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A Copie of Verses

said to be Composed by His Majestie, upon His first Imprisonment in the Isle of Wight [by Alexander Brome]

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A Copie of Verses, said to be Composed by His Majestie, upon His first Imprisonment in the Isle of Wight.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Imprison me ye Traytors! Must I be
Your fetter'd Slave, whilst you'r at liberty?
T'usurpe my Scepter, and to make my power
Gnaw its owne Bowels, and it selfe devoure?
You glorious Villaines! Treasons that have beene
Done in all Ages, are liv'd ore agen.
Nimble Proficients! you have far out-done
Your Tutors presidents; and have out-run
The practice of all times: We see againe,
A second Cesar by a Senate slaine:
A State disturb'd by th'Gracchi; and the times
Spawning with Sylla's and the Catalines.
The Villanies, and Treasons, which of old,
Time has for Incredulity inroll'd,
Are but mock-shews to yours, whose Acts will be
Thought Legendary by Posterity.
Was't not enough you made me beare the wrong
Of a Rebellious Sword, and worser Tongue,
To take my Crowne, State, Children, Friends, and Wife,
But will you have my Liberty, and Life?
'Cause Ile not signe, or give consent unto
Those lawlesse Actions you have done, or doe?
Nor yet betray my Subjects, and so be
As Treacherous to them as you to me?
Mistaken Fooles! d'ee think my soule can be
Grasp'd, or infring'd, by such low things as ye?
And does the Coronet forget his owne
True Interest, to joyne to spurne the Crowne?
Can they not see, when th'Oake's cut downe, that all
The Clambring Ivie downe with it must fall?
Subjects can have no safety but their graves,
When Slaves doe sway, and Soveraignes are slaves.
True hearts, I pitty still, whose Sufferings,
And Remedies are twisted with the Kings.
Alas! though I'm injur'd, my mind's so free,
Ile make my very Gaole your Liberty.
Plot, do your worst; I safely shall deride,
In my crown'd Soule, your base, inferior pride,
And stand unmov'd, though all your plagues you bring,
Ile die a Martyr, or Ile live a King.
FINIS.