On the Queens Departure

Up, up wronged Charls his friends, what can you be

Thus Mantled In a stupid Lethargie,

When all the world’s in Arms? and can there be

Armies of Fears abroad and none with thee?

Breath out your souls in sighs, melt into tears,

And let your griefs be equal to your fears;

The Sphæsres are all a jarring, and their jarres

Seems counter-like to Calculate the Starres;

The Inferior Orbes aspire, and do disdaine

To move at all, unlesse they may attain

The highest Room, our Occedentall Sunne

Eclips’d by Starres, forsakes his Horizon,

Bright Cinthia too (they say) hath hid her face

As ’twere Impatient of her Sol’s disgrace;

And our fears tell us, that unlesse the Sunne

Lend us his beams again, the World will run

Into another Chaos, where will be

Nought but the cursed Fruits of Anarchic;

Sedition, Murder, Rapine, and what’s worse

None to Implore for Aid; Oh, hears the Curse,

But stay ye Starres, what will ye wish to bee?

More Sunns then one will prove a Prodigie:

To afright the Amazed World, will ye be-night

That glorious Lamp, that Fountain of all light,

Will none but Sol’s own Chaire, please your desire?

Take heed bold Stars you’le set the world on fire.