The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes |
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An epitaph on the death of a noble
Gentleman.
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 | The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton |  |
An epitaph on the death of a noble Gentleman.
Sorrow come sit thee downe, and sigh and sob thy fill,And let these bleeding bitter teares, be witnesse of thine ill,
See, see, how Vertue sits, what passions she doth prooue,
To thinke vpon the losse of him, that was her dearest loue.
Come Pallas carefull Queene, let all thy Muses waite,
About the graue, where buried is, the grace of your conceit.
Poets lay downe your pennes, or if you needs will write,
Confesse the onely day of loue hath lost her dawning light.
And you that know the Court, and what beseemes the place,
With griefe engraue vpō his tombe, he gaue al Courts a grace.
And you that keepe the fields, and know what valure is,
Say all too soone was seene in this vntimelie death of his.
Oh that he liu'd in earth, that could but halfe conceiue,
The honour that his rarest heart was worthie to receiue,
Whose wisdome farre aboue the rule of Natures reach,
Whose workes are extant to the world, that al the world may teach,
Whose wit the wonder-stone, that did true wisdome tuch,
And such a sounder of conceipt, as few or neuer such.
Whose vertue did exceed in Natures highest vaine.
Whose life a lanthorne of the loue that surelie liues againe.
Whose friendship faith so fast, as nothing could remooue him,
Whose honourable curtesie made all the world to loue him:
What Language but he spake: what rule but he had read?
What thought so high? what sence so deep but he had in his head:
A Phœnix of the world, whom fame doth thus commend,
Vertue his life, Valor his loue, and Honour was his end.
Vpon whose tombe be writ, that may with teares be red:
Heere lies the flower of chiualrie that euer England bred.
Oh heauens, vpon the earth was neuer such a day,
That all conceits of all contents should al consume away,
Me thinkes I see a Queene come couered with a vaile,
The Court al stricken in a dumpe, the Ladies weepe & waile,
The Knights in careful sighes bewaile their secret losse,
And he that best cōceales his griefe, bewraies he hath a crosse.
Come Scholers bring your bookes, let reason haue his right,
Doe reuerence vnto the corse, in honour of the Knight,
Come souldiers see the Knight, that left his life so neere ye,
Giue him a volley of your harts, that al the world may heare ye.
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To helpe ye sing his dolefull dirge, let sorrow neuer cease.
Oh could I mourne enough, that all the world may see,
The griefe of loue for such a losse, as greater cannot bee.
Our Court hath lost a friend, our Countrie such a Knight,
As with the torment of the thought, hath turnèd day to night:
A man, so rare a man, did neuer England breed,
So excellent in euerie thing, that all men did exceed.
So full of all effects, that wit and sence may scan,
As in his heart did want no part to make a perfect man.
Perfection farre aboue the rule of humaine sence,
Whose heart was onely set on heauen, and had his honor thence,
Whose marke of hiest aime, was honor of the minde,
Who both at once did worldlie fame, and heauenlie fauour find:
Whom Vertue so did loue, and Learning so adore,
As commendations of a man, was neuer man had more:
Whom wise men did admire, whom good men did affect,
Whom honest men did loue and serue, and all men did respect.
Whose care his Countries loue, whose loue his Countries care,
Whose careful loue considered wel, his Countrie could not spare.
Oh Christ what ruthfull cries about the world doe ring,
And to behold the heauie sighs it is a hellish thing.
The campe, the dolefull campe, comes home with all a Mort,
To see the Captaine of their care, come home in such a sort.
The Court, the solemne court, is in a sudden trance,
And what is he but is amazde to heare of this mischance.
The Cittie shakes the head, as it had lost a piller,
And kind Affect is in such care, a little more would kill her:
Sweet Oxford sits and weepes, and Cambridge cries outright,
To loose the honour of their loue, and loue of their delight.
The Cleargie singing Psalmes, with teares beblot their bookes,
And all the Schollers follow on, with sad and heauie lookes.
The Muses and the Nimphes attirèd all in blacke,
With tearing heares, & wringing hands, as if their hearts would cracke:
The father, wife, and friends, and seruants in degrees,
With blubbred eyes bewaile the life that faithfull loue did leese.
My self that lou'd him more then he that knew him much,
Wil leaue the honour of his worth, for better wits to tutch:
And saie but what I thinke, and that a number know,
He was a Phœnix of a man, I feare there are no moe:
To set him downe in praise with men of passèd fame,
Let this suffice who more deseru'd: I neuer read his name.
For this he was in right, in briefe to shew his praise,
For Vertue, Learning, Valor, Wit, the honour of our dayes.
And so with honor ende, let all the world goe seeke,
So young a man, so rare a man, the world hath not the like.
Whose onelie corps consumes, whose Vertue neuer dies,
Whose sweetest soule enioyes the sweet of highest Paradice.
| The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton | |