Have not so many precious lives of late
Suffis'd to quench the greedy thirst of Fate?
Though to encrease the mournfull purple Flood,
As well as Noble, she drank Royal Blood;
That not content against us to engage
Our own wild fury, and Usurpers rage;
By Sickness now, when all that Storm is past,
She strives to hew our Hero's down as fast;
And by the prey she chooses, shews her aym
Is to extinguish all the English Fame;
Else had this Generous Youth we now have lost,
Been still his friends delight, and Countrey's boast,
And higher rais'd th'Illustrious name he bore,
Then all our Chronicles had done before.
Had Death consider'd, e're he struck this blow,
How many noble hopes t'would overthrow;
The Genius of his House (who did complain
That all her Worthy's now dy'd o're again)
His flourishing, and yet untainted years;
His Father's anguish, and his Mother's tears;
Sure he had been perswaded to relent,
Nor had for so much early sweetness, sent
That fierce disease, which knows not how to spare
The young, the Great, the Knowing, or the Fair.
But we as well might flatter every wind,
And court the Tempests to be less unkind,
As hope from Churlish Death to snatch his prey,
Who is as furious and as deaf as they;
And who hath cruelly surpriz'd in him,
His parents Joy, and all the world's Esteem.
Say, treacherous hopes that whisper in our Eare,
Still to expect some steady comfort here,
And though we oft discover all your Arts,
Would still betray our disappointed hearts;
What new delusion can you now prepare,
Since this pale Object shews how false you are?
'Twill fully answer all you have to plead,
If we reply, great Warwick's heyr is dead:
Blush, humane hopes and Joyes, and then be all
In solemn mourning at this Funerall.
For since such expectations brittle prove,
What can we safely either hope or Love?