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earth_n great_a heaven_n star_n 6,109 5 8.1401 4 true
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A93534 Some teares dropt ore the herse of the incomparable Prince Henry Duke of Gloucester 1660 (1660) Wing S4621; Thomason 669.f.26[7] 921 1

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SOME TEARES Dropt ore the Herse Of the INCOMPARABLE PRINCE HENRY Duke of GLOUCESTER FAtal September to the Royal Line Has snatch'd one Heröe of our hopeful Trine From Earth 't is strange Heav'n should not praedeclare A loss so grievous by some Blazing Star Which might our Senses overjoy'd alar'm And time give to prepare for so great Harm The Spring-tide of our Joy was newly Flood Paying our Thankful Vows for so much good We gather now under a gracious KING Inspired Bards began strong Lays to Sing When ôh sad Fate Ebb'd are our Flowing Seas And Epiques chang'd to Doleful Elegies Cruel Extremes thus robb'd of Joys the chief Thrown down like Light'ning into Seas of Grief 'T is past the reach of Mortals to devine Why Heav'n so soon has broke our Threefold Line We may not pry without a black offence Into th' Arcana's of his Providence But may believe since with a Bounteous Hand God has restor'd the Blessings of this Land That he has flung us into Griefs extreme Not out of Wrath to Us but Love to Him He was Fair Fruit sprung from a Royal Bud And grown as great by fair Renown as Blood Ripe too too soon for in a Youth so green An Harvest was of gray-hair'd Wisdome seen Minerva's Darling Patron of the Gown Lover of Learning and Apollo's Crown He was the Muses he began to nourish Learn'd Men and Arts under his wings did flourish But lest we should commit Idolatry Heav'n took him from our Sight not Memory For though he 's carried to th' Immortal Sphere Our Loves will make his Fame Immortal here 'T is Autumn now and Ceres to our hands Has pour'd the Annual Blessings of our Lands We'ave robb'd the teeming Trees of all their fruit And left them naked till the Spring recruit Their store again till then they hang their head And stand like Mourners leaves for tears they shed So the high powers Cropt from the Royal Stem What was too good for us and fit for them Whilest we lament till a new Spring arise And CHARLS his First-born clear our weeping eyes A general Sadness locks up every Tongue Amazedness has struck the Laureats dumb And who would weep through too much Grief forbears Excess of Grief gives yet no vent for Tears But when the Coming Springs begin to rise Grief then will draw a deluge from our Eyes Till then these Loyal Drops fall'n into Verse Shall wash the Cypress on his Royal Herse London Printed by W. Godbid for Henry Brome at the Gun in Ivy-lane and Henry Marsh at the Princes-Arms in Chancery-lane neer Fleet-street M. DC LX