A pen of no auaile, a fruitles labour eke, (20) My troubled hed with fansies fraught, doth pain it selfe to seke. And if perhaps my wordes of none auaile do pricke, Such as do feele the hidden harmes, I wold not they shold kicke. As causeles me to blame which thinketh them no harme, Although I seme by others fire, somtime my selfe to warme. (25) Which clerely I deny, as giltles of that crime, And though wrong denide I be therin, truth it will try in time. +
A praise of Audley. +
W Hen Audley had run out his race, and ended wer his daies His fame stept forth & bad me write of him som wortht praise What life he lad, what actes he did: his vertues and good name, Wherto I calde for true report as witnes of the same. (5) Wel born he was, wel bent by kinde, whose minde did neuer swerue A skilfull head, a valiant hart, a ready hand to serue. Brought vp & trained in feates of war long time beyond the seas Cald home again to serue his prince, whō still he sought to please What tornay was there he refusde, what seruice did he shoon, (10) Where he was not nor his aduice, what great exploit was doon? In town a Lambe, in fielde full fierce, a Lion at the nede, +In sober wit a Salomon , yet one of Hectors seede. Then shame it were that any tong shold now defame his dedes. That in his life a mirrour was to all that him succedes. (15) No poore estate nor hie renowne his nature could peruart, No hard mischance that him befell could moue his constant hart. Thus long he liued, loued of all, as one misliekt of none. And where he went who cald him not the gentle Paragon. But course of kinde doth cause eche fruite to fall when it is ripe, (20) And spitefull death will suffer none to scape his greuous gripe. Yet though the ground receiued haue his corps into her wombe, This Epitaphe ygraue in brasse, shall stand vpon his tombe. Lo here he lies that hateth vice, and vertues life unbrast, His name in earth, his sprite aboue, deserues to be well plast.