An Epitaph or mournfull Memorie upon the death of
the right Honorable, the Lord Fraunics Russell, Earle of Bedford, Knight of the Noble
Order of the Garter, and one of the Queenes Majesties most honorable privie Counsell:
who deceased the eight and twentie day of July. 1585.
With a briefe and lamentable Remembrance of the late and too untimely death of the Lord Russell, his Sonne,
slaine at Barwicke, by a traiterous Sco[tt]ish Karle, on a day of True, the 27 of the same July.
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WHat greater griefe then loss of Noble Peeres':
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Whose vertuous minds are pillers in distres
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Whose Counsel grave rid publique weale from feares,
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Maintaining trueth, supporting endlesse peace.
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Whose onely care is such for to foresee,
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That all things may in perfect order be.
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What greater moane then where the Nobles waile?
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the commons weepe, the yong and aged greeve:
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Where sorowes spring, where mirth and joy do quaile,
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where nothing rests that may[?] mind releeve,
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Where blis to bane, where pleasure turnde to paine,
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Yelds mourning cheare insteede of happy gaine.
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No such distresse, no such like deep dispaire,
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where Country, Prince, & court that erst were glad
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Are filde with woe, with ca[r]ke and wofull care,
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And forst (perforce) of sodden to be [s]ad:
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No such like paine, where scourge of dayly smart,
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Torments the vaines, and nippes the wofull hart.
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[Helpe] [?] acquaint this [?] M[use] o[r] [m?].
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Behold a sight, all clad in mournefull blacke,
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bewailing of the worthy Russels fall:
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Whose wouted glee is chaungde to sodden wracke,
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whose [ha]ppy state is mingled now with gall
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Whose grudging griefe, so inwardly doth gripe,
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That more and more their floods of teares waxe ripe.
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Behold, a sight, a pitious sight to see,
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a peareles Court driven in a sodden maze:
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Casting their eyes where as the prince might be,
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as who wold say, behold) how we do gaze?
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Behold alas, alacke) behold we saye.
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Russell is gone, his corps is shrind in clay.
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Farre fled from us is our acquainted frend,
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the parcall fates have shred his thread in twaine,
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The Fortresse of our solace now hath end,
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Our mourning weedes declare our pensive paine:
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He, he is gone, that was the lampe of light,
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In Councel grave, much like the Sun beames bright.
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He, he is gone that was the courtly prize,
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that Bedford Earle, that noble minded wight:
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That Pearle, that Gemme, most orient in our eyes,
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That godly, good, and most renowmed Knight.
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That Earle in whome both God and man did joy,
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That man that was our riddance from annoy.
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That Lord that lent his eare unto the poore,
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whose pitty was their Target still of proofe,
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That Lord, that did increase their stocke and store,
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That Lord, who, when he spyde them stand a loose,
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Would call them neare, and searching of their griefe,
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Made ready way to give them deepe releefe.
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That Counceler, that loved his native land,
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h[e], he it is that we alone lament:
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For when he lived, he lent his helping hand,
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to rich, to poore, to every mans content:
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He, he is gone, the furtherer of good deedes:
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A piller of love, a Sower of vertuous seedes.
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What he was thought and judged for to bee,
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let Barwicke Towne make memorie of the same:
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His artes are knowne most fit for his degree,
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his deedes likewise are there inrolde with fame.
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For why, his wise and prudent government,
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The Scottish and the English did content.
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The West part, her, likewise did governe so,
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from time to time untill his dying day:
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Maintaining right whereever he seemde to goe,
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that no man could his dealings once gainsay.
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Justice he did in every point award,
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That was his care, and speciall chiefe regard.
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?], Court, and [?]
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Alas, what heart therfore would not relent,
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in mourning weede to see his Countesse clad,
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His noble Sonne those passions to frequent,
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as maketh all the houshold wondrous sad.
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His Servaunts here and there, as men agast,
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So soone to see their gladnesse overcast.
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His Tennants, and his Neighbours all about,
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me thinkes (I heare) how they do mourne and crye:
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Standing in feare, in dread, and double doubt,
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to whom that they their safetie might apply.
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Who might their wrong in every point redresse,
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And comfort them in cause of their distresse.
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And rather since his good and godly Sonne,
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Lord Russell, too untimely erst was slaine:
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Whose vertuous life, his fathers steps begunne,
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whose zealous mind pure conscience did maintaine.
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Whose heart, and hand, whose honour still did growe,
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To the praise of God, and helpe of man bel[ow]e.
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And yet (alas) upon the day of True,
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in service of his Soveraigne loyall Queene:
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Preferring his assured dewtie due,
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in Scotland there, midst cheiftaines to be seene,
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A Earle, a Scot, a wretch devoyd of care,
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A bare-thrid Groome his ruine did prepare
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Since then this losse to England is befall,
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and that the Court eclipsed is so sore:
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Come Gentles come, come forth like mourners all:
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help to the ground, bring his corps therefore.
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Helpe he that cam, to spred his praise at large,
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Deserts require that this may be your charge.
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Exclaime of right, set your Invectives downe,
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Declare against the fatall Sisters three:
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Let royall verse rove round about the Towne,
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to showe how much dispightfull they might bee:
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And maugre all the cancred hate they beare,
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Let your good will for quittance right appeare.
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Say thus with me (dire Death) thy worst is done,
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thy malice showne, the Triumph yet but small.
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From youth to age, Russell such fame hath wonne,
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as that his praise lives honored all in all.
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His vertue such, such like good will hath got,
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That Envy can his Honor never blot.
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And though that thou (vilde deth) hast batterd downe,
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the Tower strong, and Castell of our joye:
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Think while he lived, to soveraigne Prince & Crowne,
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for their reliefe, his care he did [?]oye:
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To no end els but that the [?] [mig]ht knowe,
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What duetie to his Countrey he did owe.
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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[?]
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Among the Sa[int]s that evermore art [?].
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Thy Padgeant played, thy faithfull crye is heard:
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thy hope in Christ was Anker of thy hold:
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Whereby to thee his promise is not bard,
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but takes deepe roote in thee ten hundred fold.
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Farewell the light, and Loadstarre of our blisse,
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The rich may live, the poore thy help shall misse.
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Yet on thy Shrine, let these fewe Poems stand,
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Here lies the salve that heald the poore mans grief:
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Here lies that good and bounteous liberall hand,
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That day by day was furnisht with reliefe:
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Here lies the Lord, the Councelour & the Knight,
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That ever gave his Countrey perfect light.
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Here lyes the hart much like the hart of Oake,
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Here lyes the braunch of Olive fresh and greene,
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That never wayed or car'd for Envies stroake,
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Such were his fruites continuall to be seene:
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Here lyes the Earle, God graunt him endlesse rest,
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By whose good meane, litle England hath bin blest.
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