The Massacre of Paris

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.