University of Virginia Library

Are all our hopes but this? did we expect
that thou our falling Fortunes shoulst erect,
And must thou fall thy selfe? a little dust
Remaine of him, who, we did surely trust,
Should into dust have brought Romes prouder walls,
And hastned the great whores just Funeralls?

Is this the noble Conquerour? this he,
Who was the Favourite of victory?
Who, whatsoever he attempted, wrought,
Event still gladly lackying his wise thought,
Who wrought no other thing, then what he should,
His power being still confin'd to what was good:
How could he choose then but be happyest,
Who had his will, who will'd that which was best?

Alas how pale he lookes! sure tis not He,
This is the count'nance of the Enemy,
When Sweden prest him, thus did Tilly looke,
When in the field of Leipsich, that sad booke,
He read his following miseries, which did reach,
As farre as Elve is distant from the Leach;
Where he receiv'd his Death at his proud knee,
Because before he would not bow to thee,

This was Bavaria's colour when he saw
His Arts could not diswade, nor forces draw
Thee from thy high designes, this was his hew,
When after all his projects, he not drew
A sword in his defence, and threw away
His lands without the hazard of a day,
As if hee'd see, how nobly thou wouldst use them,
Or he had had his countryes, but to lose them.

Or thus look'd Fridland, when he saw the field
Strew'd with his slaughter'd souldiers who doe yeeld
Riches to those grounds, whēce they took the spoile;
And their dead bodies doe manure the soile,
Which, living, they had wasted, in that howre,
When Sweden foyld the Emperours Emperour.
If these looke pale 'tis fit, a pretty art,
That their owne cheekes, should represent the heart
Of their dead forces, should want blood as well,
And by their Faces, shew us how They fell.

Let's looke againe: Alas! tis He, tis He,
This was Gustavus, was? ô misery,
Was it, and ist not? ô that face! those eyes!
Where Spaine and Austria read their destinies
Are they the dainties for the worme? that hand,
Lift up to Prayer alway, or Command
Must that lye still for Ever? must it bee,
So still, as it would make the Enemy?

Was it for this thou leftst thy native soile,
Thy Queene, thine Heire, was it for this? to toile
For others benefit, and after, have
For all thy travells but a German grave?
Could not thy Sweden bury thee? nor give
Rest to thy bones, which whilst that thou didst live
Bestow'd a Crowne upon thy head? was't more
To give a Graye, then a whole Realme before?
Yet this is thy reward, that thou doest lye,
In the, by thee twice reskew'd Saxony:
Yet what reward is this for thee? they have
From thee their Right, frō them thou but thy Grave.

Farre be all blessing from that man, who first
Found out that Fatall instrument, who durst
Thunder on Earth, and teach mankind a way
How they might send mankind unto their clay,
Not knowing who 'twas sent them, by whose skill
The Coward is instructed how to kill,
And the brave man must at a distance dye
By him, whom neerer, his owne livelyer eye
Would look to Death: how could he have the braine,
To teach the world by what a world is slaine,
Or since he knew the mischiefe of his Art,
If he could have the Braine, yet how the Heart?
Is this the Cloysterd study? cannot they
Deny the world; unlesse the world they slay?
Is this (I'de know) their owne selfes to deny,
To cause, besides themselves all else should dye?
Are they coop'd up for this? but I admire
In vaine, how from the Devill, and the Frier
Commeth ought, that is not, Hellish, how those two
Should thinke, what 'twas not a lowd crime to doe?
Wert not for them 'twould be no wondred thing
To see at once one Aged, and a King,
Since we doe learne in Sage experience Schoole
Crownes would be sacred wert not for the Cowle.
Nor are we longer ign'rant now, who gave
Birth to our sorrow, to our joy a grave,
What ever mist to blind our eyes they spread,
The Hand we doe not know, we doe the Head,
Which that we may curse home, to pay his due,
Let us their triumph and our losse review.

Many have beene victorious, ev'ry Age
Hath once produc'd some Worthies on the Stage,
Sacred to glory: Rome doth Cæsar praise,
Carthage her Hannibal to Heav'n doth raise
Thy Bruce ô Scotland is farre fam'd by thee,
Their Henry, France doth boast, our Edward we,
All these were Conqu'rours, but upon what right
May we inquire, did some of them first fight?
Some were but Royall robbers, and the best
Made man so cheape for their owne Interest,
Revenge, or Profit drove them unto Fame,
And thus they injur'd, whilst they gain'd their name:
Whilst all Thy power is spent in doing good,
And thou gain'st nothing but the losse of blood,
Whilst all thy power is spent the wrong'd to right,
And thus thy acts are Iudgement, and not Fight,
Thus whilst their actions in this currant ran
To make th'Oppressour greater the Man,
Had there beene none opprest, thou hadst lien still
That thou might Save thou wert inforc't to Kill:
Whilst all thy power is spent in Gods owne Cause,
To plant, or to establish his pure Lawes
To make Professours fearelesse, that it might
No longer be a crime to be i'th' Right,
Nor a sufficient cause to make one Dye
That he would seeke a true Æternity.
These are thy Acts—to make the Enemy yeeld,
By force to make him quit the blood-died field;
To take in townes with as much ease, as though
Their walls were like to those of Jericho,
Would fall to give thee entrance; to or'e come
Whole countryes with more speedinesse then some
Could view them, all these are thy acts tis knowne,
But these, with others, thine; those, thine alone.

I challenge thee proud Greece and prouder Rome,
From their first birth unto their latest tombe,
Peruse your Heroes, read their actions or'e
Make what was somewhat, by your Fabling, more,
Add lye and all to boot, then if you dare
Bring them: if with Gustavus you compare,
They shall as much that competition shunne,
As a weake Taper yeelds to the bright Sunne,
Which of them ever fought for others gaines,
That theirs might be the Profit his the Paines?

I could be infinite thee to commend,
But thou thy selfe doest not despise an end
I therefore hasten: having done thus much
Thou now wouldst see whether another such
Would after thy departure rise, or why
May I not say, that thou wouldst therefore dye
That man should grudge no longer at his Death
Nor strive to keep whe heav'n would take his breath?
Must we all Dye? proud death then doe thy worst,
What ere thou canst, Sweden hath sufferd first
And he being dead who now would live? mine eies
Begin to flow a fresh; new fountaines rise,
Which threaten inundations, but I stay,
When I consider, thou hast found one way,
Not to doe all for others: Princely shade!
This is thy Art of warre at length t'invade
Heav'n for Thy selfe, there all the gaines are Thine,
Thou wert not Kill'd for the Prince Palatine:
When I thinke this then doe I spare mine eye:
For others thou dost Fight, for thy selfe Dye.