 | Poems |  |
59
Upon the Kings sicknesse.
Sicknesse, the minister of death, doth laySo strong a seige against our brittle clay,
As whilst it doth our weake forts singly win,
It hopes at length to take all man-kind in:
First, it begins upon the wombe to waite,
And doth the unborne child there uncreate;
Then rocks the cradle where the infant lyes,
Where, e're it fully be alive, it dyes.
It never leaves fond youth, untill it have
Found, or an early, or a later grave.
By thousand subtle sleights from heedlesse man,
It cuts the short allowance of a span.
And where both sober life, and Art combine
To keepe it out, Age makes them both resigne.
Thus by degrees it onely gain'd of late,
The weake, the aged, or intemperate;
But now the Tyrant hath found out a way
By which the sober, strong, and young, decay:
Entring his royall limbes that is our head,
Through us his mystique limbs the paine is spread,
60
In any part of his dominion;
If he hold land, that earth is forfeited,
And he unfit on any ground to tread.
This griefe is felt at Court, where it doth move
Through every joynt, like the true soule of love.
All those faire starres that doe attend on Him,
Whence they deriv'd their light, wax pale and dim.
That ruddie morning beame of Majestie,
Which should the Suns ecclipsed light supply,
Is overcast with mists, and in the liew
Of cherefull rayes, sends us downe drops of dew:
That curious forme made of an earth refin'd,
At whose blest birth, the gentle Planets shin'd
With faire aspects, and sent a glorious flame
To animate so beautifull a frame;
That Darling of the Gods and men, doth weare
A cloude on's brow, and in his eye a teare:
And all the rest (save when his dread command
Doth bid them move,) like livelesse statues stand;
So full a griefe, so generally worne
Shewes a good King is sick, and good men mourne.
| Poems | |