EBBA 36292
Society of Antiquaries of London - Broadsides
Ballad XSLT Template
An Epitaph upon the deth of kyng Edward
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ADewe pleasure
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Gone is our treasure
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Morning mai be our mirth.
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For Edward our king
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That rose did spring
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Is baded and lyeth in earth.
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Therfore morne we may.
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Both night and day
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And in hart we may be ful sad:
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Sence Brute came in
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Or at any time sence
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The like treasure we never had
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But death with his darte
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Hath pearced the harte
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Of that Prince moste excellent:
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The childe newborne
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May lament and morne
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And for the death of him repent
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Gone is our joy.
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Our sport and our play
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Our comfort is turned to care.
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To Englandes great cost
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This jewell we have lost,
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That with al christendom might compare
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Of so noble a birth,
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The godliest in earth.
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Our true kinge and eyre by right:
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Edwarde by name
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Borne of Queene Jane
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And sonne to kinge Henry the eyght
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At the age of sixtene yeres
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As by the Cronicles aperes,
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In the seventh yere of his raigne
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God toke him away,
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Our comfort and joy,
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To Englandes greate dolour and payne
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In his tender age,
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So grave and so sage
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So well learned and wittie:
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And now that swete flower
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Hath builded his bower
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In the earth the more is the pitie.
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The whole losse and lacke,
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Is to Englande a wracke,
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All faythfull hartes may morne:
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To se that swete childe.
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So meke and so milde
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So soone subdued to wormes
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Out of Grenewiche he is gone,
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And lieth under a stone,
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That loveth both house and parke:
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Thou shalt see him no more
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That set by thee suche store
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For death hath pearced his hart.
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Gone is our king,
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That woulde runne at the ringe,
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And often times ryde on black heath.
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Ye noble men of chevalry,
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And ye men of artilerie
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May all lament his death.
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That swete childe is deade,
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And lapped in leade
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And in Westminster lyeth full colde
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All hartes may rewe
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That ever they him knew
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Or that swete childe did beholde.
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Farewell Diamonde deare,
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Farewell Christall cleare,
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Farewell the flower of chevalry
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The Lorde hath taken him
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And for his peoples sinne
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A just plage for our iniquitie.
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But now ye noble peeres
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Marke well your yeares
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For you do not know your day:
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And this you may be bolde,
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Both yonge and olde
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You shall die and hence away:
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And for our royall kinge
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The noblest livinge,
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No longer with us may tarie:
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But his soule we do commende,
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Unto the Lordes hande,
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Who preserve our noble Quene Mary.
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Longe with us to endure,
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With myrth joy and pleasure,
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To rule her realme a right:
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All her enemies to withstande
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By sea and by lande,
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Lorde preserve her both day and nighte.
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God save the Kinge and
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the Queene.
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Imprinted at London in Holburne
nere to the Cundite at the signe of the
Sarsins head by John Charlewod
and John Tysdale.
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