An Epytaphe upon the Death
of M. Rycharde Goodricke Esquier.
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YF ever Realme had cause to rue
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The death and losse of anyone
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Then hath this realme just cause and true
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This worthy dead man, to bemone
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By whom suche treasure theyr is loste
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As scant the lyke, in Englandes coste.
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A heade where learned Pallas sate
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And settled wysdome dwelte lykewyse
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And grounded skyll, for common state
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That with forecaste, coulde well devyse
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Where learnynge syttes, with skyll & wyt
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Suche one to rule, who thynkes not fyt.
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A tonge that prudently coulde saye
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What myght be sayde, and that with spede
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A wyt that knewe, no stoppe nor staye
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To gyve advyse, in tyme of need
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A fytter matche, there coulde not be
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Then tonge and wyll, thus to agree.
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A hearte moste earnest to mayntayne
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Goddes trueth and his unspotted lawe
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No hope of mede, no feare of payne
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From care of that, coulde hym withdrawe
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O blessed realme, whose rulers be
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So zelous in that thinge as he
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A man moste redy to defende
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A ryght, and here a poore mans cause
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No threatnynge foe, no fawnynge frende
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Coulde make hym do, agaynste the lawe
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As Lawes defende, a trueth and right
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So Lawyers shulde, with all theyr might
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Thus then the poore, his helpe doth mys
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And Pallas lackes, her learned knyght
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The Lawe doth lacke, a lyght of his
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The Realme hath loste, a worthy wyght
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And that whiche is the greatest gryefe
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Goddes worde hath lost, a membre chiefe.
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And yet not lost, whom Christ hath founde
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And placed in heaven, I doubte it not
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Thus he that lackte his legges on grounde
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Before us all, to heaven is got.
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To heaven we se, the nearest waye
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Is vertue then, there is no naye.
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