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A pleasaunte Laborinth called Churchyardes Chance

framed on Fancies, uttered with verses, and writtee[n] to giue solace to eury well disposed mynde: wherein not withstanding are many heauie Epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, and dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lorde Chancelour of Englande [by Thomas Churchyard]
 

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My Ladie Baggnalles Epitaphe who died at the Nuerie.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My Ladie Baggnalles Epitaphe who died at the Nuerie.

Loe here a ladie lies, whose life greate glory won
A mornyng Starre, a Lampe of daie: that shone as bright as Sonne.
A goodly glasse of Steele, that scornde to take a staine:
A Mirrour that did liuely showe, a perfecte picture plaine.
An aide to straungers still, that staide within her gates:
As noble a Nourse to neighbours all, as freendly to estates.
A spryng of larges streams, a well of wifely waies:
A vertuous dame, that vice subdued, a pearle of peerlesse praies.
A fountaine full of faithe, her plaiefeere founde the same:
In eurie pointe that did adorne, a comely sober dame.
From natiue soile she brought, faire lands and freends greate store:
And matcht wt Niclas Baggnall knight, to whō faire babes she bore.

5

O Nuerie thou wast once, of this sweete sainct the shrine:
And now the soile of sighes and sobbs, and wofull weepyng eyne.
For thou hast lately loste, by lothsome Deaths disgrace:
The Lanterne gaie, and louyng Lampe, that beautified that place.
Harke worlde how Fame reports, (and Ecco doeth resounde:)
The hidden heaps of heauenly gifts, that did in her abounde.
A happie houswife knowne, the ioye of housbands breast:
A wise and worthie warrant bothe, to chere eche honest geast.
And as she did present, dame Beautie throughly still:
So nothyng might compare to reache, beyond her franke good will.
To poore a present helpe, to ritche her house was free:
A foe to none, her nature sutche, she honoured eche degree.
Belou'd of greate and small, as one were blest from birthe:
No hurder vp of heauie baggs, (the drousie drosse of yearth.)
But made her treasure house, in clouds and heauens hye:
Where soulls doe hugg, and sprits of men, in Abrams brest doeth lye
Yea all on yearth she did, was doen to that intent:
And sure no soner lefte she life, but thether straight she went.
So now I leaue her there, escapt from worldly blaste:
Whiles of her fame, all Irelande ryngs, and shall whiles world doth laste.
Finis.