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