Virtus Rediviva Or a Panegyricke On the late King Charls the I. Second Monarch of Great Britain. By Tho. Forde |
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Second Anniversary on Charls the First, 1658.
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Second Anniversary on Charls the First, 1658.
The year's return'd, and with the year my task,Which to perform no other aid I ask,
No Muse invoke, but what my grief affords,
Grief that would fill a dumb mans mouth with words.
A King's my subject, and a King whose name
Alone, speaks more than all the tongues of fame.
Charls, good as great, whose virtues were his crimes,
The best of men duell'd the worst of times.
But by his sad example we may know,
Excess of goodness is not safe below.
T'was too much worth just Aristides sent,
(By a wild ostracism) to's banishment.
Oh! hadst thou liv'd when virtue was in fashion,
And men were rul'd by reason, not by passion,
How had'st thou been ador'd! Thy actions had
Been the just Standard of what's good or bad.
Thy life had pass'd for law, and the whole Nation
Might have been virtuous by imitation.
To have been good, and in the best degree,
Had been no more but to be like to thee.
Thou art all wonder, and thy brighter Story,
Casts an Ecclipse upon the blazing glory
Of former ages; all their Worthies, now
(By thee out-done) do blush, and wonder how
They lost the day, beclouded with a night
Of silence, rising from thy greater light.
If once compared with thy piety.
Be dumb ye lying Legends, here's a Reign,
Full of more miracles than ye can feign.
Here is a a saint, more great, more true than e're
Came from the triple crown, or holy chair.
We need no farther for Example look,
Than unto thee, thou art the onely book;
Thou art the best of Texts, hereafter we
Expect no more, but Comments upon thee:
Thou art the great Original, and he
Who will be famous now, must transcribe thee;
Spight of the Sword and Axe, you found a way
To win the field, although you lost the day.
In thy rare Portraicture thou livest still,
And triumphst more by thine all-conquering quill;
There shalt thou reign, and as immortal be,
As was the malice of thine enemie.
Thou hast out-witted all thy foes, and by
Thy Book thou gain'st the greatest victory.
That hath enlarg'd thine Empire, and all men
Stoop to the Scepter of thy Royal Pen.
Thy Virtues crowd so fast, I cannot tell
How to speak all, or which doth most excell.
All I can say is but Epitomie,
A life's too little for thy History.
I can but write thee in Stenographie,
The whole of others is but part of thee.
But thou hast spoke thy self in such a strain,
Our wits are useless, and endeavours vain.
Silence and admiration fit me best,
Let others try to write, I'll weep the rest.
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