Loe here the Sommer flower, that sprong this other day,
But Wynter weareth as fast, and bloweth cleane away :
Even so shalt thou consume, from youth to lothsome age,
For death he doth not spare the Prince more than the Page.
Thy house shall be of clay, a clotte under thy head,
Untill the latter day the grave shall be thy bed.
Untill the blowing tromp doth say to all & some,
Rise up out of your grave, for now the judge is come:
Finis. L. Vaux.
A description of the world.
What is this world, a net to snare the soule,
A mas of sinne, a desert of deceite,
A momentes joy, an age of wretched dole,
A lure from grace, for flesh a lothsome bayte,
Unto the mind a canker worm of care,
Unsure, unjust in rendring man his share.
A place where Pride orerunnes the honest mir.de,
Where rich men joynes to robbe the shiftlesse wretch,
Where bribing mistes doe blinde the judges eyes,
Where Parasites the fattest crums do catch,
Where good desartes, which chalenge like reward,
Are overblowne with blastes of light regard.
And what is manne? dust, slime, a puffe of wynde,
Conceavde in sinne, plaste in the world with greefe,
Brought up with care, till care hath caught his minde,
And then till death vouchsafe him some releefe.
Day, yea nor night, his care doth take an ende,
To gather goods for other men to spende.
Oh foolish man that art in office plaste,
Thinke whence thou camste, and whither thou shalt
The hautchie okes, small windes bave overcast,
When slender weedes in roughest weather groe.
Even so pale death oft spares the wretched wight,
And woundeth you who wallow in delight.
You lusty youthes that nourish hie desire,
Abase your plumes, which makes you looke so bigge,
The collyers cut the courtiers steede will tyre,
Even so the clarke the Parsons grave doth digge,
Whoso happe is yet here long life to winne,
Doth heape, God wot, but sorrow upon sinne.
And to be short, all sortes of men take heede,
The thunderboltes the lofty towers tare,
The lightning flashe consumes the house of reede,
Yea more in time all earthly thinges will weare,
Save only man, who as his earthly time is,
Shall live in woe, or else in endlesse blisse.
Finis. G. G.
Being in love he complaineth.
My haute desyre, to hye that seeketh rest,
My feare to find, where hope my help should give,
My sighes and plaintes sent from unquiet brest,
The hardned hart that will not truth beleeve,
Bids me dispayre, and Reason saith to me,
Forsake for shame, the sute that shameth thee.
But when mine eyes behold the alluring cayes,
Which only me to Cupids spoyle have trainde,
Desyre anew doth workę his wonted wayes,
Thus shall I freeze, and yet I frye in payne,
O quenchlesse fyre to quayle and quick agayn.
Such is the flame, where burning love doth last,
As hye ne low can beare with Reasons bitte,
And such is love, wherein is setled fast,
That naught but death can ease his fervent fitte,
Then cannot I, nor love will me forsake,
Sweete is the death, that faithfull love doth make.
An Epitaph upon the death of Syr William Drury Knight, Lord Justice and Governour of Yreland, deceased at Waterford the
thyrd of October, An. Do. 1579.
In place where wantes Apollo with his lute,
There peevish Pan may prease to pipe a daunce,
Where men of skill & learned Clarkes are mute,
There fooles may prate, & hit the truth perchaunce.
Why spare I then to speake, when all are mumme,
And Vertue left forgot in time to come.
Give pardon then to him that takes in hande,
Though never taught with Poets pen to write,
Will yet presume, to let you understand,
No straunge event, although a sieldome sight,
Which late I saw, a dolefull tale to tell,
And followeth thus, then marke how it befell.
I saw Report in mourning weede arayde,
Whose blubbered eyes bewrayed some secret greefe,
Besprent with teares, with sighes & sobbes he sayd,
You martiall wights abandone all releefe,
Come wayle with me, whose losse is not alone,
When you your selves have greatest cause to mone.
For Drurie he the choyce of all your trayne,
Your greatest guyde, and lampe of clearest light,
The only man Bellona did retayne,
Her champyon chefe, and made Syr Mars his Knight,
Even he is now bereaved of his breath,
Tis you, tis you, may most lament his death.
Then might I see a warlike crew appeare,
Came marching on with weapons traylde on ground,
Their outward show bewrayde their inward cheare,
Their droms & tromps did yeeld a dolefull sound,
They marched thus in sad & solemne sort,
As men amasde to hear this late report.
And in the midst of this their heavy muse,
I might perceive in sight a worthy dame,
Who by her speech and tenure of her newes,
I knew her well, and saw twas Lady Fame,
With tromp in hand, and thus me thought she sed,
You worthy wights, your Drurie is not dead.
He liveth he amongst the blessed route,
Whose noble actes hath purchaste endlesse fame;
Whylste world doth last, no time shall wear him out,
Nor death for all his spight abridge his name,
But Drurie still for euer shall remayne,
His fame shall live, in Flaunders, Fraunce and Spayne.
The Germanes eke, Italyans, and the rest,
Can well discourse of Druries deedes at large,
With whom he served a champyon ready prest,
At all assaultes, the formost to give charge
In many a fraye, himself he did advaunce,
Tweene Charles of Rome, and Henrie King of Fraunce.
In vayne to vaunt, the credite he attayn'de,
In native soyle, where he was knowne so well,
And Brute hath blowne, what glory he hath gaynde,
To Scotish land, where they themselves can tell,
In Edenbrough he wan there mayden tower,
By first assault perforce the Scotishe power.
But Ireland thou, thou thrice accursed soyle,
Thy lucke is losse, thy fortune still withstoode.
What mischiefe more, to worke thy greater spoyle,
Then loss of him that ment thee greatest good:
Yet canst thou say, Syr Druries noble name
In Ireland still shall bide in lasting fame.
Wherefore, you worthy wightes, leave of to wayle,
Your Drurie lives his fame for aye shall last,
His vertues byde, though wretched lyfe do fayle,
And taking then her tromp she blewe a blast,
Which sounded more his praise then I can write,
Or with my tongue expresse in order right.
Then might I heare the Souldyers give a shoute,
The sounde whereof redounded in the skie,
Great joy was made amongst the armed route
With streined throtes, then all at once they cry,
He lives, he lives, our Drurie is not deed,
His vertues rare by Fame shall still be spread.
In order then themselves they did retire,
Their weapons vaunst, with ensignes brave displayde:
What would you more? Report is made a lyer,
Syr Drurie lives, sufficeth what is sayde.
What though his corpes entombed be in clay,
His vertues shyne, that never shall decay.
Vivit post funera virtus.
by Barnabe Ritche, Gent.
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