As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame),
But whosoe’er it was, Nature design’d
First a brave place, and then as brave a mind;
Not to recount those sev’ral kings, to whom
It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb;
But thee, great Edward, and thy greater son[2]
(The lilies which his father wore, he won),
And thy Bellona,[3] who the consort came
Not only to thy bed, but to thy fame, so
She to thy triumph led one captive king,[4]
And brought that son, which did the second bring. 
Then didst thou found that Order (whether love 83
Or victory thy royal thoughts did move),
Each was a noble cause, and nothing less
Than the design, has been the great success: 
Which foreign kings, and emperors esteem
The second honour to their diadem. 
Had thy great destiny but given thee skill
To know, as well as power to act her will, 90
That from those kings, who then thy captives were,
In after times should spring a royal pair
Who should possess all that thy mighty power,
Or thy desires more mighty, did devour: 
To whom their better fate reserves whate’er
The victor hopes for, or the vanquish’d fear;
That blood, which thou and thy great grandsire shed,
And all that since these sister nations bled,
Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known. 
That all the blood he spilt had been his own. 100
When he that patron chose, in whom are join’d
Soldier and martyr, and his arms confin’d
Within the azure circle, he did seem
But to foretell, and prophesy of him,
Who to his realms that azure round hath join’d,
Which Nature for their bound at first design’d;
That bound, which to the world’s extremest ends,
Endless itself, its liquid arms extends. 
Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint,
But is himself the soldier and the saint. 110
Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise;
But my fix’d thoughts my wand’ring eye betrays,
Viewing a neighb’ring hill, whose top of late
A chapel crown’d, ’till in the common fate
Th’ adjoining abbey fell. (May no such storm
Fall on our times, when ruin must reform!)
Tell me, my Muse! what monstrous dire offence, 117
What crime could any Christian king incense
To such a rage?  Was’t luxury, or lust? 
Was he so temperate, so chaste, so just? 
Were these their crimes?  They were his own much more;
But wealth is crime enough to him that’s poor,
Who having spent the treasures of his crown,
Condemns their luxury to feed his own. 
And yet this act, to varnish o’er the shame
Of sacrilege, must bear devotion’s name. 
No crime so bold, but would be understood
A real, or at least a seeming good: 
Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the name,
And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 130