Yet grieve not, CHARLES, nor thy hard fortunes blame;
They took thy life, but they secur'd thy fame.
Their greater crimes made thine like specks appear,
From which the Sun in glory is not clear.
Had'st Thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath
At Nature's call, had'st Thou laid down in death
As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne
On the four winds, had been in pieces torne.
Pity, the Virtue of a gen'rous soul,
Sometimes the Vice, hath made thy mem'ry whole.
Misfortunes gave, what Virtue could not give,
And bade, the Tyrant slain, the Martyr live.