ON QUEEN ANNE.

MARCH with his winde hath strucke a cedar tall,
And weeping Aprill mournes the cedar's fall,
And May intends no flowers her month shall bring,
Since she must lose the flower of all the spring.
Thus Marches winde hath caused Aprill showers,
And yet sad May must lose her flower of flowers.

ANOTHER.

THEE to invite, the great God sent a starre,
Whose nearest friend and kinne, good princes are:
Who, though they runne their race of men, and dye,
Death serves but to refine their majestie.

So did our Queene her court from hence remove,
And left this earth to be enthron'd above.

Then she is changed, not dead, no good prince dyes,
But like the sunne, doth only set to rise.

UPON THE TOMB OF THE HEART OF

HENRY YE THIRD,

Late King of France, slaine by a Jacobine Fryer, 1589. WHETHER thy choyce or chance thee hither brings, Stay, passenger, and waile the hap of kings. This little stone a great king's heart doth hold, That ruled the fickle French and Polacks bold, Whom with a mighty warlike host attended, With trayterous knife, a cowled monster ended. So frayle are even the highest earthly things, Goe passenger, and wayle the fate of kings.

CHICHESTER.

HERE lies an old soldier, whom all must applaud,
Since he suffer'd much hardship at home and abroad,
But the hardest engagement he ever was in,
Was the battle of self in the conquest of sin.

IN THE CHURCH OF KIRKBY STEPHEN,

WESTMORELAND.

ON THOMAS THE FIRST LORD WHARTON,
Who lies buried with his two Wives, Eleanor and Anne.

HERE I, Thomas Wharton, do lie,
With Lucifer under my head,
And Nelly my wife hard by,
And Nancy as cold as lead:
O how can I speak without dread!
Who could my sad fortune abide !

With one devil under my head,

And another laid close on each side.

ON EDMUND SPENSER,

The Poet.

AT Delphos shrine one did a doubt propound,
Which by the oracle must be released,
Whether of poets were the best renown'd,

Those that survive, or those that be deceased. The God made answer, by divine suggestion, While SPENSER is alive, it is no question.

THIS INSCRIPTION IS ON THE FAMILY VAULT OF

SIR HENRY POLLEXFEN.

WHO lies heere? whie dont e ken?
The family of Pollexfen;

Who, bee they living, or bee they dead,
Like theirre own house over theirre head,
That when'er theirre Saviour comme,
They all waies may bee found at homme.

IN THE CHANCEL OF STEPNEY CHURCH.

ON BISHOP KITTE.

UNDYR this ston, closyde and marmorate,
Lyeth JOHN KITTE, LONDONER, natyffe.
Encreasyng in vertues, rose to hygh estate,
In the fourth Edward's chapell, by his young lyffe,
Syth whych the seventh Henryes service primatyffe,
Proceeding stil in vertuous efficase,

To be in favour with this our Kynges grase.
With witt endewed, chosen to be legate,
Sent into Spayne, where he right joyfully
Combyned both prynces, in pease most amate.
In Grece archbyshop elected worthely,
And last of Cartyel ralyng pastorally,

Keeping nobly household wyth grete hospitality,
One thousand five hundryd thirty and sevyn;
Invyterate wyth pastoral carys, consumyd wyth age,
The nineteenth of Jun reckonyd full

evyn,

Passyd to Hevyn from worldly pylgramage.

Of who's soul goode pepul of cherite,

Prey, as ye wod be preyd for; for thus must ye lie. Jesu mercy. Lady helpe.

UPON THE

MARTYRDOM OF ST. ALBAN,

Painted on Glass.

THE image of our frailty, painted glasse,
Shewes where St. Alban's life and ending was:
A knight beheads the martyr, but see soone,
His eyes dropt out, seeing what they had done,
And leaving their own head, seem'd with a tear
To wayle the other head, lay mangled there;
Because his eyes before, no teares would shed,
His eyes like teares themselves fell from his head.
O miracle, that when ST. ALBAN dyes,
The murtherer himselfe weepes out his eyes.

BRIGHTON.

ON MARY GARNER.

O, deare mother, you are gone before,
And I a ratch waite at the dore.
Sin doth not only keepe me thens,
But makes me loth to go from hens.
When Christ hath heald me of my sin,
Heel macke me tite, and let me in.
This was her darter Abigal's desire.

UPTON GREY, HAMPSHIRE.

LADY DOROTHY EYRE, 1560.

SLEEPE, my good lady, sleepe; enjoy your rest: Some daughters have been wise, but you the best.

UPON AN ANCIENT KNIGHT,

SIR JERNEGAN.

Buried cross-legged at Somerly, in Suffolk.

JESUS CHRIST, both God and man,
Save thy servant JERNEGAN.

UPON A LADY.

Who died of a broken heart, from excessive love of her husband.
Written by the husband.

THESE lines with golden letters I have fill'd,
Here lies that wife whose husband's kindness kill'd.

ON RICH HEWET.

HERE lyes rich HEWET, a gentleman of note,
For why he gave three owles in his coate,
Ye see he is buried in the church of ST. PAUL,
He was wise, because rich, and now you know all.

ON A POOR LABOURING MAN. HONEST, industrious, without guile or art, His task performing with a cheerful heart, Tho' poor, contented his short race he run, His labour ceasing with each setting sun; For good received his grateful thanks would flow, The best, the only boon he could bestow. So pass'd his days; and, having done his best, This honest, faithful poor man sunk to rest.