An Epytaphe, or a lamentable Discourse: wherein is bewayled
the death of the Right worshipfull Knight, Sir William GARRA One of the Queens Majesties Commissioners, and chiefe
Alderman of the honourable Citie of London. Who deceased the .27. of SEPTEMBER. 1571.
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WHo can refraine from sorwing plaints,
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and brinish blubbring teares?
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What hart wyll now refuse to grone?
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and tourne from Joy his eares.
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Ne high, ne low, ne Rich, ne poore, in London that remayne,
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But have just cause for GARRATS losse, to languish and complayne:
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Helpe me therefore ye powers devine: that in the heavens doo dwell,
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The losse of this moste worthy wight, in mourninge Verse to tell.
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Come now CALLIOPE I pray, and CLIO Goulden Dame:
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with Sisters thine from HELYCON, aide mee fresh plaints to frame.
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Stay not on Mownt PERNASO now, cast on your mournyng weede,
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convert your Hymnes and Songs of Joy, to wailyng woes with speede.
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Send foorth with mee your sighing sobbes, the sacred Skies to pearce:
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that unto Goddes and mortall men, our plaints we may dispearse.
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And fayle mee not O PALLAS now, amidst my griefe and woe:
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But graunt with skyl to guide my Quil, these heavy Newes to shoe.
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Sith I with teares do crave your aide, let mee your favour finde:
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The losse of GARRAT worthie Wight, help now to print in mind.
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What? flie ye thus from mee? alas: why go ye backe againe?
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wyll none of you to further mee, vouchsafe to take the payne?
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Alas, (unskilfull wretche:) Disdaine doth thee betide:
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For MEDUCE and PIERIDES, with thee in place abyde:
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These Dames, as hard as Steele or Flint, are fixed in thy sight:
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and thou hast nought but black and white, thy meanyng to endight.
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Leave off therfore, sith CLIOS Spring, of Rhethorique is fled:
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thy wyll is good, but powers thyne, with Ignorance are fed.
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I wept to see my Fortune suche, my woes did then abounde:
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But Hoape at last to comfort mee, a present meane foorth fownd:
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Feare not (quoth she) dispaire thou not, set drowpyng dread aside,
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take Pen and wriie: to comfort thee, (I Hoape) a meane provide.
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Lift up thyne eies, behold and see, Dame Trueth is in thy sight:
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with that I rendred humble thankes, and tooke my Pen to wright.
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And now, awaye ye doubtfull lettes, that clogde my hart with feares:
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By force to geve you overthrow, Dame Trueth in place appeares.
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Should GARRATS losse unminded bee? such Friend to Common weale,
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Though he be gone, should we not way, his true and godly zeale?
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Should we forget his curtesie, so plainlie knowen and seene?
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Then most unkind we should remayne, sith he our frend hath ben.
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Ye Consuls wise, ye Senatours, that Londons wealth provide,
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Lament and wayle, for unto you, no small losse is betide.
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Ye all have lost a faithfull Frend, for Counsell sage and wise:
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In thynges of weight, ye fayled not, to folow his advise.
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But now that sacred JOVE, by wisdome his decreed,
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That LACHESIS & CLOTHO both, their toyle shuld leave in deede:
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Coms PARCHAS shee, with Sickle sharp, & shreads the thred in twaine
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That three score yeares & .vii. to weave: they had imployd their payne.
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She cutteth downe this Olyve greene, whose Branches fayre did shoe,
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His dayes are ron to CHAMPIAN now, and BEECHER he wyll goe.
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Of HAYWARD wise, Pretorian hee, now GARRAT leave doth take
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Good OFFLEY olde, and gentle WHITE: by Death he must forsake.
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Eke DRAPER wise, and ALLEN hee, whose wisdome doth excell.
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with all the Troupe of Aldermen, thus GARRAT byds, Farewell.
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Therfore in Senate when you sit and want hym in your trayne:
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For wisdome his, in Memorie, let Image his remayne.
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In rule, he was your equall sure: for Counsayle SOLON hee,
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Then meete with teares his Absence should, of you lamented bee.
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No Rule, but he hath borne, that doth to LONDON longe,
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A man upright in Justice sure, that knew the right from wronge.
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Most apt was GARRAT to doo good, to all and everie wight,
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Both riche and poore, may wayle the losse, of suche a gentell Knight.
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In Justice, single was he sure, in Judgement alwaye sownd:
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To cease contendyng, prone and prest, this worthie man was fownd.
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To needie poore a perfite frende, to tender all their griefe,
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And suche a one, as spared not, to them to geve reliefe.
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Unto the Prysoners poore, that did in captive plight remaine:
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From bandes to free all that he could, he did imploy his payne.
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But who hath lost the greatest losse? I knowe not one, but all:
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But to his Spouse and Ladie deare, the greatest losse doth fall.
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She wants her lovyng Make, her Friend and Turtle true:
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whose death with sighes & sorowyng sobbes, she ceaseth not to rew.
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His Children deare their Father want, they lacke their Staffe & stay.
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His Servantes they, their Master misse, alas and well away.
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But that they lost, the Lorde hath fownd, the mightie God on hie:
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For as his lyfe was vertuous, so godly he did die.
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Amidst his bytter panges of death, that were both sharpe and strong:
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To see his Christ and heavenly Joyes, he vehemently did longe.
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And now his wish he hath obtaind, for Death hath done his wyll:
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His Corps devoide of breath doth rest, yet shall his Fame lyve styll.
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His Soule by faith the Heavens hath won, his Body shrowdes in Clay
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This finall farewell GARRAT take: I have no more to say.
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