AN
ELEGY
On the late
Duke of Monmouth.
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AS Saylors Split on Rocks, so restless man,
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By fond Ambition is too oft undone;
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Swelld with aspiring thought, he courts his Fate,
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Nor sees the Danger till it is too Great;
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But blinded by the Mist of Hope he strays,
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Through paths of Rashness, into Ruins ways:
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So the late Monmouth, giving way to Pride,
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A mighty Ruin pulld upon his Head;
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Debauchd by Factious, Those that sought our Woe,
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And Studied Brittains Empires overthrow;
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Then listning to the foolish noisie Croude,
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Whose Clamours at the best, are but a Cloude;
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(Empty of Rain) inconstant as the Wind,
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Coud vain contentment in that Vapour find:
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Twas Fatal Flattery the Foundation layd,
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(Of his Ambition too, too long displayd)
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On cozning Quick-sands that his hopes betrayd;
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Who giving Ear to Factious Breath durst be,
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Th inglorious Pattern of Disloyalty;
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And after many Favours, eager still,
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To feed the Flame of an insatiate Will:
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To tempt his Fate, as if her Wings were slow,
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And rush regardless on his overthrow.
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How has the Royal Goodness oft been found,
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In mildest Mercy, strongly to abound?
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In hopes his hot and feverish Breast woud cool,
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And leave a calmer Temper in his Soul:
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But all in vain, those dear indearments move,
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No Loyalty, Obedience, no, nor Love.
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In his Ingrateful Mind, O what can be
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Worse than Ingratitude to that degree,
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Ingratitude, from which, mankind should flee;
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For what Returns are found, but Impious War,
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And fierce Invasion, but not carryd far,
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Er Fate begins the Progress, and just Heaven,
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A Check to bold ambitious Reins had given;
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Justice took place, just Armes obtaind the Day,
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And quelld by force, what favours could not sway;
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Whilst Death to Gloomy Caves does tumble down,
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The bold Aspirer to a Sacred Crown,
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And with a lasting slumber, seals his Eyes,
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Who strangely strove by lawless ways to rise:
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So let him stand a Sea-Mark on our Coast,
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To warn those Spirits that are Tempest tost,
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With feverish Faction, lest there be lost;
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That Loyalty, may more, and more increase,
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And we be blessd with plenty and with peace.
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EPITAPH.
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SOaring upon Icarian Wings he fell,
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Who durst against the best of Kings Rebell.
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Now silent is, he whose late restless Mind,
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Ambition swelld, till he a Grave did find.
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