 | Poems |  |
On the death of a Prince, a Meditation.
In what a silence Princes passe away,When they're enfranchis'd from their shells of clay?
No thunder-clap rung out this Heroes knell,
And in loud accents to the world did tell,
He was deceas'd; no trembling earth-quake shook
The frame o'th world, as if 'twere Palsie-strook.
There was no bearded Comet did arise,
To light a torch up at his Obsequies;
And though so many men should have deceas'd
When his great soule was from the flesh releas'd,
That Charons Vessell should have ceas'd to float,
And he have cried, give me another boat;
Not anie yet resign'd their vitall breath,
Obsequiously to wait on him, in death;
Thus we may see, Fates unrelenting knife
Will even cut a Princes thred of life;
Nor can his spreading power inforce its strength,
Or his Dominions extend its length,
If from the urne his name first issue forth,
Not his tall titles or unfathom'd worth,
Can this Prerogative, or Charter give,
That he his cheap dull vassall shall out-live;
And though the eyes o'th multitude before
Follow'd his presence, and did ev'n adore
The earth that propp'd his feet, yet when the rust,
Of's monument shall mingle with his dust,
Contracted to a span, and the rude wind
Shall his abbreviated ashes find,
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But that he will disperse them to contempt;
So many graves his dust shall (he being dead)
Obtaine, yet he be no where buried:
Who then in Titles, Crownes, or Wealth would trust,
Since he can scarce assure himselfe his dust?
Even in the grave shall so protected be,
It shall be freed from forraign injurie.
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