Like a cold fatal sweat which ushers death 
My thoughts hang on me, & my lab'ring breath 
Stopt up with sighs, my fancie big with woes, 
Feels two twinn'd mountains struggle in her throws, 
Of boundless sorrow one, t'other of sin; 
For less let no one rate it to begin 
Where honour ends. In Great Gustavus flame 
That style burnt out, and wasted to a name, 
Does barely live with us. As when the stuff 
That fed it failes, the Taper turns to snuff. 
With this poor snuff, this ayerie shadow, we 
Of Fame and Honour must contented be; 
Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled 
Their glorious substance is, now He is dead. 
Speak it again, and louder, louder yet; 
Else whil'st we hear the sound we shall forget 
What it delivers. Let hoarse rumor cry 
Till she so many ecchoes multiply, 
Those may like num'rous witnesses confute 
Our unbelieving soules, that would dispute 
And doubt this truth for ever. This one way 
Is left our incredulity to sway; 
To waken our deaf sense, and make our ears 
As open and dilated as our fears; 
That we may feel the blow, and feeling grieve, 
At what we would not feign, but must believe. 
And in that horrid faith behold the world 
From her proud height of expectation hurl'd, 
Stooping with him, as if she strove to have 
No lower Center now then Swedens grave. 
O could not all thy purchas'd victories 
Like to thy Fame thy Flesh immortalize? 
Were not thy vertue nor thy valour charmes 
To guard thy body from those outward harmes 
Which could not reach thy soul? could not thy spirit 
Lend somewhat which thy frailty might inherit 
From thy diviner part, that Death nor Hate 
Nor envy's bullets ere could penetrate? 
Could not thy early Trophies in stern fight 
Torn from the Dane, the Pole, the Moscovite? 
Which were thy triumphs seeds, as pledges sown, 
That when thy honours harvest was ripe grown, 
With full-summ'd wing thou Falcon-like wouldst fly 
And cuff the Eagle in the German sky: 
Forcing his iron beak and feathers feel 
They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel. 
Could not all these protect thee? or prevaile 
To fright that Coward Death, who oft grew pale 
To look thee and thy battails in the face? 
Alas they could not: Destiny gives place 
To none; nor is it seen that Princes lives 
Can saved be by their prerogatives. 
No more was thine; who clos'd in thy cold lead, 
Dost from thy self a mournful lecture read 
Of Mans short-dated glory: learn you Kings, 
You are like him but penetrable things; 
Though you from Demi-Gods derive your birth, 
You are at best but honourable earth: 
And howere sifted from that courser bran 
Which does compound and knead the common man, 
Nothing's immortal or from earth refin'd 
About you, but your Office and your Mind. 
Here then break your false Glasses, which present 
You greater then your Maker ever meant: 
Make truth your Mirrour now, since you find all 
That flatter you confuted by his fall. 
Yet since it was decreed thy lifes bright Sun 
Must be eclips'd ere thy full course was run, 
Be proud thou didst in thy black Obsequies 
With greater glory set then others rise. 
For in thy death, as life, thou heldest one 
Most just and regular proportion. 
Look how the Circles drawn by Compass meet 
Indivisibly joyned head to feet, 
And by continued points which them unite 
Grow at once Circular and Infinite: 
So did thy Fate and honour now contend 
To match thy brave beginning with thy end. 
Therefore thou hadst instead of Passing bells 
The Drums and Cannons thunder for thy knells; 
And in the Field thou did'st triumphing dy, 
Closing thy eye-lids with a victory: 
That so by thousands who there lost their breath 
King-like thou might'st be waited on in death. 
Liv'd Plutarch now, and would of Cæsar tell, 
He could make none but Thee his parallel; 
Whose tide of glory swelling to the brim 
Needs borrow no addition from Him. 
When did great Julius in any Clime 
Atchieve so much and in so small a time? 
Or if he did, yet shalt Thou in that land 
Single for him and unexampled stand. 
When ore the Germans first his Eagle towr'd 
What saw the Legions which on them he pour'd? 
But massie bodies, made their swords to try 
Subjects not for his fight, but slavery. 
In that so vast expanded peece of ground 
(Now Swedens Theater and Tom he found 
Nothing worth Cæsars valour, or his fear, 
No conqu'ring Army, nor a Tilley there, 
Whose strength nor wiles, nor practice in the warre 
Might the fierce Torrent of thy triumphs barre, 
But that thy winged sword twice made him yield, 
Both from his trenches beat, and from the field. 
Besides the Romane thought he had done much 
Did he the bank of Rhenus onely touch. 
But though his march was bounded