 | A Margarite of America |  |
Dianaes Epitaph.
Thy babe and thou by sire and husbands hand,
Belou'd in staied sence was slaine in rage,
Both by vntimely death in natiue land
Lost Empire, hope, and died in timelesse age,
And he whose sword your bloud with furie spilt,
Bereft himselfe of life through cursed guilt.
Belou'd in staied sence was slaine in rage,
Both by vntimely death in natiue land
Lost Empire, hope, and died in timelesse age,
And he whose sword your bloud with furie spilt,
Bereft himselfe of life through cursed guilt.
All ye that fixe your eies vpon this tombe,
Remember this, that beautie fadeth fast,
That honours are enthralde to haples dombe,
That life hath nothing sure, but soone doth wast;
So liue you then, that when your yeares are fled,
Your glories may suruiue when you are dead.
Remember this, that beautie fadeth fast,
That honours are enthralde to haples dombe,
That life hath nothing sure, but soone doth wast;
So liue you then, that when your yeares are fled,
Your glories may suruiue when you are dead.
| A Margarite of America | |