Maister Hampdens Epitaphe.

GOOd life is knowen through deathes despite,
and when to graue wee goe:
Good life steppes forthe of shroudyng sheete,
and doeth our vertues showe.
The yearth can claime but fleshe and bones,
and leaue the reste to fame:
The heauens lookes, but for the soule,
and worlde retaines good name.
So somwhat man doeth leaue behinde, that shines like lanterne clere
Note well the same ye mourners all, that stands about this bere.
And doe but liue as Hampden did, and get that garlande gaie:
And liuell but on that posey sweete, that Hampden boare awaie.
What liuyng man can make reporte, he harmde hym any where:
So vpright was the harte in breast, that Hampdon still did beare.
His harte was iuste, his hands were franke, his words were meeke & milde:
A presence that declarde his minde, was harmlesse as a child.
A gladsome countenance would he shewe, when sorowe searcht hym throwe:
Though Fortune frounde, she could not chaunge, his cherefull merie browe.
A pleasant freende, cleane voide of fraude, bothe honest true and wise:
In court so loude that now the teares, ronnes gushing fro their eyes.
When thei but speake of Hampdens name, an offcer liked so well:
Shall neuer sure from countrey come, in Court againe to dwell.
O happie is that Prince that hath, sutche seruantes at the neede:
And blessed is that lande and soile, that doeth sutche subiects breede.
Thrise happie is the wife I trowe, that sutche a housbande findes:
And perfect honest is that man, that Hampdens vertue mindes.
Good birthe and auncient blood doeth breede, in noble nature still:
Good maners & good life withall, whiche wins the worlds good will.
So Hampdens waies did well declare, from whence began his race:
And told what marke he thought to hit, when death bid life giue place
Well freend the Goddes hath graunted thee, that thou hast sought so long:
A croune of glorie for thy life, or els thei doe thee wrong.
Here we be lefte in wicked worlde, and finde but fewe like thee:
Wherefore my sprite through clouldie skies, would after Hampdon flee.
Though thou hast ronne thy race before, I followe on full faste:
And hope aboue in Abrahams breast, our soules shall meete at laste.