 | Poems &c. By James Shirley |  |
Upon the death of K. James.
When busie Fame was almost out of breath,
With telling to the world King James his death,
I gave the voice no credit; not that I
Beleev'd in Law, That Kings can never die:
For though of purer mold, at last they must
Resolve to their cold principle, the dust,
Distinguish'd onely from the common men,
That being dead, their dust is Royal then.
With telling to the world King James his death,
I gave the voice no credit; not that I
Beleev'd in Law, That Kings can never die:
For though of purer mold, at last they must
Resolve to their cold principle, the dust,
Distinguish'd onely from the common men,
That being dead, their dust is Royal then.
What though the King were old? as soon must they
Be at home, whose journey's down-hill all the way.
But I would trust my eye, not every sound,
The ear oft catches things at false rebound.
Be at home, whose journey's down-hill all the way.
But I would trust my eye, not every sound,
The ear oft catches things at false rebound.
To cleer my doubts, some told me, that did bring
By Torch-light, the dead body of the King:
When every star, like kinsmen to the dead,
That night close-mourners, hid their golden head,
And had repos'd that Royal burden, where
His people might embalm him with their tear.
By Torch-light, the dead body of the King:
When every star, like kinsmen to the dead,
That night close-mourners, hid their golden head,
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His people might embalm him with their tear.
Sorrow finds quick direction: I came
To a fair House, I cannot giv't a name,
It had so many, onely this I know,
It might be aptly call'd the House of wo,
Deaths Inne of late for Princes, who there lay,
As taking but a Lodging in their way
To the dark Grave. Entred the Court, I see
Many attir'd in black, but this might be
Their abstinence for Lent, for who is there
That cannot fast from Colours once a yeer?
After some justling with the guard, I came
To th'presence, which but mockt me with a name,
For it presented nothing to my eye
But blacks, and tears for absent Majesty.
To a fair House, I cannot giv't a name,
It had so many, onely this I know,
It might be aptly call'd the House of wo,
Deaths Inne of late for Princes, who there lay,
As taking but a Lodging in their way
To the dark Grave. Entred the Court, I see
Many attir'd in black, but this might be
Their abstinence for Lent, for who is there
That cannot fast from Colours once a yeer?
After some justling with the guard, I came
To th'presence, which but mockt me with a name,
For it presented nothing to my eye
But blacks, and tears for absent Majesty.
Thence to the Privie-chamber I did passe,
In hope to find him there, but there, alas!
I found new shapes of sorrow, Men whose eyes
Drunk up by tears, shew'd life in a disguise:
The mourning state here did renew my wo
For the lost Presence, Velvet hangings too
Made sorrow of more value, which beheld
The 'Scutcheon Royal in a Sable Field.
In hope to find him there, but there, alas!
I found new shapes of sorrow, Men whose eyes
Drunk up by tears, shew'd life in a disguise:
The mourning state here did renew my wo
For the lost Presence, Velvet hangings too
Made sorrow of more value, which beheld
The 'Scutcheon Royal in a Sable Field.
To the bed-chamber, then (the shrine some said,
Where the pale body of the King was laid)
My wild devotion brought me, This sad room
At first did fright me, opening like a Tomb,
To shew me death, where Tapers round about
Flameles, would tell me that our light was out:
But by that melancholy day was lent
I might discover on his monument
A King, with subtle Artifice so set,
My sense did stagger at the Counterfet.
Where the pale body of the King was laid)
My wild devotion brought me, This sad room
At first did fright me, opening like a Tomb,
To shew me death, where Tapers round about
Flameles, would tell me that our light was out:
But by that melancholy day was lent
I might discover on his monument
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My sense did stagger at the Counterfet.
Alas, was this the way to gain belief
That he was dead, to paint him now to life?
As if, when we had lost him, it had been
Enough to have thought him but alive agen:
But to these sad Remonstrances I give
No faith, the King I sought, might be alive,
For all these figures, and their Makers be
(At least as my soul wish'd) more dead then he.
That he was dead, to paint him now to life?
As if, when we had lost him, it had been
Enough to have thought him but alive agen:
But to these sad Remonstrances I give
No faith, the King I sought, might be alive,
For all these figures, and their Makers be
(At least as my soul wish'd) more dead then he.
From thence to White-hall, when I came, with wing.
Nimble as fear could make, I found the King,
I triumph'd here, and boldly did revive,
King James not dead, he was in Charles alive.
Nimble as fear could make, I found the King,
I triumph'd here, and boldly did revive,
King James not dead, he was in Charles alive.
| Poems &c. By James Shirley | |