Great Gloucester's dead, and yet in this we must
Confesse that angry heaven is wise and just
We have so long and yet so ill endur'd
The woes which our offences had procur'd,
That this new shock would all our strength destroy,
Had we not knowne an intervall of joy.
And yet perhaps this stroke had been excus'd,
If we this intervall had not abus'd
But our ingratitude and discontent
Deserv'd to know our mercies are but lent;
And those complaints heaven in this rigid fate
Doth first chastise, and then legitimate.
By this it our divisions doth reprove,
And makes us joine in griefe, if not in love
For (glorious youth) all parties do agree,
As in admiring, so lamenting thee.
The soveraigne's, subject's, foreigner's delight:
Thou wert the universall favourite.
Not Rome's belov'd and brave Marcellus fell
So much a darling or a miracle.
Built of the richest bloud and finest earth,
Yet hadst a heart more noble then thy birth;
Which by the afflictive changes thou didst know,
Thou hadst but too much cause and time to show.
For when fate did thy infancie expose
To the most barbarous and stupid foes;
Yet then thou didst so much express a prince,
As did even them amaze, if not convince.
Nay, that loose Tyrant whom no bounds confin'd,
Whom neither lawes, nor oathes, nor shame could bind,
Although his soule was then his lookes more grim,
Yet thy brave Innocence halfe softned him,
And he that worth wherein thy soule was drest,
By his ill favour'd clemencie confest;
Less'ning the ill which he could not repent,
He call'd that travaile which was banishment
Escap'd from him, thy Trialls were increast;
The scene was chang'd, but not the danger ceast
Though from rough guardians to seducers gone,
Those made thy temper, these thy judgment knowne;
Whiles thou the noblest Champion wert for truth,
Whether we view thy courage or thy youth.
If to foyle nature and ambition claimes
Greater reward then to encounter flames,
All that shall know thy story must allow
A martyr's crowne prepared for thy brow.
But yet thou wert suspended from thy throne,
Til thy great brother had regain'd his owne:
Who though the bravest sufferer, yet even he
Could not at once have miss'd his crowne and thee.
But as comission'd Angels make no stay,
But having done their errand go their way;
So thy part done, not thy restored state,
The future splendour that did for thee waite,
Nor that thy prince and countrey must mourne for
Such a support, and such a councellour,
Could longer keepe thee from that Blisse, whence thou
Look'st downe with pitty on earth's Monarchs now;
Where thy capacious Soule may quench her thirst,
And younger brothers may inherit first.
While on our King heaven doth this care expresse,
To make his comforts safe, it makes them lesse
For the successfull heathens us'd to say,
It is too much, great Gods! send some allay.