An Epitaph on the death, of the Right
honorable and vertuous Lord Henry Wrisley, the
Noble Earle of Southhampton: who lieth interred at Touchfeelde in the Countie of
Hamshyre, the 30. day of November 1581. and in the 24. yeare of our most drad and
Soveraigne Ladie Elizabeth by the grace of God, of England, Fraunce & Ireland Queene. etc.
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YOu noble Peeres refraine, Your courtly sportes awhyle:
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Cast on your wailefull weedes of woe, Dame pleasure doo exile.
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Beholde a platforme playne, Of death, fit for the Grave:
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Who late injoyed a lyving Soule, as you this season have.
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His birthright noble was, honour beset him rounde:
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But Death amidst his lustie yeeres, hath shrind him in the ground.
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When time is come he waightes, according Gods decree:
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To conquer lyfe, respecting not the mightiest in degree.
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Intreatie cannot serve, Death seekes no golden gift:
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For from his reache no potentate, to flye can make the shift.
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The Glasse runne forth at large, the howre fully spent:
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To share lifes thred asunder hee, by mightie Jove is sent.
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The daunce of Death no King, nor Kayser but must trace:
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The Duke, the Earle, the Lord & knight to him must yeeld a place
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The aged olde, the midle sort, the lustie youth in prime:
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To live on earth cannot injoy, the certentie of time.
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For as time hath no staie, but fleeteth everie howre:
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So is the lyfe of mortall men, compared to a flowre.
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Whose beautie knowne todaie, tomorrow fadeth quight:
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And vanisheth, as though therof, Man never had the sight,
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So fickle is our state, we fading Flowres bee:
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Todaie alive, tomorrow dead, according Gods decree.
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Of lyfe no Charters given, to any worldly wight:
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Oh who can say that he shall live, from morne unto the night.
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He that at fyrst gave lyfe, of lyfe will beare the sway:
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And when him lykes, as pleaseth him, will take this lyfe away.
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Sith he workes all in all, and rules as seemes him best:
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Lets learne that earth we are, and earth to claime her owne is prest.
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The perfect proofe wherof, apparently is seene:
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By this good Earle, whose lusty yeeres, did florish faire & greene.
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But in a moment chaunged, and withered lyke the haie:
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Bereft of lyfe and honor great, and coutched close in claie.
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Yet though he sencelesse lye, Southhamtons Earle by name:
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Yet death in him lyes dead no doubt, by meanes of noble fame.
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For whilst on earth he liv'de, to vertue he was bent:
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And after wisdomes lore to hunt, he gave his frank consent.
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In Justice was his joye, and justly he did deale:
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As they can tell that for his aide, had cause for to appeale.
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The widow poore opprest, he carefully did shield:
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And to the Orphane in his right, did dayly comfort yeeld.
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The needie poore he fed, with Mutton, Bread and Beeffe:
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His hand was never slack to give, the comfortlesse releefe.
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The naked back to cloth, he ever ready was:
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No needy poore without reward, from this Earles gates could pas.
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His Housekeeping right good, there plentie bare the sway:
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No honest man forbidden was, within his house to staie.
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His faith brought foorth sweete fruite, the Lord God to delight:
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And made him as a servant good, accepted in his sight.
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Unto his tennauntes poore, this Earle was ever kinde:
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To work their weale, he carefully did alwaies yeeld his minde.
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Inhaunsing of his rentes, did ne enlarge his store:
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He alwaies had a care to help, and aide his Farmers pore.
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His servauntes weale to worke, no time he did forbeare:
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To doo them good that wel deserv'd, his zeale did still appeare,
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On God his hart was set, in Christ his hope did rest:
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And of the mightie Lord of hoastes, this noble Earle was blest.
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To Prince he was most just, to countrie alwaies true:
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The fruites of love and loyaltie, in him all states might view.
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In wedlock hee observed, the vow that he had made:
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In breach of troth through lewd lust, he ne would seeme to wade
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Thrice happy thou, of God and man belov'de:
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That ever soughtst to make a peace, where discorde striffe had mov'd.
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Though thou from us be gone and taken hence by death:
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Among the sonnes of mortal men, thy prayse shall live on earth.
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For as thy lyfe was just, so godly was thy ende:
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Not on this world, but on sweet Christ, thou alwaies didst depend
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And as in health his name, thou reverently didst praise:
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So in his feare in sicknesse thou, didst spend thy lotted daies,
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This world thou heldst as vaine, thy lyfe thou thoughtest no losse:
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In hope of Heaven & heavenly blisse, thou deemst al things but dros.
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This hovering still in hope, to heaven thou tookst thy flyght,
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wherewith thy Christ the Jueller, of joy thy hart is pight.
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And he in extreeme paine, when anguish did abounde:
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To give thee comfort from above, was ever ready found.
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Amidst his mercie he, though justice wrought thy smart:
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Even lyke a loving saviour, did alwaies take thy part.
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When Sathan, sinne, and death, about thee round were set:
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To pray for thee most earnestly, he never did forget.
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And like a Souldier just, by faith thou foughtst the Feelde:
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And armst thyself gainst all thy foes, to whom thou woldst not yeeld
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But so didst keepe the fort, that all thy foes did flye:
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And lyke a lambe in Jesus Christ, preparedst thyselfe to die.
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Of Court thou takest thy leave, thy Prince thou bidst farewell,
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for whose estate thou praydst to God, her enemies to quell.
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The Noble Peeres eche one, with hart thou bidst adue:
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And praiedst that they to glad her hart, may loyaltie ensue.
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Of all thy loving friendes, thou takest a fynall leave:
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And unto God most constantly, for comfort thou doest cleave,
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Thy noble children thou, right lovingly doest blesse:
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To Servants all thou givest adue, they may thee not possesse.
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From them thou doest prepare, thy passage straight to make:
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And unto Christ with cheareful voice, thy soule thou doest betake
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Who with outstretched armes, receives it to his grace:
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And with his saintes, in glorie great, appointes the happye place.
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Thy freendes thy losse lament, thy Children waile and weepe,
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To see their Father and their freend, in Clay inclosed deepe.
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Thy servants streme foorth teares, they wring their wofull handes:
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to see that all to soone of lyfe, death hath desolved the bandes,
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His Tennants all doo mourne, their smoking sobs abounde,
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And to the skies the needie poore, their pitious plaints resounde.
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Their foster freend from them, by death they say is hent:
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whose want in Court & towne echewhere, both old & yong lament.
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But teares are spent in vaine, though they suppose him dead:
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He lives in Heaven where Jesus Christ, with glory crownes his head.
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And thus right noble Earle, thy last adue receive:
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To thine availe behinde thee thou, good name & fame doest leave.
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Which so shall conquer death, that death in thee shall die:
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and more the Sonnes of mortall men, to heave thy praise to skie.
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