Epigram on the Sacred Memory of King Charles the Second

If Sacred Worth, which high as Heaven does raise
His Fame, were low enough for mortal Praise,
The mighty Theme would crack each studious Brain,
No Tongue be still, nor unimploy'd no Pen;
But since no Planet can for Phaebus shine,
And all Applause is vain of things Divine,
To Court a Tomb let every Muse be taught,
And perish with the sad extremes of Thought;
The impoverish'd Land is by his loss undone,
As each Muse dull'd now its Inspirer's gone:
Blest by his Beams the learn'd in Crowds would throng,
To […] the Oraculous Wisdom of his Tongue;
Mute as the Grave, when he a Story told,
England was then as Athens was of old,
Or Rome, where Arms with Science flourish'd long,
Augustus smil'd at honour'd Virgil's Song,
But now our Harps are on the Willows hung:
For since the Sovereign of all Arts could die,
There is no farther use of Poetry;
Hot Pegasus no middle Tract will go,
Charles, is a Theme too high, and all besides too low.