An Epitaphe of sir Nicholas Bacon Knight, late Lorde Keeper.

THE lodestarre that good Pilotts likt,
crept vnder cloude of late:
A suddaine storme hath knapt in twoo,
a staffe of publicke sate.
Out of our goodlie golden Ryng, is falne a precious stone:
The lande that sutche a Iewell lacks, hath cause to morne and mone.
The babes that seeth their parents dye, of duetie sheds some teares,
But when a Pillar falleth doune, that countries burthen beares.
The common wealth doeth bide a shocke, and ioynts in sonder shake:
If not in steade of auncient propp, a newe defence we make.
A father to all forward witts, who fostred lawe and right:
A Sunne that shone through highest clouds, yet gaue belowe greate light.
Who will not waile that knowes the want: well Englande sutche a glas:
Shall seldome shine in thee againe, as worthie Bacon was.
A flood of sence and sugred sappe, came flowyng from his braine:
Ne Tulles toung, nor Petracks penne, nor stoute wise Catoes vaine.
Maie not surmount the philed phrase, and reche of Bacons hedd:
His voice was smothe as Organe pipe, and looke what Bacon sedd.
Was held for Lawe & iudgement greate, the sentence was so swete:
The words were of so deepe a fetche, and sprong from suche a sprete.
He spent no speeche nor words in waste, and where his promes past:
Performance hasted out of hande, and followd on as faste.
To God, to Prince, and Iustice rules, a greate regard he tooke:
Not on the man, but on the cause, and matter would he looke.
Disposde and bente to doe muche good, but namely vnto those:
To whom dame vertues learned lore, did gifts of grace disclose.
His countries care cutts of his daies, and brings the dim dark night:
That wisely cannot waye the weight, and worth of sutche a wight.
He liues in laude and lanterne like, he lastes with blasyng fame:
We die, & world weares out our praise, where shines his noble name.
Moste noble are those burnyng lampes, moste clerest light thei shoe:
That leaues a torche which giues vs light, whe hece fro vs thei goe.