 | To Rash Iudgement, Tom Foole, and his fellowes |  |
A Widdowers happie triumph.
Death , thou art slaundred and bely'd,By weeping mourners watery eyed,
That greeue at thy peace-working power,
And tearme thee Monster, to deuower.
I say for stabbs, and stoping breath,
Thou art a kind most honest Death:
Yet speake not this for worldly gaine,
As though thou hadst my Father slaine,
And I as heire, enioy his land,
Or office Fall'n vnto my hand,
By any one deceassed late:
No min's a hap inestimate,
Thou hast wrought me a freemans life,
By taking hence my scoulding wife,
My make-bate, and my houshold euill,
My Crosse of crosses, my shee-Diuell:
For which suffitient thankes to giue,
I am vnable while I liue:
But will applaud thee all I can,
Thou worthy leane spare Gentleman:
Who euer sighes, or greiues and grones,
Ile honour all thy good old bones:
And till the last mans graue be made,
Raigne King of Pickaxe and of Spade:
For Cate, that often Crack'd my crowne,
Most famous Death hath knock'd her downe.
| To Rash Iudgement, Tom Foole, and his fellowes | |