My Ladie of Lennoyes graces Epitaphe.

YOU noble dames of greatest birth,
whose fame to clouds would flye.
On this cold cors with warme good will,
bowe doune your iudgyng eye.
To see how fleshe and blood must fall,
to dust when race is ronne:
And worldly brute, and honours blaste,
shall ende where it begonne.
If stately name, or high renowne,
might make her bodie liue:
Or Princes blood, to life and breath, might here a patente giue.
This Ladie had not tasted death, nor felte in sondrie thyngs:
Suche crossyng chance, and froward fate, as to her graue she brings,
Was neuer wight, with troubles toste, so sore and past them soe:
For in her breast from tender yeres, a gulffe of greef did floe.
Scan that whiche best, can skill of woe, her sorrowes were so greate:
That when I waie a dram thereof, my face and browes doe sweate.
But though she founde her fortune harde, a staied mynde she bore:
A worthie hedde where sober witte, by heapes laie hid in store.
Her gesture shewd from whence she came, her words moste graue & wyes
And honours beame, like burnyng Lampe, did blase amid her eyes.
A presence that could freends comaunde, and hold her foes full mute:
A noble harte where bounties budds, did blome and beare good frute.
What needs more words to proue a trothe, so rare her vertues were:
That who presumes, to hit them right, maie misse the marke I fere.
As you that mourne, are cladde with blacke, in white her soule doeth shine:
Transformd fro fleshe to angels kinde, or sacred shape deuine.
Where fortunes threate, ca doe no harme, nor worldly foile she fears
And eche good ghost in glorie greate, doeth make an ende of tears.
Her life my gaine, her death my losse, her fauour helpt my state:
Her laste farewell leaues freends behinde, to waile the losse too late.