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 |  |
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------
| Regale Lectum Miseriae: or, a Kingly bed of Miserie | |