Upon the Death of Henry IV. of France

T HE fiends that envy'd my illustrious fate,
At length have pour'd on me their venom'd hate:
My life a shadow , though its breath is left,
Of Henry's animating love bereft,
He, on whom Nature's proudest gifts were spread,
Lies number'd in the myriads of the dead.
What night so dark as the funereal gloom
In which Despair envelopes Henry's tomb.
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