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But as if Phaeton had usurp'd its Rule,
In the full Brightness of its Course it fell,
Whilst all the frighted World with wonder gaz'd,
And Nature at her own disorder stood amaz'd:
While you, ah Pious Mourner did prepare
To offer up to Heav'n your early Prayer;
You little thought 'twou'd meet your dear-lov'd Monarch there:
But on the Wings of Death the News approach't,
And e'ne destroy'd the wondring sense it touch't;
O Mighty Heav'n-Born Soul! that cou'd support
So like a God! this cruel first effort!
Without the Feebler Sexes mean replies,
The April Tributes of their Tears and Cries.
Your Valu'd Loss a Noysey Grief disdain'd
Fixt in the heart, no outward sign remain'd;
Though the soft Woman bow'd and dy'd within;
Without, Majestick Grace maintain'd the Queen!
Yet swiftly to the Royal Bed You fly,
Like short-liv'd Lightning from the parted sky;
Whose new-born Motions do but flash and dy.
Such Vig'rous Life ne're mov'd your steps before,
But here—they sunk beneath the Weight they bore.
Princes we more than Humane do allow,
You must have been above an Angell too;
Had You resisted this sad Scene of Woe;
So the Blest Virgin at the Worlds great loss,
Came, and beheld, then Fainted at the Cross.
Methinks I see, You like the Queen of Heav'n,
To whom all Patience and all Grace was giv'n;
When the Great Lord of Life Himself was lay'd
Upon her Lap, all wounded, Pale, and Dead;
Transpierc'd
