,
Charles liv'd in trouble, and he dy'd in glory.
My following lines, except thy heart can bleed,
And thou not dye; ah heer's a mournfull text,
Imports a death, suppose what follows next,
And 'tis enough; oh that I could ingrosse
The language of the world, t'expresse this losse;
Break hearts, weep eyes, lament your Soveraigns fall,
And let him swimme unto his funerall
87
Mounted the stage of blood, and run to meet
The fury of his foes, and how his breath
Proclaim'd a correspondency with death;
Oh then thy diving heart most needs have found
The depth of sorrow, and receiv'd a wound
That Time could not recure, oh such a fight
Had been sufficient to have made a night
Within this little world, hadst thou but seen
What foul-defending patience stood between
Passion, and him; with what a pleasing grace,
(As if that Death had blush'd within his face)
He look'd upon his people, which surrounded
His mourning Scaffold, whilst his thoughts abounded
With heav'nly raptures; his Angellike voice
Taught Ioy to weep and sorrow to rejoyce;
Teares blinded many, that they could not see
So bloody, so abhorr'd a Tragedie.
He look'd, as if he rather came to view
His Subjects, then to bid them all adue;
Feare had no habitation in his breast,
And what he spoke, was reddily exprest;
Heav'ns sacred Orator devinely tipp'd
His tongue with golden languages, and dipp'd
89
That lov'd, admir'd, and griev'd to see him fall;
Whilst he (submitting Prince) devoutly pray'd
That heav'n would pardon those that had betray'd
His body to the grave; as from his soul
He had forgave them all, and did condole
Their sad conditions; having spent his breath,
He yeelded (like a lambe) unto his death.
Much more he utter'd; but my burthen'd Quill
Recoyles, and will not prosecute my will;
My Pen, and I, must now abruptly part,
Pardon (oh Reader) for love bindes my heart
With chaines of sorrow, let me crave, what I
Shall want in language, that thou wilt supply
In Meditation; but before I let
My quill desert my hand, I'le make it sett
This Tragi comick period to my story,
Charles liv'd in trouble, and he dy'd in glory.
FINIS.
Habakkuck. cap. 1. vers. 13.
Thou art of purer eyes (Oh God) then to behold evill, and canst not look on iniquity: Wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and holdest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more righteous then they?
| Regale Lectum Miseriae: or, a Kingly bed of Miserie | |