On the Death of the Queen of Bohemia.

ALthough the most do with officious heat
Onely adore the Living and the Great;
Yet this Queen's Merits Fame hath so far spread,
That she rules still, though dispossest and dead.
For losing one, two other Crowns remain'd;
Over all hearts and her own griefs she reign'd.
Two Thrones so splendid, as to none are less
But to that third which she does now possess.
Her Heart and Birth Fortune so well did know,
That seeking her own fame in such a Foe,
She drest the spacious Theatre for the fight,
And the admiring World call'd to the sight:
An Army then of mighty Sorrows brought,
Who all against this single Vertue fought;
And sometimes stratagems, and sometimes blows
To her Heroick Soul they did oppose:
But at her feet their vain attempts did fall,
And she discovered and subdu'd them all.
Till Fortune weary of her malice grew,
Became her Captive and her Trophee too:
And by too late a suit begg'd to have been
Admitted Subject to so brave a Queen.
But as some Hero who a field hath wone,
Viewing the things he had so bravely done,
When by his spirit's flight he finds that he
With his own Life must buy the Victory,
He makes the slaughter'd heap that next him lies
His Funeral Pile, and then in triumph dies:
So fell this Royal Dame, with conquering spent,
And left in every breast her monument;
Wherein so high an Epitaph is writ,
As I must never dare to copy it.
But that bright Angel which did on her wait,
In fifty years contention with her fate,
And in that office did with wonder see
How great her troubles, how much greater she;
How she maintain'd her best Prerogative,
In keeping still the power to Forgive;
How high she did in her Directions go,
And how her Condescension stoop'd as low;
With how much Glory she had ever been
A Daughter, Sister, Mother, Wife, and Queen;
Will sure employ some deathless Muse to tell
Our children this instructive Miracle,
Who may her sad Illustrious Life recite,
And after all her Wrongs may doe her Right.