KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Think’st thou, base slave, though in my grave
Like other men I lie,
My sparkling fame and royal name
Can (as thou wishest) die?
Know, caitif, in my son I live
(The Black Prince call’d by some),
And he shall ample vengeance give
To those that did my doom.
Supprest, deprest, involved in woes,
Great Charles, thy people be
Basely deceived with specious shows
By those that murther’d thee.
We are enslaved to tyrants’ hests,
Who have our freedom won:
Our fainting hope now only rests
On thy succeeding son.
CROMWELL ON THE THRONE.
Base vulgar! know, the more you stir,
The more your woes increase,
Your rashness will your hopes deter,
’Tis we must give you peace.
Black Charles a traitor is proclaim’d
Unto our dignity;
He dies (if e’er by us he’s gain’d)
Without all remedy.
KING CHARLES IN HIS COFFIN.
Thrice perjured villain! didst not thou
And thy degenerate train,
By mankind’s Saviour’s body vow
To me thy sovereign,
To make me the most glorious king
That e’er o’er England reign’d;
That me and mine in everything
By you should be maintain’d?
Sweet prince! O let us pardon crave
Of thy beloved shade;
’Tis we that brought thee to the grave,
Thou wert by us betray’d.
We did believe ’twas reformation
These monsters did desire;
Not knowing that thy degradation
And death should be our hire.