THe Juell of our joye is gone, the happie heavens have wonne,
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The greatest gift that ever was, with us beneth the sonne:
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Which makes such weepinge eyes, in Sallesbury they saye,
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As all the ronning streames therof, can never washe awaye.
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(Alas) is Juell dead, the folder of the flocke,
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If Death have caught the Diall up, then who shall keepe the Clocke?
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O God, what greefe is this, thye charie Churche should want,
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A Bishoppe of so good a grace, wher good men be so skant:
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Wee feare the plague (they saye) but such a plague as this,
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Sithens I was borne I never knewe, nor never shall iwis:
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Yet are there some behinde, I trust will learne to knowe,
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How Juell to his dieng daye, his Talents did bestowe.
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So busie at his booke, to bring the truth to light,
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As they that lyke the redie way, maye looke and finde it right,
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His house and housholde was so kept for his degree,
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As Paull in his Epistles wrightes a Bisshoppes house should bee:
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His Diocesse I beleeve, hee kept in so good awe,
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As Vertue is content to sweare, they lived within her lawe.
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His handes and harte were free, the needie could not lacke,
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Such peace and concorde planted hee, as nothing went to wracke:
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And charie went to Churche, himselfe by breake of daye,
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That his example might procure, the rest to go that waye:
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And gave unto his men, their dueties when hee died,
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With large and Lordlie recompence, this can not bee denied.
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(Alas) with piteous mone, all Christians nowe maye weepe,
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That wee have such a Shepard gone: God helpe the selie sheepe:
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Meethinkes I see in heaven, triumphant truth appeare,
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And faythfulnes, which speake alowde, let Juell nowe come neare.
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Th appostelles all do prease, meethinckes to see his face:
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And all the Angells go about to bring him to his place:
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Even Christ himselfe mee thinkes, I see begins to smile,
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And saith: beholde my chosen frend, I lookte for all this while.
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And Abraham rendes his clothes, and bowells out his brest,
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And sayth to Juell jumpe in here, and take thye quiet rest.
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