Dying Tears.
OR,
Englands Joy turned to mourning, for the loss of that Vertuous
Prince, Henry Duke of Glocester, 3d. Son to our late Soveraign
King Charles the first: Who departed this life the 13 of September,
in the Year of our Lord, 1660.
Prepare for death before you dye,
If you would live eternally.
To the Tune of, Aim not too high.
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G[Reat] are the wonders that our God hath done,
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Great are the mercies which to us are shown
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Yet we forget to say that God is just,
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Even though he turn the living into dust.
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Now learn, O England, learn for to lament
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His death; who from us hath been long absent;
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And at the last is come on English Shore
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To lay his Corps; whose death we now deplore.
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Just in the prime and blooming of His age,
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Dear Glosters ravished from this mortall Stage:
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Yet though his body can no more revive,
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Yet his rare Vertues seem to be alive.
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Scarce had fair England bidden welcome home
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This our most vertuous Prince, but death doth come;
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Scarce had his weary body taken rest,
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Behold grim death doth come and takes his breath.
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How can fair England weep enough and mourn,
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His comely Corps we cant enough adorn:
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O death, our hopes, our Treasure, in an hour
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Hast thou dispersd, which makes salt tears to showr
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O envious death! how darst thou in his Prime,
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To cut down him, in whom all vertues shine:
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Therefore weel seek his vertues for to blaze,
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Upon his Tomb we will set forth his Praise.
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No sooner in his vertues we did trust,
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But presently this Prince is turnd to dust:
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O then what course of lives should Mortalls take,
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Seeing that Princes cannot death forsake.
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Great Emperours and Kings lye at the stake,
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To day they live, to morrow their graves they make
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Death is a debt we owe, which we must pay:
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When death doth call, poor mortalls must obey.
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The Second Part to the same Tune,
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O That fond man, would but view ore his days,
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And seriously consider his own wayes:
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How that all things below are vanity,
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Our souls Reedmer tis that lives on high.
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The God of Love pour forth his mercies great
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On our Dread Soveraign, even from his mercy seat;
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O give him grace and wisedome to consider
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That where his Brothers gone, he must go thither.
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For Kings and Princes are but a span,
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When death doth come withs grimly dart in hand
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To give the stroak: whilst nature bids adieu
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To all its pleasures, and its Comfort too.
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O that our God would pour his spirit upon
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Our King and Prince, that they may both live long;
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O let them know tis not the arm of flesh
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Thats able to withstand Deaths powerfull crush.
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Tis not mans honour nor his powerfull hand,
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Nor his Riches that are at his command,
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Neither his friend at all can him deliver
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From deaths sad stroke, which strikes but once for ever.
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O learn with blessed David for to prove
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That Gods thy portion and thy only love;
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Then death shall not affright thee, nor the grave;
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But this shall thee rejoyce, thy soul to save.
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Death is no sting, the grave cannot contain
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The Righteous soul that makes God his aim,
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But wicked men when once laid in the Urn,
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Their souls in torments ever after burn.
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But this is not our Gloster Case, for he
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Was the true pattern of Nobility:
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Saint like he livd, and he the same did dye,
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As soon as dead to Heaven his soul did fly.
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When France did harbour this our Noble Pri[nce]
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His Mother did endeavour to convince
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Him to turn Papist; but with courage bold
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He said his true Religion he would hold
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The learned Jesuite could not him deceive,
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Their damned Doctrine he would not believer
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Nor all the Learned men that France could yield
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Could make this Christian prince to quite the field.
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But now hes dead! alas, where is he gone,
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His Corps to dust, his soul to Heaven is come:
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O then Rejoyce, O England, and be glad,
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That God has carried him, even to good from bad.
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Concluding, now I end my mournfull Song.
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Which to all men in England doth belong,
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Prepare for death before before you dye,
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If ere you mean to live eternally.
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