My Ladie Baggnalles Epitaphe who died at the Nuerie.

LOe here a ladie lies, whose life greate glory won
A mornyng Starre, a Lampe of daie:
that shone as bright as Sonne.
A goodly glasse of Steele,
that scornde to take a staine:
A Mirrour that did liuely showe,
a perfecte picture plaine.
An aide to straungers still, that staide within her gates:
As noble a Nourse to neighbours all, as freendly to estates.
A spryng of larges streams, a well of wifely waies:
A vertuous dame, that vice subdued, a pearle of peerlesse praies.
A fountaine full of faithe, her plaiefeere founde the same:
In eurie pointe that did adorne, a comely sober dame.
From natiue soile she brought, faire lands and freends greate store:
And matcht wt Niclas Baggnall knight, to who faire babes she bore.
O Nuerie thou wast once, of this sweete sainct the shrine:
And now the soile of sighes and sobbs, and wofull weepyng eyne.
For thou hast lately loste, by lothsome Deaths disgrace:
The Lanterne gaie, and louyng Lampe, that beautified that place.
Harke worlde how Fame reports, (and Ecco doeth resounde:)
The hidden heaps of heauenly gifts, that did in her abounde.
A happie houswife knowne, the ioye of housbands breast:
A wise and worthie warrant bothe, to chere eche honest geast.
And as she did present, dame Beautie throughly still:
So nothyng might compare to reache, beyond her franke good will.
To poore a present helpe, to ritche her house was free:
A foe to none, her nature sutche, she honoured eche degree.
Belou'd of greate and small, as one were blest from bitthe:
No hurder vp of heauie baggs, (the drousie drosse of yearth.)
But made her treasure house, in clouds and heauens hye:
Where soulls doe hugg, and sprits of men, in Abrams brest doeth lye
Yea all on yearth she did, was doen to that intent:
And sure no soner lefte she life, but thether straight she went.
So now I leaue her there, escapt from worldly blaste:
Whiles of her fame, all Irelande ryngs, and shall whites world doth laste.