Of fortunes gifts, for wealth that still shall dure, Oh happie race with so great praises run.
(45) England doth hold thy lims that bred the same, Flaunders + thy valure where it last was tried, The Campe thy sorow where thy bodie died, Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame. +
Nations thy wit, our mindes lay vp thy loue, (50) Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come, In worthy harts sorow hath made thy tombe, Thy soule and spright enrich the heauens aboue. +
Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares. +Yoong sighes, sweete sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall, (55) Enuie hir sting, and spite hath left hir gall, Malice hir selfe, a mourning garment weares.
Another of the same.
Excellently written by a most woorthy Gentleman. +
S Ilence augmenteth griefe, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lou’d, & lost, the wonder of our age, Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enrag’de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how. +
(5) Hard harted mindes relent, and rigors teares abound, And enuie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found, Knowledge hir light hath lost, valor hath slaine hir knight, Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.
Place pensiue wailes his fall, whose presence was hir pride, (10) Time crieth out, my ebbe is come: his life was my spring tide,