Classic Poem

As when the Glorious Magazine of Light
Approaches to his Cannopy of night
He with new splendour cloth's his dying rays
And double brightness to his beams conveys.
As if to brave and check his ending fate
Put's on his highest looks in's lowest State,
Drest in such Terrour as to make us all
Be Anti-persians, and adore his fall.
Then quits the world, depriving it of day,
While every herb and Plant does droop away
So when our Gasping English Royalty
Perceiv'd her period now was drawing nigh,
She summons her whole strength to give one blow,
To raise her self, or pull down others too.
Big with revenge and hope, she now spake more
Of Terrour than in many mon'ths before
And muster's her attendants or to save
Her from, or wait upon her to the Grave.
Yet but enjoy'd the miserable fate
Of setting Majesty, to dy in State.
Unhappy Kings! Who cannot keep a throne
Nor be so fortunate to fall alone!
Their weight sink's others; Pompey could not fly
But half the world must beare him company
Thus Captive Sampson could not life conclude
Unless attended with a multitude.
Who'd trust to Greatness now, whose food is ayre,
Whose ruine sudden, and whose end despaire?
Who would presume upon his Glorious Birth?
Or quarrell for a spacious share of earth
That sees such diadems become thus cheap,
And Heroes tumble in the common heap?
O! Give me vertue then, which summ's up all,
And firmely stands when Crowns and Scepters fall.