Windsor castle, in a monument to our late-sovereign K. Charles II of ever blessed memory a poem / by Tho. Otway.

Windsor Castle, IN A MONUMENT TO K. CHARLES II.

A POEM

THough Poets Immortality may give, And Troy does still in Homer's numbers live; How dare I touch thy Praise, Thou glorious Frame, Which must be Deathless, as thy Raiser's Name:

But that I wanting Fame am sure of Thine To eternize this humble Song of mine. At least the Mem'ry of that More than man, From whose vast Mind thy Glories first began, Shall even my mean and worthless Verse commend, For Wonders always did his Name attend. Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

Great were the Tolls attending the Command Of an ungratefull and a stiff-neck'd Land, Which, grown too wanton, 'cause 'twas over blest, Wou'd never give its Nursing Father rest; But, having spoil'd the Edge of ill-forg'd Law, By Rods and Axes had been kept in Awe; But that his gracious Hands the Sceptre held In all the Arts of Mildly guiding skill'd; Who saw those Engines which unhing'd us move, Griev'd at our Follies with a Father's Love, Knew the vile ways we did't afflict him take, And watch'd what haste we did to Ruine make.

Yet when upon its brink we seem'd to stand, Lent to our Succour a Forgiving hand. Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels thence arise.

Mercy's indeed the Attribute of Heav'n, For Gods have Pow'r to keep the balance ev'n, Which if Kings loose, how can they govern well▪ Mercy shou'd pardon, but the Sword compell. Compassion's else a Kingdom's greatest harm, Its Warmth engenders Rebels till they swarm; And round the Throne themselves in Tumults spread, To heave the Crown from a long Suff'rer'd Head. By Example this that God-like King once knew; And after, by Experience, found too true. Under Philistian Lords we long had mourn'd, When he, our great Deliverer, return'd; But thence the Deluge of our Tears did cease, The Royal Dove shew'd us such marks of Peace. And when this Land in Bloud he might have laid, Brought Balsam from the Wounds our selves had made.

Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

Then Matrons bless'd him as he pass'd along, And Triumph echo'd through th' enfranchis'd throng. On his each Hand his Royal Brothers shone, Like two Supporters of Great Britain's Throne: The first, for Deeds of Arms, renown'd as far As Fame e'er flew, to tell great Tales of War; Of Nature gen'rous, and of stedfast Mind; To Flat'ry deaf, but ne'er to Merit blind; Reserv'd in Pleasures, but in Dangers bold; Youthfull in Actions, and in Conduct old; True to his Friends, as watchfull o'er his Foes, And a just Value upon each bestows; Slow to condemn, nor partial to commend; The brave Man's Patron, and the wrong'd Man's Friend, Now justly seated on th' Imperial Throne, In which high Sphere no brighter Star e'er shone: Vertue's great Pattern, and Rebellion's Dread; Long may he live to bruise that Serpent's Head.

Till all his Foes their just Confusion meet And growle and pine beneath his mighty Feet.

The second, for Debates in Councils fit, Of steddy Judgment and deep piercing Wit; To all the noblest Heights of Learning bred; Both Men and Books with Curious Search had read: Fathom'd the ancient Policies of Greece, And having form'd from all one curious Piece, Learn't thence what Springs best move and guide a State, And could with ease direct the heavy Weight. But our then angry Fate great Glo'ster seiz'd, And never since seem'd perfectly appeas'd. For, oh! What pity, People bless'd as we With Plenty, Peace and noble Liberty, Should so much of our old Disease retain, To make us surfeit into Slaves again! Slaves to those Tyrant Lords whose Yoke we bore, And serv'd so base a Bondage to before; Yet 'twas our Curse, that Blessings flow'd too fast, Or we had Appetites too course to taste.

Fond Israelites; our Manna to refuse, And Egypt's loathsome Flesh-pots murm'ring chuse.

Great Charles saw this, yet hush'd his rising Breast, Though much the Lion in his Bosome prest. But he for Sway seem'd so by Nature made, That his own Passions knew him, and obey'd. Master of them, he soften'd his Command, The Sword of Rule scarce threatn'd in his Hand. Stern Majesty upon his Brow might sit, But Smiles, still playing round it, made it sweet: So finely mix'd had Nature dar'd t' afford; One least Perfection more, h'ad been ador'd, Mercifull, just, good natur'd, lib'ral brave, Witty, a Pleasure's Friend, yet not her Slave. The paths of Life by noblest methods trod; Of mortal mould, but in his Mind a God. Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

In this great Mind long he his Cares revolv'd, And long it was e'er the great Mind resolv'd.

Till Weariness, at last his Thoughts compos'd; Peace was the Choice, and their Debates were clos'd. But, oh! Through all this Isle, where it seems most design'd, Nothing so hard as wish'd-for Peace to find. The Elements due Order here maintain, And pay their Tribute in of Warmth and Rain. Cool Shades and Streams, rich fertile Lands abound, And Nature's bounty flows the seasons round. But we, a wretched race of Men, thus blest, Of so much Happiness (if known) possest, Mistaking every noblest Use of Life, Left beauteous Quiet, that kind, tender Wife, For the unwholesome, brawling Harlot, Strife. The Man in Power, by wild Ambition led, Envy'd all Honours on another's Head; And, to supplant some Rival, by his Pride Embroil'd that State his Wisedom ought to guide. The Priests who humble Temp'rance should profess, Sought silken Robes and fat voluptuous Ease;

So with small Labours in the Vineyard shown Forsook God's harvest to improve their own. That dark Aenigma (yet unriddled) Law, Instead of doing Right and giving Awe, Kept open Lists, and at the noisy Bar, Four times a year, proclaim'd a Civil War; Where daily Kinsman, Father, Son and Brother Might damn their Souls to ruine one another. Hence Cavils rose 'gainst Heav'ns and Caesar's Cause, From false Religions and corrupted Laws; Till so at last Rebellion's Base was laid, And God or King no longer were obey'd.

But that good Angel whose surmounting Power Waited Great Charles in each emergent hour, Against whose Caro Hell vainly did decree, Nor faster could design than That foresee, Guarding the Crown upon his Sacred Brow From all its blackest Arts, was with him now, Assur'd him Peace must be for him design'd, For he was born to give it all mankind.

By Patience, Mercies large, and many Toils, In his own Realms to calm intestine Broils, Thence ev'ry root of Discord to remove, And plant us new, with Unity and Love. Then stretch his healing Hands to neighbouring Shores, Where Slaughter rages and wild Rapine roars; To cool their Ferments with the Charmes of Peace, Who, so their Madness and their Rage might cease, Grow all, (embracing what such Friendship brings) Like us the People, and like Him their Kings. But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

For this Assurance pious Thanks he paid, Then in his Mind the beauteous Modell laid Of that Majestick Pile, where oft his Care A while forgot he might for Ease repair. A Seat for sweet Retirement, Health and Love, Britain's Olympus, where, like awfull Iove, He pleas'd could sit, and his Regards bestow On the vain, busie, swarming World below.

E'en I, the meanest of those humble Swains. Who sang his Praises through the fertile Plains, Once in a happy hour was thither led, Curious to see what Fame so far had spread. There, Tell my Muse, what wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and his Gelestial Mind.

'Twas at that joyfull, hallow'd Day's return, On which that Man of Miracles was born, At whose great Birth appear'd a noon-day Star, Which Prodigy foretold yet many more; Did strange Escapes from dreadfull Fate declare, Nor shin'd, but for one greater King before. Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

For this great Day were equal Joys prepar'd, The Voice of Triumph on the Hills was heard; Redoubl'd Shoutings wak'd the Echo's round And chearfull Bowls with loyal Vows were crown'd. But, above all, within those losty Towers, Where Glorious Charles then spent his happy hours,

Joy wore a solemn, though a smiling Face, 'Twas gay, but yet Majestick, as the Place. Tell then, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

Within a Gate of strength, whose ancient Frame Has out-worn Time and the Records of Fame, A Reverend * 1.1 Dome there stands, where twice each day Assembling Prophets their Devotions pay, In Prayers and Hymns to Heaven's Eternal King, The Cornet, Flute and Shawme, assisting as they sing. Here Israel's mystick Statutes they recount, From the first Tables of the Holy Mount, To the blest Gospel of that Glorious Lord, Whose pretious Death Salvation has restor'd. Here speak, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

Within this Dome a shining † 1.2 Chapel's rais'd, Too Noble to be well describ'd or prais'd. Before the Door, fix'd in an Awe profound, I stood and gaz'd with pleasing Wonder round;

When one approach'd who bore much sober Grace, Order and Ceremony in his Face; A threatning Rod did his dread Right-hand poize, A badge of Rule and Terrour o'er the Boys: His Left, a Massy bunch of Keys did sway, Ready to open all to all that pay. This Courteous Squire, observing how amaz'd My Eyes betray'd me as they wildly gaz'd, Thus gently spoke: Those * 1.3 Banners rais'd on high Betoken noble Vows of Chivalry, Which here their Hero's with Religion make When they the Ensigns of this Order take. Then in due method made me understand What Honour fam'd St. George had done our Land; What Toils he vanquish'd, with what Monsters strove; Whose Champion's since for Vertue, Truth and Love, Hang here their Trophies, while their gen'rous Arms Keep Wrong supprest and Innocence from Harms. At this m' Amazement yet did greater grow, For I had been told all Vertue was but Show.

That oft bold Villany had best Success, As if its Use were more nor Merit less. But here I saw how it rewarded shin'd. Tell on, my Muse, what Wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and Charles his mighty Mind.

I turn'd around my Eyes, and, * 1.4 Lo, a Cell, Where melancholy Ruine seem'd to dwell: The Door unhing'd, without or Bolt or Ward, Seem'd as what lodg'd within found small regard. Like some old Den, scarce visited by Day, Where dark Oblivion lurk't and watch't for Prey. Here, in a Heap of confus'd Waste, I found Neglected Hatchments tumbled on the ground; The Spoils of Time, and Triumph of that Fate Which equally on all Mankind does wait: The Hero levell'd in his humble Grave, With other men, was now nor great nor brave; While here his Trophies, like their Master, lay, To Darkness, Worms and Rottenness, a Prey.

Urg'd by such Thoughts as guide the truly Great, Perhaps his Fate he did in Battel meet; Fell in his Prince's and his Countrey's Cause; But what his Recompence? A short Applause, Which he ne'er hears, his Memory may grace, Till, soon forgot, another takes his Place.

And happy that Man's Chance who falls in time, E'er yet his Vertue be become his Crime; E'er his abus'd Desert be call'd his Pride, Or Fools and Villains on his Ruine ride. But truly blest is he whose Soul can bear The Wrongs of Fate, nor think them worth his Care: Whose Mind no Disappointment here can shake, Who a true Estimate of Life does make, Knows 'tis uncertain, frail, and will have end, So to that Prospect still his Thoughts does bend; Who, though his Right a stronger Power invade, Though Fate oppress, and no man give him Aid, Cheer'd with th' Assurance that he there shall find Rest from all Toils, and no Remorse of mind;

Can Fortune's Smiles despise, her Frowns out-brave; For who's a Prince or Beggar in the Grave?

But if Immortal any thing remain, Rejoice my Muse, and strive that End to gain. Thou kind Dissolver of encroaching Care, And Ease of e'ery bitter Weight I bear, Keep from my Soul Repining while I sing The Praise and Honour of this Glorious King; And farther tell what Wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

Beyond the Dome a * 1.5 Lofty Tower appears, Beauteous in Strength, the Work of long past years; Old as his noble Stem, who there bears sway, And, like his Loyalty, without Decay. This goodly ancient Frame looks as it stood The mother Pile; and all the rest her brood So carefull Watch seems piously to keep, While underneath her Wings the Mighty sleep; And they may rest, since * 1.6 Norfolk there commands, Safe in his faithfull Heart and valiant Hands.

But now appears the * 1.7 Beautous Seat of Peace, Large of extent and fit for goodly Ease; Where Noble Order strikes the greedy Sight With Wonder, as it fills it with Delight; The massy Walls seem, as the Womb of Earth, Shrunk when such mighty Quarries thence had birth; Or by the Theban Founder they'd been rais'd, And in his pow'rfull Numbers should be prais'd: Such Strength without does ev'ry where abound, Within such Glory and such Splendour's found, As man's united skill had there combin'd T' express what one great Genius had design'd.

Thus, when the happy World Augustus sway'd, Knowledge was cherish'd and Improvement made; Learning and Arts his Empire did adorn, Nor did there one neglected Vertue mourn; But, at his Call, from farthest Nations came, While the Immortal Muses gave him Fame. Though when her far stretch'd Empire flourish'd most, Rome never yet a Work like this could boast:

No Caesar e'er like Charles his Pomp expr••ss'd, Nor ever were his Nations half so blest: Though now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

Here, as all Nature's Wealth to Court him prest, Seem'd to attend him, Plenty, Peace and Rest. Through all the lofty Roofs * 1.8 describ'd we finde The Toils and Triumphs of his Godlike mind: A Theam that might the Noblest Fancy warm, And onely fit for † 1.9 his who did performe. The Walls adorn'd with richest woven Gold, Equal to what in Temples shin'd of old, Grac'd well the Lustre of his Royal Ease, Whose Empire reach'd throughout the wealthy Seas: Ease which he wisely chose, when raging Arms Kept neighb'ring Nations waking with Alar'ms: For when Wars troubl'd her soft Fountains there, She swell'd her Streams, and flow'd in faster here; With her came Plenty, till our Isle seem'd blest, As Canaan's Shore, where Israel's Sons found rest.

Therefore when Cruel Spoilers who have hurl'd Waste and Confusion through the wretched World, To after times leave a great hated Name, The Praise of Peace shall wait on Charles's Fame; His Countrey's Father, through whose tender Care, Like a lull'd Babe she slept, and knew no Fear; Who, when sh'offended, oft would hide his Eyes▪ Nor see, because it griev'd him to chastize. But if Submission brought her to his Feet, With what true Joy the Penitent he'd meet! How would his Love still with his Justice strive! How Parent-like, how fondly he'd forgive! But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise▪

Since after all those Toils through which he strove By ev'ry Art of most endearing Love, For his Reward he had his Britain found, The Awe and Envy of the Nations round. Muse then speak more what Wonders thou didst find Worthy thy Song and his Celestial Mind.

Tell now what Emulation may inspire And warm each British Heart with War-like Fire; Call all thy Sisters of the Sacred Hill, And by the Painter's Pencill guide my Quill; Describe that lofty monumental * 1.10 Hall, Where England's Triumphs grace the shining Wall, When she led captive Kings from conquer'd Gaul. Here when the Sons of Fame their Leader meet, And at their Feasts in pompous order sit, When the glad sparkling Bowle inspires the Board, And high rais'd Thoughts great Tales of War afford, Here as a Lesson may their Eyes behold What their victorious Fathers did of old; When their proud Neighbours of the Gallick shore Trembled to hear the English Lion Roar. Here may they see how good old † 1.11 Edward sate And did his * 1.12 Glorious Son's Arrival wait, When from the Fields of vanquish'd France he came, Follow'd by Spoils, and usher'd in by Fame.

In Golden Chains he their Quell'd Monatch led, Oh, for such Laurels on another Head! Unsoil'd with Sloth, nor yet o'er cloy'd with Peace. We had not then learn'd the loose Arts of Ease. In our own Climes our vig'rous Youth were nurst, And with no foreign Educations curst. Their Northern Mettle was preserv'd with Care, Not sent for soft'ning into hotter Air. Nor did they 'as now from fruitless Travels come With Follies, Vices and Diseases home; But in full Purity of Health and Mind Kept up the Noble Vertues of their Kind. Had not false Senates to those Ills dispos'd, Which long had England's Happiness oppos'd With stubborn Faction and rebellious Pride, All Means to such a noble End deny'd, To Britain, Charles this Glory had restor'd, And those revolted Nations own'd their Lord But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lies, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

And now survey what's open'd to our view, Bow down all Heads, and pay Devotion due. The Temple by this Hero Built behold, * 1.13 Adorn'd with Carvings, and o'erlaid with Gold; Whose radiant Roof such Glory does display, We think we see the Heaven, to which we Pray; So well the Artist's hand has there delin'd The mercifull Redemption of Mankind; The bright Ascension of the Son of God, When back through yielding Skies to Heav'n he rode, With Lightning round his Head, and Tunder where [he trod. Thus when to Charles, as Solomon, was given Wisedom, the greatest gift of Bounteous Heaven; A house like his he built, and Temple rais'd, Where his Creatour might be fitly prais'd; With Riches too and Honours was he Crown'd, Nor whilst he liv'd, was there one like him found. Therefore what once to Israel's Lord was said, When Sheba's Queen his glorious Court survey'd,

To Charles's Fame for ever shall remain, Who did as wondrous things, who did as greatly Reign▪ ``Happy were they who could before him stand, ``And saw the Wisedom of his dread Command; For Heav'n resolv'd, that much above the rest Of other Nations Britain should be Blest. Found him when Banisht from his Sacred Right, Try'd his Great Soul, and in it took delight; Then to his Throne in Triumph did him bring, Where never Rul'd a Wiser, Juster King. But now (alas!) in the sad Grave he lyes, Yet shall his Praise for ever live, and Laurels from it rise.

Thus far the Painter's Hand did guide the Muse, Now let her lead, nor will he sure refuse. Two kindred Arts they are, so near ally'd, They oft have by each other been supply'd. Therefore, Great Man when next thy Thoughts encline To works of Fame, let this be the Design. As thou couldst best Great Charles his Glory show, Shew how he fell, and whence the fatal blow.

In a large Scene may give Beholders Awe, The meeting of a num'rous Senate draw; Over their Heads a black distemper'd sky, And through the Air let grinning Furies fly, Charg'd with Commissions of Infernal date, To raise fell discord and intestine hate; From their foul Heads let them by handfulls tear The ugliest Snakes, and best lov'd Fav'rites there, Then whirle them (spouting venome as they fall) 'Mongst the assembled numbers of the Hall; There into murm'ring Bosoms let them go, Till their Infection to Confusion grow; Till such bold Tumults and Disorders rise, [ned Skyes. As when the Impious Sons of Earth assail'd the threat-

But then let Mighty Charles at distance stand, His Crown upon his Head, and Sceptre in his Hand; To send abroad his Word, or with a Frown Repell, and dash th' Aspiring Rebels down: Unable to behold his dreaded Ray, Let them grow blind, disperse and reel away.

Let the dark Fiends the troubled Air forsake, And all new peacefull Order seem to take.

But oh Imagine Fate t' have waited long An hour like this, and mingled in the Throng, Rous'd with those Furies from her seat below, T' have watcht her onely time to give the blow: When cruel Cares by faithless Subjects bred, Too closely prest his Sacred Peacefull Head; With them t' have pointed her destroying Dart, And through the Brain found passage to the Heart. Deep wounding Plagues Avenging Heav'n bestow On those Curst. Heads to whom this loss we owe! On all who Charles his Heart affliction gave, And sent him to the sorrows of the Grave!

Now, Painter, (if thy Griefs can let thee) draw The saddest Scene that weeping Eyes e'er saw; How on his Royal Bed that wofull day The much lamented Mighty Monarch lay; Great in his fate, and ev'n o'er that a King, No terrour could the Lord of Terrours bring.

Through many steady and well manag'd years He'ad arm'd his Mind'gainst all those little fears, Which common Mortals want the Pow'r to hide, When their mean Souls, and valu'd Clay divide. Had studied well the worth of Life, and knew Its troubles many, and its blessings few; Therefore unmov'd did Deaths approaches see, And grew familiar with his Destiny. Like an Acquaintance entertain'd his Fate, Who as it knew him, seem'd content to wait, Not as his Gaoler, but his friendly Guide, While he for his great Journey did provide.

Oh couldst thou express the yearnings of his mind To his poor mourning People left behind! But that I fear will e'en thy skill deceive, None but a Soul like his such goodness could conceive. For though a stubborn Race deserving ill, Yet would he shew himself a Father still. Therefore he chose for that peculiar care, His Crowns, his Vertues, and his Mercies Heir.

Great Iames who to his Throne does now succeed, And charg'd him tenderly his Flocks to feed; To guide them too, too apt to run astray, And keep the Poxes and the Wolves away.

Here, Painter, if thou canst thy Art Improve, And shew the wonders of Fraternal Love; How mourning Iames by fading Charles did stand, The Dying grasping the Surviving Hand; How round each others Necks there Armes they cast, Moan'd with endearing mur'mrings, and embrac't, And of their parting Pangs such marks did give, 'Twas hard to guess which yet could longest live. Both their sad Tongues quite lost the pow'r to speak, And their kind Hearts seem'd both prepar'd to break

Here let thy curious Pencil next display, How round his Bed a beauteous Off-spring lay, With their Great Father's Blessing to be Crown'd, Like young fierce Lions stretcht upon the ground, And in Majestick silent Sorrow drown'd.

This done, suppose the Ghastly minute nigh, And Paint the Griefs of the sad Standers-by; Th' unwearied Rev'rend Father's pious care, Off'ring (as oft as tears could stop) a Prayer. Of Kindred Nobles draw a sorrowing Train, Whose looks may speak how much they shar'd his pain; How from each Groan of his, deriving smart, Each fetcht another from a tortur'd Heart. Mingled with these, his faithfull Servants place, With different Lines of Woe in ev'ry Face; With down cast Heads, swoln Breasts, & streaming Eyes, And Sighs that mount in vain the unrelenting Skyes.

But yet there still remains a Task behind, In which thy readiest Art may labour find. At distance let the Mourning Queen appear, (But where sad News too soon may reach her Ear;) Describe her prostrate to the Throne above, Pleading with Pray'r the tender cause of Love: Shew Troops of Angels hov'ring from the Sky, (For They whene'er she call'd were always nigh)

Let them attend her Cries and hear her moan, With looks of beauteous sadness like her own, Because they know her Lord's great Doom is scl'd, And cannot (though she ask it) be repeal'd.

By this time think the work of Fate is done, So any farther sad Description shun, Shew him not Pale and Breathless on his Bed, 'Twould make all Gazers on thy Art fall Dead; And thou thy self to such a scene of woe Add a new Piece, and thy own statue grow.

Wipe therefore all thy Pencils, and prepare To Draw a prospect now of clearer Air. Paint in an Eastern Sky new dawning Day, And there the Embrio's of Time display; The forms of many smiling years to come, Just ripe for birth, and lab'ring from their Womb, Each strugling which shall Eldership obtain, To be first, Grac't with Mighty Iames his Reign. Let the Dread Monarch on his Throne appear; Place too the charming Partner of it there.

O'er his their wings let Fame and Triumph spread, And soft-Ey'd Cupid's Hover o'er her Head; In his Paint Smiling, yet Majestick Grace, But all the wealth of Beauty in her Face. Then from the diff'rent Corners of the Earth Describe Applauding Nations coming forth, Homage to pay, or humble Peace to gain, And own Auspicious Omens from his Reign. Set at long distance his Contracted Foes Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose; Draw shame or mean despair in all their Eyes, And terrour lest th'Avenging Hand should rise. But where his Smiles extend draw beauteous Peace, The Poor Man's chearfull Toils, the Rich Man's Ease. Here, Shepherds Piping to their feeding Sheep, Or stretcht at length in their warm Hutts asleep; There jolly Hinds spread through the sultry Fields, Reaping such Harvests as their Tillage yields; Or sheltr'd from the scorchings of the Sun, Their Labours ended, and repast begun;

Rang'd on Green Banks which they themselves did raise, Singing their own Content, and Rulers Praise. Draw beauteous Meadows, Gardens, Groves and Bowers, Where Contemplation best may pass her Hours; Fill'd with Chast Lovers plighting Constant Hearts, Rejoycing Muses, and encourag'd Arts. Draw ev'ry thing like this that Thought can frame, Best suiting with thy Theam, Great Iames his Fame. Known for the Man who from his Youthfull years, By mighty Deeds has earn'd the Crown he wears, Whose Conq'ring Arm far envied wonders wrought, When an ungratefull Peoples Cause he Fought; When for their Rights he his brave Sword employ'd▪ Who in Return would have his Rights destroy'd: But Heav'n such Injur'd merit did regard, (As Heav'n in time true Vertue will regard) So to a Throne by Providence he rose, And all who e'er were his, were Providence's Foes.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  S. George's Church.
• † 1.2

  S. George's Chapel.
• * 1.3

  The Ban∣ners of the Knights of the Garter.
• * 1.4

  An old Isle in the Church where the Banner of a dead Knight is carried when another succeeds him.
• * 1.5

  The Keep.
• * 1.6

  The now Duke of N. Constable of Windsor.
• * 1.7

  The House.
• * 1.8

  The Pain∣tings done by
• † 1.9

  The Sieur Verrio, his Majestie's chief Painter.
• * 1.10

  Where St. George's Feast is kept.
• † 1.11

  Edw. III.
• * 1.12

  The Black▪ Prince.
• * 1.13

  The Cha∣pel at the end of the Hall.