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to identify its author or collector, with the exception of the initials "A.B." at the end, affixed to an epitaph on the last page, which were most probably those of Alexander Brome, well known for his feelings of loyalty and attachment to Charles, who may have been the editor or collector of these elegies. The title is in red and black, and the work consists of an epitaph, five elegies, and another epitaph at the end. The elegies are written in a bombastic and outrageous style, in some instances almost approaching to blasphemy. Charles is made almost into a deity, and is placed in his sufferings next to those of the Redeemer. Take the following passage as an instance of this:

Now Charles as King, and as a good King too
Being Christs adopted self, was both to do
And suffer like him; both to live and die
So much more humble, as he was more High
Than his own Subjects. He was thus to tread
In the same footsteps, and submit his Head
To the same thorns: when spit upon, and beat,
To make his Conscience serve for his retreat,
And overcome by suffering: to take up

His Saviour's Crosse, and pledge him in his Cup.
Since then our Soveraign, by just account,
Liv'd o're our Saviours Sermon in the Mount,
And, did all Christian precepts so reduce,

That's Life the Doctrine was, his Death the Use;
Posterity will say, he should have dy'd

No other Death then by being Crucifi'd.

And their renownedst Epocha will be

Great Charles his Death, next Christ's Nativity.

The first Elegy extends to sixteen pages. The succeeding lines from it on the regicide Bradshaw may serve as a specimen of the book:

High in this dream, in this phantastick Bench,

Bold apparition Bradshaw doth intrench.

One whom the genuine Bar did seldome see,

Whose obscure tongue scarce boasts a seven years Fee,

Whose Lungs are all his Law, whose pleading noise

And silence, dearer then discreeter voice.

Religion justifies the Savages.

Whose conscience wears a face for every dresse ;

Faction'd and byas'd, for who gives most fair,

Camelion through, onely not hir'd with Aire,

Whose insolence no presence can relaxe,

Whose carriage wounds his King worse then the Axe.

This needy Oratour, now richer drest,

And higher plac'd, is Image still at best:
Who though from hell, he his glib dictates hold,

As Satan talk't i'th' Idols tongues of old;

Yet the close drift of this bright pomp and shrine,

Is nor the Devill, nor He, but worse design.

We give the concluding epitaph:

Within this sacred Vault doth lie
The Quintessence of MAJESTIE ;
Which being set, more glorious shines,
The best of KINGS, best of Divines:
Britains shame, and Britains glory,
Mirrour of Princes, complete Story
Of ROYALTY; One so exact

That th' Elixirs of Praise detract:

These are faint Shadows: But t' endure

Hee's drawn to th' life in's POURTACTURE:

If such another PIECE youl'd see,

Angels must Limn it out, or HEE
Where Wisdom, Grace, and Eloquence,

Are Centred in their Eminence.
Martyr'd HEE was to save His Laws,
Religion, People, from the jaws

Of ASSASINES, whose weal HEE sought,
Even then when they His MURDER Wrought

With horrid Plots, that HEADLESS He
(And in HIM Church and State) might be.
Then since Correlatives They were,

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The Book is without place or printer's name, and contains Sig. A to C 8 in eights. Jolley's sale, pt. ii. No. 677, 68. 6d.; Heber's ditto, pt. iv. No. 86, 88.

Half-bound in Calf.

CHARLES I.A Faithful Subjects Sigh on the universally-lamented Death and Tragicall End, of that Vertuous and Pious Prince, our most Gracious Soveraigne Charles I. King

of Great Brittaine, most Barbarously Butchered by his Rebellious Subjects. By a Gentleman now resident in the Court of Spain.

Printed in the Year 1649. 4to, pp. 8.

On the reverse of the title is an anagram on the name of Carolus Stuartus Scotus, Magnæ Brittanniæ, Rex, and a Chronogram. Like the preceding poem, the lamentations and sighs on Charles's death, are written in a coarse and exaggerated tone, and his sufferings compared with those of the Saviour. As witness the following quotation with which the poem concludes.

True, Grandame Nature, thou didst well resent
Thy God our Saviours Passion, thou did'st rent
The Temples vale asunder, and did'st split

The vaults of th' Earth, which such an ague fit

Lay trembling in, that therewithall she wak'd

The sleeping Ghosts, out of their darke Tombes shak'd,
To stand and wonder at that darker Night
When thou had'st spread black curtaines o're the Light
To solemnize Christ's funerall rites; but know

A Truer Symbole of our Christ then now
Ne're suffered since; then surely for His sake
Some lamentable change thou ought'st to make,
O're our most Gracious Soveraign now dead,
By his owne People (base Jewes) Martyred:
And 'twixt two Theeves too, Crucified, which were

And as the Chief Priests and the Pharisees

Held Councell 'gainst our Saviour, so these
Of our Sanhedrim with the Libertine,

In such å Parliament did now combine

'Gainst Christ's Anointed; where in vaine they sought
Him to surprise, 'till they Him also bought,
And Covenanted with the Scot for Gold,

Who Judas-like, his Native Master sold.
Then as the Dove in th' Talons of the Kite,

Secur'd by's Rebels in the Isle of Wight:

Where (as Christ in the Garden was) for Pray'r
Secluded, and devoted to prepare

Himselfe, for th' houre he knew was drawing nigh

To apprehend him, they a Company

Of Treacherous villaines sent him to betray,

And by that Kisse of Treaty lead the way

For them to gripe Him; then hir'd the loud cry
Of th' multitude, that should say, Crucifie.
Yet some of th' Jewish Jury could confesse
(Like Pilate) that they found their Lord guiltlesse;
Washing their hands, not hearts, saying they saw
No fault in Him; but ye have made a Law
(Said those dissenting Lords) whereby 'tis fit
We to your Swords' Him (and our selves) submit:
So His life He laid down, for th' sins of's Foes
(Like Christ) for the peculiar faults of those
That shed His Bloud: who their good King accus'd
Of th' selfe-same Crimes, wherewith they Him abus'd.
In all things Christ's true Picture, and who dies
So like's Redeemer, I dare Canonize.

And for that Earthly Crown which here He bare
(That Crown of Thornes so full of prickling Care,
And sharpe afflictions) I dare averre this,
He wears a Martyrs one in Paradise.

This tract is scarce. The present copy is from Skegg's sale, No. 332, 98., and is embellished with a portrait of Charles with flowing hair, falling laced band and Collar of the Garter.

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Half-bound in Calf.

CHARLES I. Stipendariæ Lacrymæ, or, A Tribute of Teares. Paid upon the Sacred Herse of the most Gracious and Heroick Prince, Charles I. Late King of Great Brittaine, France, and Ireland, murdered at Westminster, by his own (Regicide) Subjects, on Jan. 30. 1648.

Solvamus bono Principi Stipendarias Lacrymas,

quia ille nobis solvit etiam mortis suæ stipendium.
S. Amb. de Mort. Valen. Imp.

Hague, Printed for Samuel Browne, 1654, 4to. pp. 48.

Another of the numerous poetical tributes of affection paid to the memory of the royal martyr by a writer whose name is unknown, but whose verses are not altogether devoid of merit. The title is followed by a Latin inscription to Charles's memory, by the author, in the shape of an altar; by a "Chronosticon" on the beheading of Charles; and by a distich "To the

Author" signed C. B. The Poem which is preceded by an "Argumentum is entitled "Stipendariæ Lacrymæ, or, The Vision." It is written in seven line stanzas, and is divided into two parts, the first containing fifty stanzas, and the second twenty-six, ending with a song, a Latin distich, and the motto "Post Nebula Phoebus."

After comparing Charles with Cæsar, the writer falls into a trance, and the following stanzas describe not unpoetically his visions while he lay intranced:


Whilst thus intranc't (dull as my Couch) I laid,

A Diapred field took fast hold on mine eye:
Sure heer (I thought) SIDNEY the Arcadia made,
None such I saw in flow'ry Picardy,

Nor where the silver Loire steals laughing by.

This the originall, sweet Tempe is

But a mean Pencills ruder draught of this.


The Grasse in greenness Emeralds excell'd
Each gently striving all the rest to passe,
And yet they all an equall even height held
So woven with flowers, 'twas hard to say it was

Or reall Tapstery, or embroydred Grasse.

To which the Roses gave a blush, as though
At her own beauty Earth did bashful show.


This heap of sweets a cooling gale sweept over,
And (as if he'd brought too the Phanix Pile
On his wing) to my nostrill did deliver
A scent more fragrant than the gums of Nile,
Or all the Essences of Delos Isle,

Or Cyprus wild vine flowers; or (I may say)
Then any thing, but the breath of NEREA.


A stream of Nectar (the Nimphs looking-Glass)
Over the meadowes bosome (bubling) trill'd,
Writhing in knots, he danc'd the rounds, and as
He tript by, sung the Pleasures of the field,
Whose nodding spires time with his Musick held.

His note was a deep base, which let me know
He understood and did condole my woe.

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