A Tribute to Thomas Clere

Norfolk sprang thee, Lambeth holds thee dead,
Clere, of the County of Cleremont, though hight.
Within the womb of Ormonds race thou bred,
And sawest thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for lord, thou chase; —
Aye, me! while life did last that league was tender.
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsall blaze,
Laundersey burnt, and battered Bullen render.
At Muttrel gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.
Ah, Clere! if love had booted, care, or cost,
Heaven had not wonne, nor earth so timely lost.