VAyne is the blisse, & brittle is the glasse, of worldly wished welth:
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The steppes unstayde, the life unsure, of lastyng hoped helth.
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witnes (alas) may Marie be, late Quene of rare renowne,
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whose body dead, her vertues live, and doth her fame resowne,
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In whom suche golden giftes were grafte, of nature and of grace,
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As when the tongue dyd ceasse to say, yet vertue spake in face.
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what vertue is that was not founde, within that worthy wight?
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what vice is there, that can be sayde, wherin she had delight?
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She never closde her eare to heare, the rightous man distrest,
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Nor never sparde her hande to helpe, wher wrong or power opprest.
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when all was wracke, she was the porte, from peryll unto joye,
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when all was spoyle, she spared all, she pitied to distroye.
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How many noblemen restorde, and other states also,
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well shewd her Princely liberall hert, which gave both friend & fo.
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where conscience was, or pitie moved, or juste desertes dyd crave,
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For Justice sake, all worldly thynges, she used as her slave.
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As Princely was her birth, so Princely was her life,
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Constante, courtise, modest, and mylde, a chast and chosen wife.
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In greatest stormes she feared not, for God she made her shielde,
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And all her care she cast on him, who forst her foes to yelde.
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Her perfecte life in all extremes, her pacient hert dyd shoe,
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For in this worlde she never founde, but dolfull dayes and woe.
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All worldly pompe she set at nought, to praye was her delight,
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A Martha in her kyngdomes charge, a Mary named right.
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She conquerd death in perfect life, and feared not his darte:
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She lived to dye and dyed to live, with constant faithful hart.
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Her restles ship of toyle and care, these worldly wrackes hath past,
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And safe arrives the heavenly porte, escapt from daungers blast.
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when I have sene the Sacrament (she said) even at her death,
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These eyes no earthly syght shall see, and so lefte life and breath.
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O mirrour of all womanhed, o Quene of vertues pure,
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O constaunt Marie filde with grace, no age can thee obscure
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Thyne end hath set the fre, from tongues of tickle trust.
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And lockte the lippes of slaunders brute, which daily damnes the just.
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Thy death hath geven thee life, thy life with God shall joye,
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Thy joye shall last, thy vertues live, from feare and all anoye.
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O happie heavens, O hatefull earth, O chaunge to Marie best,
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Though we bewaile, thou maist rejoyce, thy longe retourne to rest.
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O worthy Quene, most worthy life, o lampe of vertues light,
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But what avayles, sith flesh is wormes, and life is deathes of right
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Mercy and rest may Marie fynde, whose fayth and mercy crave,
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Eternall prayse here in this earth, and joye with God to have.
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Marie is gone, whose vertues teache, of life and death the way,
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Learne we that live, her steppes to treade, and for her soule to pray.
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Make for your mirrour (Princes all) Marie our maistres late,
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Whom teares, nor plaintes, nor princely mace, might stai in her estate
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Lo, here we see, as nature formes, death doth deface at lengthe,
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In life and death, pray we to God, to be our guyde and strengthe.
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Farewell o Quene, o pearle most pure, that God or nature gave,
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The erth, the heavens, the sprites, the saintes, cry honor to thy grave.
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Marie now dead, Elisabeth lives, our just & lawfull Quene,
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In whom her sisters vertues rare, habundantly are seene.
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Obaye our Quene, as we are bounde, pray God her to preserve,
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And sende her grace longe life & fruite, and subjectes trouth to serve.
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