On the death of the Queen by a person of honour.

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On the death of the Queen by a person of honour.
Cutts, John Cutts, Baron, 1661-1707.
London :: Printed for R. Bentley,

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Subject terms
Mary -- II, -- Queen of England, 1662-1694 -- Poetry.
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"On the death of the Queen by a person of honour." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A35524.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 22, 2024.


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SHE's gone! The Beauty of our Isle is fled; Our Joy cut off, the Great MARIA dead. We faint beneath the Stroak: But weep no more, Waft not our Sorrow to a Foreign Shore; Lest ALBION's Enemies with impious Breath Prophane our Sighs, and Triumph in Her Death. Tears are too mean for Her; our Grief should be Dumb as the Grave, and Black as Destiny. For such a Loss let universal Nature mourn, And all things to their first Disorder turn.

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Ye Fields and Gardens, where our Soveraign walk'd Serenely Smil'd, and profitably Talk'd; Be Gay no more; but Wild and Barren lye, That all your blooming Sweets, with Her's, may dye, Sweets that crown'd Love, and soften'd Majesty.
Blest Princess How distinguish'd, how dor'd! How much above ev'n Her own Sphere She soar'd! Whilst other Monarchs glory in their State, In Wealth and Power contented to be Great; She, with a God-like and Heroick Mind, Pursu'd a Greatness of another Kind; A brighter Diadem than Earth could give; A glorious Name that should for ever live. And with unwearied Virtue pressing on, Gave Lustre to, not borrow'd from a Crown. Nor was this Angel lodg'd in common Earth, Her Form proclaim'd Her Mind as well as Birth; So graceful and so lovely; ne're was seen A finer Woman, or more awful Queen: The Gazing Crowd admir'd Her as a God, And reverenc'd the Ground whereon she trod.
Ye gentle Nymphs that on her Throne did wait, And help'd to fill the Brightness of Her State;

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Mourn over your dead Mistress, speechless mourn, Watch Her dear Ashes, and attend Her Urn. She cherish'd and adorn'd your tender Years, Preventing still the fearful Mothers Cares; Whilst all with shining Gold, and Purple grac'd, Your Beauties in the fairest Light were plac'd.
How Majesty is fall'n! As if the Great Were destin'd to short Days, and sudden Fate. O Empire! Thou deceitful treacherous Good! How false thy Smiles, tho' hard to be withstood! What stormy Ills thy calmer Brow conceals, And what uncommon Stroaks a Monarch feels! See where the glorious NASSAV fainting lyes; The mighty ATLAS falls, the Conqueror dyes.
O Sir! return, to ALBION's Help return; Command your Grief, and like a Hero mourn. If you forsake us, we are lost indeed; Your Subjects now Lament, but then must Bleed. Think what a Task Your Virtue has begun, And be not weary e're your Race is run. That Power that form'd You in the tender Womb, Then laid the Scenes of all Your Toils to come. Decreed that you should EVROPE's Saviour be, And from fierce Monsters purge the Earth and Sea;

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Monsters of Tyrants that oppress 〈◊〉〈◊〉 And set no Bounds to their ambitious Mind.
Success and Honour wait upon your Arms; Heav'n guide your Heart and guard you still from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 MARIA has the Crown of Glory won▪ And may you Late arrive where she is gone.

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