University of Virginia Library

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.