SInce playnts want power to perce the skyes, or rayes the dead from grave,
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No teares nor sighes may well suffies, to wayle the losse we have.
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Then lordings wype your blobbred eyen, and sobb no more alas:
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For death and deastnye doth assigne, all lyfe lyke shade shall passe.
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No seat nor Scepture certayne is, the hye and lowe a lyke:
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In spight of pompe and worldly blis, fall both amid the dyke.
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But when a propp that stayde the state, dropps downe as you do see:
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The lokers on in muse do stand, at crack of such a tree.
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Which leaves the world in moorning weeds, behynd to weepe the losse,
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(Whyles frute is fled from brantch and bowe, as gold forsakes the drosse)
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O Penbroke wilt thou part so sone, what hast hath hyed thee hence:
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Had I byn warnd I had perfuemd, thy Tombe with frankinsence.
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But cald so swiftly to my pen, the sweete insence I want:
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yet sweare I by the sacred Gods, though skill and sence be skant.
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Thou shalt not hyde in clotts of claye, thy ritch rare gyftes of kynd,
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Nor skrawlling wormes shall make no praye, apon thy noble mind.
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The Court that knew thy constant hart, bydds thee returne againe,
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That art for troth and freendshipp fast, a parfect pattern plaine.
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A father where the counsell sate of tongue and talke devine,
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As he at byrth had stolne the grace, of all the Musis nine.
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His lookes dyd speake when silent lipps, lockt up great thinges in head,
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yea evry word past Penbrokes mouth, peysd well a pound of lead.
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No lightnes lodged in his browes, and sure a man in deede,
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That well might tyes from Troyjans race, and honour Hectors seede.
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Of nature noble voyd of blott, in Court and countrey throwe:
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As curteys as the lyttell Lambe, or Faucon gentyll nowe.
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In bountie dyd his harte abound, where cause made place before:
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Not wonne by feare, but held by love, what might be wished more.
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To such as favred learnings lore, (though he no schole poynt knew)
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His pursse and hand as closly crept, as hauke weare clapt in mew.
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To those that seemd somwhat to be, whose harts he sawe aspier:
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He gave good hope in signe of happ, to further there desier.
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To Prince and countrey true as steell, no blast could beare him downe,
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He kept his promise fayth and oth, in Court, in feeld and towne.
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Devout to God his lyfe well showes, his death doth that declare,
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On Christ alone, the corner stone, he onely layd his care.
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O manly Penbroke yet me thinks, I see thee martch upright,
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Thy jesture and thy jolly port, stands still before my sight.
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Thy cleanly finenes trimly framd, sprang out of noble brest:
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And all thou didst within thy dayes, a noble mind exprest.
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But nothing here so cleane or gay, can kepe the lyfe alyve,
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Both wealth and Lordshipp leapes away, when death our date doth dryve.
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yet death when he hath done his worst, dare not molest the spreete:
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That God doth clayme and angels thinke, for Abrams bosome meete.
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