ON QUEEN ANNE. MARCH with his winde hath strucke a cedar tall, ANOTHER. THEE to invite, the great God sent a starre, So did our Queene her court from hence remove, Then she is changed, not dead, no good prince dyes, 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, IN THE CHURCH OF KIRKBY STEPHEN, WESTMORELAND. ON THOMAS THE FIRST LORD WHARTON, HERE I, Thomas Wharton, do lie, 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, 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? Who, bee they living, or bee they dead, IN THE CHANCEL OF STEPNEY CHURCH. ON BISHOP KITTE. UNDYR this ston, closyde and marmorate, To be in favour with this our Kynges grase. Keeping nobly household wyth grete hospitality, 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, BRIGHTON. ON MARY GARNER. O, deare mother, you are gone before, 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, UPON A LADY. Who died of a broken heart, from excessive love of her husband. THESE lines with golden letters I have fill'd, ON RICH HEWET. HERE lyes rich HEWET, a gentleman of note, 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. |