University of Virginia Library

An Epitaph made vppon the death of the right Honorable, the Lady Gartrid late Countesse of Shrewisburie.

The steling sting of gasping death
that byth by fatall force:
To bring vnto the wailed graue,
this Countesse courteous corse,
Had thought to thrust his spitefull speare,
to wounde this Fem to die:
And quite to dim this glorious Gem,
the flower of courtesie.
And cloth hir corps in shrowding sheete,
to woorke hir endlesse wo:
But O thou death, thou art deceaude,
for that is nothing so.
Nor canst thou mar, or stop the trumpe,
that soundes hir during fame:
More health then harme, more blisse then bale,
to hir, by thee there came.
For she hath light in lasting life,
of endlesse ioyes ywis:
So where thou thoughst to spoute thy spite,
thou hast hir brought to blisse.
So enuie gaue thee not the power.
thy malice madde to fill:
But thou hast done this Countesse good,
vnwares against thy will:
For nowe hir noble name shall byde,
in sounder soueraigntie:
And after death doth vertue liue,
O death in spight of thee.
For she of grace the garlande gay,
in goodly giftes did weare:
Whose flowres do now in children wise,
of Talbots line appeere.
Of Rutlandes race she noblie sprang,
and linkt with peerlesse pearle:
Of Shrewisburie, who bare the name,
a noble worthy Earle.
Whome she hath left behinde among,
the blessed branches fine:
The worthy imps that sprang of them,
as of a vertuous Uine.
To poore, she was a pleasant port,
to all a helpe she came,
By teares that haue beene spent for hir,
the poore haue shewde the same.
O noble hart whose Well of grace,
shall spring and neuer drie:
Who being hie, didst bend thy brest,
vnto the poorst degree.
Unto the weake shee was a strength,
vnto the hungrie foode:
Unto the rude, a lamp of light,
vnto the wisemen, good.
Unto the youth, she was a guide,
vnto the aged ioy:
Unto the noble, ornament,
vnto the blinde, a way:
In towne she was a shyning starre,
for hir all better were:
In Countrie ioy, at home a glasse,
to vewe in gladding chere.
Hir beautie great, hir vertues greatst,
that sprang as flagrant flowres:
Alas what treasure haue we lost,
for all the losse is oures.
For she hath gainde O Death by thee,
but we haue shipwrack made:
And nowe in earth our helpe is lapt,
our light is turnde to shade.
O what a losse: so many giftes,
of grace so lost in one:
For which eche wight that knew hir well
cannot but greatly mone.
But drie ye vp your dreerie teares,
she liues without anoy:
O comely courteous Countesse now,
farewell O Iem of ioy.
Farewell O spring of vertues sweete,
farewell of help the store.
Both high and low, bewaile thy want,
farwell for euermore: