Thy Genius, lo

Thy Genius, lo, from his sweet Bed of rest,

Adorn'd with Jassamin, and with Roses drest,

The Pow'r Divine has rais'd to stop thy Fate;

A true Repentance never comes too late:

So soon as born, she made her self a Shroud,

The weeping Mantle of a Fleecy Cloud,

And swift as thought, her Airy Journey took,

Her hand Heav'ns Azure Gate with trembling strook;

The Stars did with amazement on her look;

She told thy Story in so sad a Tone,

The Angels start from Bliss, and gave a groan.

But Charles beware, oh dally not with Heav'n,

For after this no Pardon shall be giv'n.