Ivvenilia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Awake brave Prince, thou dost thy Countrey wrong,
Shake off thy slumber thou hast slept too long,
Open thy eye-lids, and raise up thy head,
Thy Country and thy Friends suppose thee dead.
Look up, look up, the daies are grown more short
Thy Officers prepare to leave thy Court.
The stains of sorrow are in every face,
And Charles is call'd upon to take thy Place.
Awake, I say, in time; and wake the rather,
Lest melancholy hurt thy Royall Father.
Thy weeping Mother wailes and wrings her hands,
Thy Brother and thy Sister mourning stands,
The want of that sweet company of thine
Inly torments the loving Prince of Rhine.

The Beauties of the Court are sullied o'er,
They seem not cheerfull as they did before.
The heavy Clergie in their Pulpits mourn,
And thy Attendants look like men forlorn.
Once more (I say) sweet Prince, once more arise,
See how the teares have drown'd my watry eyes;

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All my sweet tunes and former signes of gladnesse,
Are turn'd to Elegies and Songs of sadnesse.
The Trumpet with harsh notes the aire doth wound
And Dump is all the cheerfull Drum can sound.
Through Wales a dolefull Elegie now rings:
And heavy Songs of sorrow each man sings:
Distressed Ireland too, as sad as wee,
Cries loud, Oh hone, oh hone, for want of thee.
But more, Romes Locusts do begin to swarm,
And their attempts with stronger Hopes they arm,
For taking hold of this thy Trans-mutation,
They plot again a damned Toleration.
Yea Hell, to double this our sorrows weight,
Is new contriving of old Eighty eight.
Come then and stand against it to defend us,
Or else their guile, their plots, or force will end us.
This last-last time, sweet Prince, I bid thee rise,
Great Britons droup already, each man flies,
And if thou save us not from our great foes,
They quickly will effect our overthrows.
Oh, yet he moves not up his living head,
And now I fear indeed he's dead.

Spir.
He's dead.

Brit.
What voice was that, which from the vaulted roofe
Of my last words did make so plain a proofe?
What was it seem'd to speak above me so,
And saies, He's dead? Was't Eccho, yea, or no?

Sp.
No.

Br.
What? Is it some dispos'd to flout my mone?
Appeare; Hast thou a body, or hast none?

Sp.
None.

Br.
Sure some illusion, oh what art? come hither,
My Princes Ghost, or fiend, or neither?

Sp.
Neither.

Br.
Indeed his Ghost in heaven rests I know,
Art thou some Angel for him, Is it so?

Sp.
So.

Br.
Do not my reall griefs with visions feed,
In earnest speak, Art so indeed?

Sp.
Indeed.

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Brit.
What power sent thee now into my Coast?
Was it my Darling Henries Ghost?

Sp.
s' Ghost.

Br.
Th' art welcome then, thy presence gratefull is,
But tell me, Lives he happily in blisse?

Sp.
y's.

Br.
If so much of thee may be understood,
Is the intent of this thy comming good?

Sp
God.

Br.
Say, hath he there the fame that here he had?
Or doth the place unto his glory adde?

Sp.
Adde.

Br.
May I demand what thy good errands be,
To whom is that he told to thee?

Sp.
To thee.

Br.
Oh, doth he minde me yet, sweet Spirit say,
What is thy message? Ile obey:

Sp.
Obey.

Br.
I will not to my power one tittle misse,
Do but command and say, Doe this:

Sp.
Doe this.

Br.
But stay; it seems that thou hast made thy choyse
To speak with Eccho's most imperfect voyce:
In plainer wise declare why thou art sent,
That I may heare with more content:

Sp.
Content.