University of Virginia Library

The complaynte of a certayne famous town for the death of an honest matron, wyfe to one of thinhabitantes of the same

wyth an answer to the sayd complayn: & in fyne a generall prayse of all honest & vertuous womē.

Foorth as I went my way of late.
(Whych was of Iune the .xvi. day)
After my due and wonted rate,
To set my worke in quyete stay:
A sodeyne voyce there dyd me fray,
And muche to muse dyd me constrayne,
So greuously it dyd complayne.

Merueylyng then I gan to saye,
What are you that doo sygh and grone?
Answere it made without delaye:
A famous towne dothe make thys mone,
For suche a losse as I haue one:
I thynke there hath in no place dwelt,
As Christes members haue well felt.

And why (quod I) what is the case?
What cause haue you thus to complayne?
Wyth greuous syghes it sayd alas,
Oh cruell death full of dysdayne:
Why dydst thou not a whyle refrayn?

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But lyke a scadell vermyne styll,
Thou takste the good, and leavst the yll.

What gyrlyshe gylls, what wanton scoldes,
In me dothe reigne, to my great shame:
Whom honest men that them beholdes,
Reporteth in hurt of my fame:
Suche in his rage Death wyll not tame,
But modest matrons good and true,
In all the haste he dothe subdue.

For of the best the lest of all,
He hath not taken manerly,
But snatched hath the principall,
In all my ioy moste cruelly,
And turned to calamitie,
My staye, my health, and my delyght,
Whych reigned in that godly wyght.

She bare suche fauour to the truthe,
And beneficiall to the poore,
Hyr goodly traynyng vp of youthe:
As maydens sobre and demure,
And honest wyues some be you sure,
To whom she was a godly lyght,
And to theyr fete a lanterne bryght.

Her good constant womanlynes,
Hir obedience in her duetye,
Her lenitie and gentylnes
Her hate of vice in lyke degree
Her better sure I neuer see,
Her fayth was good, her lyfe also:
Her lyke there are not many mo.

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[170]

She loued truthe and godlynesse,
She gaue the hungry meate and drynke
She lethed vyce and wyckednes,
She was without all fault I thynke,
She holpe the poore, and dyd not shrynk,
She clothed the naked and colde,
She holpe the sycke many a folde.

Thus death hath taken hir away,
That mother was of modestye:
And none can tell the truthe to saye,
The losse that I susteyne therby.
Therfore I may well wepe and cry,
And say Alas wo worth the tyme,
That brought to me this wofull cryme.

Be styll thou towne thus sayd I then,
Beware, and harke, what I shall tell:
Thou mayntennest all wycked men,
Agaynst the good thou doste rebell,
Yea suche as preache the Lordes gospell.
Therfore no doubte come is the day,
God turnes his face from thee away.

Syth thou in tyme refusedst grace,
Thou shalte be left as one confusde,
Sythe thou doste wyckednes imbrace,
And godlynes thou hast refusde:
Before the Lord thou art accusde,
And he it is that in his wrathe,
Wyll take away thy frendes by death.

Therfore leaue of, thus death to blame,
And blame for it thyne owne offence:
And thyn inhabitantes by name,

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Be of good chere I saye to you,
Though I expresse you not by name:
For knowne is your indeuor true,
To those that wyll set forth the same,
So that immortall is your fame:
Example as ye haue by this
Your syster, that departed is.

Whose worthy prayse shall neuer die,
But like is to indure for euer:
For why she lyued worthyly,
And to the ende she did perseuer:
God graunt vs all so to endeuour,
That we may liue whyle we be here,
With God in glory to appere.