Sir Willyam Courtneis Epitaphe.

BY death eche life is knowen,
as darkenesse tries out light,
By life is man made like the Gods,
where life is ledde a right.
Whiles Courtneis life did laste,
his glorie hid remainde:
But now he hath sutche rare renowne,
as fewe or none attainde.
The worlde setts forthe his fame, in sutche a liuely sorte:
That to the Angells eares aboue, is blowen thereof reporte.
Whiche newes is lickte so well, the heauens holde them bleste:
Whe God shall bid vnlocke the gates, embrace this newe come gest.
But though the heauens ioye, the yearth with teares is filde:
And kinde hath cause to curse her self, that suche a tree hath spilde.
By sicknesse sent in spight, to spoile the spraise and all:
And made grene leaues forsake their bowes, ere fruit wer ripe to fall.
Me thinke I heare hym saie, would God had been my chance:
To hitte on death in open feeld, by chardge of enemies Lance.
Lament ye Courtlike Lordes, a plaie feere loste you haue:
Sende forthe some sighes a long the seas, to sobb vpon his graue.
That buried is at Hawne, with warlike pompe and shotte:
Whiche range his knell as is the gise, alas to sone God wotte.
Well, worthie goe thy waie, how many of thy name:
Are lefte behinde to tread thy stepps, and winne but halfe thy fame.
How should sutche gifts be graft, without some power deuine:
Sutche vertues dwell in one mans breast, as harbred were in thine.
A Courtney by thy name, a Courtier kindly borne:
A perfite peece not painted out, a coine vnclippte or worne.
One of so right a stampe, that streight did currant passe.
In euery place of his repaire, where sondrie golds were glasse.
His face bewraied at first, what hope of hym to haue:
His works performde that tonge brought forth, his hand full largely gaue.
A hedde that ofte had paste, dame Prudens mustere books:
A countnance as his courage was, no forsed Lyons looks.
A harte, storehouse of trothe, a minde no ire might moue:
An eare that watcht for well coucht words, a grace that gatt mutche loue.
His liberall Nature shewed, full ofte to eche degree:
Where bountie wants (set birthe a side,) ye can not noble bee.
Now better kisse his steppes, then at his praise to kicke:
Well maie men roue about his marke, but none shall hit the pricke.
What mournyng makes his wife, that sutche a housbande loste:
His babes, his men, his neighbours eke, and all the Westerne coste.
Well geasts, your Hoste is gone, turne horse an other waie:
The shrine is robbde, the saincte is fled, where ye were wont to staie.
The sacred godds receiue, emong them where thei are:
With as muche mirth as maie be made) the sprite yt Courtney bare.