Now to her Tomb's convey'd the unhappy Fair;
But busie Fame will not be buried there:
Fame seems to joyn with our invet'rate Foes,
Spreads our bad Deeds, and gathers as it goes;
And with the Rumour, Royal  come,
To call the injur'd suff'ring  home:
Rewards, whoever brings the Absent Lord,
And all his Castles, and his Lands restor'd.
cou'd scarce resolve to trust again
Th' uncertain World, and faithless cruel Men,
Hid in a lowly State, a mean Retreat,
He found some Plagues, but none like being Great.
Now with a gentle Lord, his Age does rest,
No Care, nor Envy, does his Hours molest,
And Innocence and Peace possess his Breast.
His Children want the Greatness of his Name,
Nay he grows fond of the exalted Fame:
And as his Sons revolving in a Tent,
Discant on Change, Death, and this strange Event,
Both commiserate the guiltless Heroe's Fate;
Noblest Natures still, are most compassionate.
Attending  heard, and strait came forth,
And with a Look, that stamp'd his Words for Truth,
Began:
My Lords, in Pity, lend an Ear,
They're bless'd, who'll not disdain the Poor to hear:
If you'll Admission to the King obtain,
(For my Endeavours, wou'd, alas, prove vain)
Of that unhappy  I might tell,
I've met him oft; indeed, I know him well:
They said the Favour's lessen'd, when with pain 'tis sought,
My Friend, thou sure shalt to the King be brought;
To th' Royal Tent, they strait their Steps direct,
And having paid the King their due Respect,
Thus  spoke:
This aged Man of my Domestick Train,
Who begg'd with me, to cross the  Main;
To your Majesty, he sais, he can relate
The History of your loft  Fate:
Let him speak (hastily the King began)
For much I long to hear of that great injur'd Man.