 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 5.
Encreas'd in power, and high Chevisance
Of armes, thy Tyrant foemen doe advance
Their crafty crests; He, he that was thy father,
And crownd thee once with blessings, now doth gather
His troops to work thy end; him, who advanc't thee
To be Earths Queen, thy sins have bent against thee
Strange spectacle of Griefe! Thy tender frie,
Whom childhood taught no language, but their cry
T'expresse their infant griefe, these, wretched these
By force of childish teares, could not appease
The ruthlesse sword, which deafe to all their cries,
Did drive them Captives from their mothers eies.
| Divine poems
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