Churchyards good will Sad and heauy Verses, in the nature of an Epitaph, for the losse of the Archbishop of Canterbury, lately deceased, Primate and Metropolitane of all England. Written by Thomas Churchyard |
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 | Churchyards good will |  |
Churchyards good will.
The Staffe of stay, from feeble folke is gon,The Lanterne-light, of England is burnt out,
The Spectacle, for world to looke vpon,
The tickle wheele, of Fortune turn'd about.
O mortall chaunce, that giues vs all a check!
O flattring life! Fye on thy froward fate.
A firmy Card, is robbed from the deck:
A Prelate great, is taken from our State,
A chiefe Shepheard, flyes now from flock & fold,
To leaue warm lodge, and lye in Coffin cold.
To set some hye, in honour and great place,
And in three dayes, to tumble vnder boord,
Like lumpe of lead, to lose life, goods, and Grace.
This tells a tale, to twenty thousand men,
They must prepare, to goe when God doth call,
To droop and die, the Lord knowes how & when;
The Tree cries crack, & down the boughs do fall,
Of all our date, the day and howre is set
(Before mans birth) when we shall pay our det.
And chast desires, might claime a crown of prayse,
And Grace did guide, both body, mind & soule,
To tryumph on, bad world with blessed dayes,
A cruell course, of sodayne sicknesse cam,
A Palzy cold, a wooluish dead disease,
Stept to the Fold, and tooke away the Lambe,
Whose hasty death, did all good men displease,
Saue that world knows, God still takes but his own,
To shew his power, and make his glory known.
Won worthy fame, as white & black now shoes,
His presence made, full many people glad,
Alwayes got friends, and still reclaymed foes,
Held liberall house, and kept a Lordly trayne,
Fed rich and poore, with all God sent and gaue,
Hoorded not vp, nor lou'd no greedy gayne,
Knew that all we, shall carry nought to graue,
But shrowding sheet, good name, & true renown,
That winnes from hence, an euerlasting Crown.
Spake that was meet, as his hye calling would:
Slo to sharp words, but quick good things to heere
Of kind speech free, held silence deare as gold:
Lou'd learned lore, and could thereof dispute
Grauely and sound, and did subdue some Sect:
His knowledge deep, broght forth sweet perfit fruit,
That sprowted from, the Tree of Gods elect,
Who suffreth not, no sprig nor branch to bud,
But such as beares, faire fruit and blossomes good.
Croydon hath lost, the Saint of that sweet shrine,
Lambeth may cry, and Canterbury may call,
Long for the like, with wofull weeping eyne:
But few I feare, his like are left aliue,
The more our griefe: a great King so did say:
Death stole like theefe, the hony from the hiue,
Our great Primate, in patience went away,
Left stately Court, and Countrey at the best,
Because he hop't, to sleepe in Abrahams brest.
FINIS.
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