To the whole VVorld in generall, and more particularly to the Iles of Great-Britaine and Ireland, &c.
Big-swoln with sighs, & almost drown'd in tears,
My Muse out of a dying trance up-rears;
Who yet not able to expresse her moans,
(Instead of better utterance) here grones.
And lest my close-breast should her health impaire
Is thus amongst you come to take the aire.
I need not name the griefs that on her seaze,
Th' are known by this beyond th' Antipodes.
But to your view some heavy rounds she brings,
That you may beare the burthen when she sings:
And that's but Woe, which you so high should strain,
That heavens high vault might Eccho't back again.
Then, though I have not strived to seem witty,
Yet read, and reading note, and noting pitty.
What though there's others show in this more Art?
I have as true, as sorrowfull a heart:
What though Opinion give me not a Name,
And I was ne'er beholding yet to Fame:
Fate would (perhaps) my Muse, as yet unknown,
Should first in Sorrows livery be shown.
Then be the witnesse of my discontent,
And see if griefes have made me Eloquent:
For here I mourne for your-our publike losse,
And do my penance at the Weeping-crosse.
The most sorrowfull, G. W.
