MESSENGER

The fire, though merciless, yet sometime joust, Hath done his partly; devoured, but refined; Performed thy will, and yet deceived thy trust. Echos they be of murmurs, which possess The hearts of men against Powers wickedness. The first which burned, as Cain his next of kin, In blood your Brother, and your Prince in State, Drew wonder from men's hearts brought horror in. This innocent, this soul too-meeke for sin, Yet made for others to do harm withal, With his self-pity tears, drew tears from us; His blood, compassion had; his wrong, stirred hate: Deceit is odious in a Kings Estate. Repiningly he goes unto his end: Strange Visions rise; strange Furies haunt the flame; People cry out; Echo repeats his name. These words he spoke, even breathing out his breath: " Unhappy weakness! never innocent! " If in a Crown, yet but and instrument. " People! observe; this fact may make you see: " Excess hath ruined what it self did built: " But ah! the more oppressed, the more you yield. The next was he, whose age had reverence; His gesture something more than privateness; Guided by one, whose stately grace did move Compassion, even in hearts that could not love. As soon as these approached near the flame, The wind, the steam, or furies, raised their vails; And in their looks this image did appear: Each, unto other; life, to neither deer. These words he spoke: " Behold one that hath lost " Himself within; and so the world without; " A King that brings authority in doubt: " This is the fruit of Powers misgovernment. " People! my fallen is joust; yet strange your fate, " That, under worst, will hope for better State. Grief roars aloud. Your Sister yet remained, Helping in death to him in whom she died, Then going to her own, as if she gained, These mild words spoke with looks to heaven bent: " Oh God! It's thou that sufferest here, not we: " Wrong does but Like it self in working thus: " At thy will, Lord! Revenge thy self, not us. The fire straight upward bears the souls in breath: Visions of horror circle in the flame, With shapes, and figures Like to that of death; But lighter-tongued, and nimbler-winged than fame: Some to the Church; some to the People fly: A voice cries out; Revenge, and Liberty. Princes! Take heed; Your glory is your care; And Powers foundations, Strengths, not Vices, are. Distract, confused, are all my inward spi rits: Grief would complain, yet dares not speak for fear. Horror the place of wonder disinherits. Cain's next of kin so willingly to die, For pomp, and honour to his funeral; The flesh to covet that which flesh does fly; This wonder went I to the Pile to see: As costly glories of the vanity. In stead of these; I saw the veils of Power, Practice, and pomp, specious hypocrisy, Rend from her face, even while she did devour. I saw those glorious stile of Government, God, Laws, Religion (wherein Tyrants hide The wrongs they do, and all the woes we bide) Wounded, profaned, destroyed. Power is unwise, That thinks in pomp to mask her Tyrannies. Look where he stands! a Monster grown within, Still thirsty, and yet full with Parents blood: Both man, and Tyrant dearly understood.