The phantasticall Monarkes Epitaphe.

THough Dat be dedde, and Marrot lies in graue,
And Petrarks sprite, bee mounted past our vewe:
Yet some doe liue, (that Poets humours haue,)
To keepe old course, with vains of verses newe.
Whose penns are prest, to paint out people plaine,
That els a sleepe, in silence should remaine:
Come poore old man, that boare the Monarks name,
Thyne Epitaphe, shall here set forthe thy fame.

Thy climyng mynde, aspierd beyonde the Starrs,
Thy loftie stile, no yearthly titell bore:
Thy witts would seem, to see through peace and warrs,
Thy tauntyng tong, was pleasant sharpe and sore.
And though thy Pride, and pompe was somewhat vaine,
The Monarcke had, a deepe discoursyng braine:
A lone with freend, he could of wonders treate,
In publike place, pronounce a sentence greate.

No matche for fooles, if wisemen were in place,
No mate at meale, to sit with common sort:
Bothe graue of looks, and fatherlike of face,
Of Iudgement quicke, of comely forme and port.
Moste bent to words, on hye and solempne daies,
Of diet fine, and daintie diuerse waies:
And well disposde, if Prince did pleasure take,
At any mirthe, that he poore man could make.

On gallant robes, his greatest glorie stood,
Yet garments bare, could neuer daunt his minde:
He feard no state, nor aerd for worldly good,
Helde eche thyng light, as fethers in the winde.
And still he saied, the strong thursts weake to wall,
When sworde bore swaie, the Monarke should haue all:
The man of might, at length shall Monarke bee,
And greatest strength, shall make the feeble flee.

When straungers came, in presence any wheare,
Straunge was the talke, the Monarke vttred than:
He had a voice, could thonder through your eare,
And speake mutche like, a merrie Christmas man.
But sure small mirthe, his matter harped on,
His forme of life, who lists to looke vpon:
Did shewe some witte, though follie fedde his will,
The man is dedde, yet Monarke liueth still.