| |
| TO praise thy life or wail thy worthy death, | |
| And want thy wit,—thy wit high, pure, divine,— | |
| Is far beyond the power of mortal line, | |
| Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath; | |
| |
| Yet rich in zeal (though poor in learning’s lore), | 5 |
| And friendly care obscured in secret breast, | |
| And love that envy in thy life suppressed,— | |
| Thy dear life done,—and death hath doubled more. | |
| |
| And I, that in thy time and living state | |
| Did only praise thy virtues in my thought, | 10 |
| As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought, | |
| With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate. | |
| |
| Drawn was thy race aright from princely line; | |
| Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave,— | |
| The common mother that all creatures have,— | 15 |
| Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine. | |
| |
| A king gave thee thy name; a kingly mind,— | |
| That God thee gave,—who found it now too dear | |
| For this base world, and hath resumed it near | |
| To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine. | 20 |
| |
| Kent thy birth-days, and Oxford held thy youth; | |
| The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time; | |
| The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime; | |
| Thy will, thy words; thy words the seals of truth. | |
| |
| Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence, | 25 |
| To treat from kings with those more great than kings; | |
| Such hope men had to lay the highest things | |
| On thy wise youth, to be transported hence. | |
| |
| Whence to sharp wars sweet honour did thee call, | |
| Thy country’s love, religion, and thy friends; | 30 |
| Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends, | |
| And her defence, for whom we labour all. | |
| |
| There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, | |
| Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune’s might; | |
| Thy rising day saw never woeful night, | 35 |
| But passed with praise from off this worldly stage. | |
| |
| Back to the camp by thee that day was brought, | |
| First thine own death; and after thy long fame; | |
| Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilian’s shame; | |
| Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught. | 40 |
| |
| What hath he lost that such great grace hath won? | |
| Young years for endless years, and hope unsure | |
| Of fortune’s gifts for wealth that still shall dure: | |
| O happy race, with so great praises run! | |
| |
| England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same; | 45 |
| Flanders thy valour, where it last was tried; | |
| The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died; | |
| Thy friends thy want; the world thy virtue’s fame; | |
| |
| Nations thy wit; our minds lay up thy love; | |
| Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come; | 50 |
| In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb; | |
| Thy soul and spright enrich the heavens above. | |
| |
| Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears, | |
| Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall; | |
| Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall; | 55 |
| Malice herself a mourning garment wears. | |
| |
| That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell,— | |
| Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time; | |
| Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme, | |
| Let angels speak, and heaven thy praises tell. | 60 |
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