University of Virginia Library

Epytaphes.

An Epytaphe of the Lorde Sheffeldes death.

When Brutysh broyle, and rage of war
in Clownysh harts began
When Tigres stoute, in Tāners bonde
vnmusled all they ran,
The Noble Sheffeyld Lord by byrth
and of a courage good,
By clubbish hāds, of crabbed Clowns
there spent his Noble blud.
His noble byrth auayled not,
his honor all was vayne,
Amyd the prease, of Mastye Curres,
the valyant Lorde was slayne.
And after suche a sorte (O ruth,)
that who can teares suppresse.
To thynke yt Dunghyll Dogs shuld dawnt
the Floure of worthynes.
Whyle as the rauenyng Wolues he prayed
his gylteles lyfe to saue.
A bluddy Butcher byg and blunt,
a vyle vnweldy knaue
With beastly blow of boysterous byll
at hym (O Lorde) let dryue,
And clefte his head, and sayd therwith
shalt thou be lefte alyue?
O Lorde that I had present ben,
and Hectors force withall,
Before that from his Carlysh hands,
the cruell Byll dyd fall.
Then shulde that peasaunt vyle haue felt
the clap vpon his Crowne,
That shuld haue dazed his dogged hart
from dryuyng Lordes adowne.
Then shuld my hands haue saued thy lyfe
good Lord whō deare I loued
Then shuld my hart in doutfull case,
full well to the ben proued,
But all in vayne thy death I wayle,
thy Corps in earth doth lye.
Thy kyng and Countrey for to serue
thou dydste not feare to dye.
Farewel good Lord, thy deth bewayle
all suche as well the knewe,
And euerye man laments thy case:
and Googe thy death doth rewe.

An Epytaphe of M. Shelley slayne at Musselbroughe.

VVan Mars had moued mortall hate
and forced fumysh heate
And hye Bellona had decreed,
to syt with Sworde in Seate,
The Scottes vntrue with fyghtynge hande,
theyr promys to denye,
Assembled fast, & England thought,
the trothe with them to trye.
Chose Musclebroughe theyr fyghtynge place
amyd those barrayne fyelds
Theyr breche of fayth, there not to try
with trothe, but trotheles Shyeldes
In battayle braue, and Armye strong
Encamped sure they laye,
Ten Scottes to one (a dredeful thyng
a dolfull fyghtyng daye.)
That Englysh men were all agaste,
with quakyng staues in hande.
To se theyr enemyes lye so neare,
and death with them to stande.
No other remedye there was,
but fyght it out or flye.
And who shuld fyrst the Onset gyue,
was sure therin to dye.
Thus al dismayde, and wrapt in feare
with doutfull mynde they stande,
If best it be, with flyght of foote,
to stryue or fyght of hande.
Tyll at the length, a Captayn stoute.
with hawtye mynde gan speake.
O Cowards all, and maydly men
of Courage faynt and weake,
Unworthye com of Brutus race,
is this your manhode gon,
And is there none you Dastardes all.
that dare them set vpon.
Then Shelley all inflamed with heate
with heate of valyaunt mynde,
No Cowardes we, nor maydly men,
ne yet of Dastards kynde,
I wold you wyste dyd euer com,
but dare be bolde to trye,
Our manhode heare, thoughe nought appeare
but deth to all mens eye
And with these wordes (O noble hart)
no longer there he stayde,
But forth before them all he sprang
as one no whyt dismayed
With charged staffe on fomyng horse
his Spurres with heeles he strykes,
And forewarde ronnes with swyftye race,
among the mortall Pykes
And in this race with famous ende,
to do his Countrey good,
Gaue Onset fyrst vpon his Foes,
and lost his vitall blud.

An Epytaphe of Maister Thomas Phayre.

The hawtye verse, yt Maro wrote
made Rome to wonder muche
And meruayle none for why the Style
and waightynes was suche,
That all men iudged Parnassus Mownt
had clefte her selfe in twayne,
And brought forth one, that seemd to drop
from out Mineruaes brayne.
But wonder more, maye Bryttayne great
wher Phayre dyd florysh late,
And barreyne tong with swete accord
reduced to suche estate:
That Virgils verse hath greater grace
in forrayne foote obtaynde,
Than in his own. who whilst he lyued
eche other Poets staynde.
The Noble H. Hawarde once,
that raught eternall fame,
With mighty Style, did bryng a pece
of Virgils worke in frame,
And Grimaold gaue the lyke attempt,
and Douglas wan the Ball,
Whose famouse wyt in Scottysh ryme
had made an ende of all.
But all these same dyd Phayre excell,
I dare presume to wryte,
As muche as doth Appolloes Beames,
the dymmest Starre in lyght.
The enuyous fates (O pytie great,)
had great disdayne to se,
That vs amongst there shuld remayn
so fyne a wyt as he,
And in the mydst of all his toyle,
dyd force hym hence to wende,
And leaue a Worke vnperfyt so,
that neuer man shall ende.

An Epytaphe of the Death of Nicolas Grimaold.

Beholde this fle-
tyng world how al things fade
Howe euery thyng
doth passe and weare awaye,
Eche state of lyfe,
by comon course and trade,
Abydes no tyme,
but hath a passyng daye.
For looke as lyfe,
that pleasaūt Dame hath brought,
Tht pelasaunt yeares,
and dayes of lustynes,
So Death our Foe,
consumeth all to nought,
Enuyeng thefe,
with Darte doth vs oppresse,
And that whiche is,
the greatest gryfe of all,
The gredye Grype,
doth no estate respect,
But wher he comes,
he makes them down to fall,
He stayes he at,
the hie sharpe wytted sect.
For yf that wytt,
or worthy Eloquens,
Or learnyng deape,
coulde moue hym to forbeare,
O Grimaold then,
thou hadste not yet gon hence
But heare hadest sene,
full many an aged yeare.
Ne had the Mu-
ses loste so fyne a Floure,
Nor had Miner-
ua wept to leaue the so,
If wysdome myght
haue fled the fatall howre,
Thou hadste not yet
ben suffred for to go,
A thousande doltysh
Geese we myght haue sparde,
A thousande wytles
heads, death might haue found
And taken them,
for whom no man had carde,
And layde them lowe,
in deepe obliuious grounde,
But fortune fa-
uours Fooles as old men saye
And lets them lyue,
and take the wyse awaye.