Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould.
Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak),
Nature, that hated emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war, Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtile fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands, Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;