And if their axe invade the Regal throat, Remember you first murder'd Him by vote. Thus they receive your tennis at the bound, Take off that head which you had first un-crown'd; Which shows the texture of our mischiefs clew, If ravell'd to the top, begins in You, Who have for ever stain'd the brave intents And credit of our English Parliaments: 460 And in this one caus'd greater ills, and more, Than all of theirs did good that went before. Yet have You kept your word against Your will, Your King is great indeed and glorious still, And you have made Him so. We must impute That lustre which His sufferings contribute To your preposterous wisdoms, who have done All your good deeds by contradiction: For as to work His peace you rais'd this strife, And often shot at Him to save His life; 470 As you took from Him to increase His wealth, And kept Him pris'ner to secure His health; So in revenge of your dissembled spite, In this last wrong you did Him greatest right, And (cross to all You meant) by plucking down Lifted Him up to His Eternal Crown. With this encircled in that radiant sphere, Where thy black murderers must ne'er appear; Thou from th' enthroned Martyrs' blood-stain'd line, Dost in thy virtues bright example shine. 480 And when thy darted beam from the moist sky Nightly salutes thy grieving people's eye, Thou like some warning light rais'd by our fears, Shalt both provoke and still supply our tears, Till the Great Prophet wak'd from his long sleep, Again bids Sion for Josiah weep: That all successions by a firm decree May teach their children to lament for Thee. Beyond these mournful rites there is no art Or cost can Thee preserve. Thy better part 490 Lives in despite of Death, and will endure Kept safe in thy unpattern'd Portraiture: Which though in paper drawn by thine own hand, Shall longer than Corinthian-marble stand, Or iron sculptures: There thy matchless pen Speaks Thee the Best of Kings as Best of Men: Be this Thy Epitaph; for This alone Deserves to carry Thy Inscription. And 'tis but modest Truth (so may I thrive As not to please the best of thine alive, 500 Or flatter my Dead Master, here would I Pay my last duty in a glorious lie): In that admired piece the World may read Thy virtues and misfortunes storied; Which bear such curious mixture, men must doubt Whether Thou wiser wert or more devout. There live, Blest Relic of a saint-like mind, With honours endless, as Thy peace, enshrin'd; Whilst we, divided by that bloody cloud, Whose purple mists Thy murder'd body shroud, 510 Here stay behind at gaze: apt for Thy sake Unruly murmurs now 'gainst Heav'n to make, Which binds us to live well, yet gives no fence To guard her dearest sons from violence.