An Epitaph of the death of Maister Tufton of Kent

HEre may wée see the force of spitefull death
And what a swaye it beares in worldly things,
It neyther spares the one nor others breath,
He slayes the Keasers and the crowned Kings.
Nothing preuailes against his hatefull hande
He heares no suters when they pleade for lyfe,
The richmans purse cānot Deaths powre wtstand,
Nor Souldiars sworde compare with fatall Knyfe.
He recketh not of well renowmed fame
He forceth not awhit of golden Fée,
His greatest ioy is to obscure the name
Of such as séeke immortall aie to bee.
For if that wealth, bloud, lynage, or desart
Loue, pittie, zeale, or friendship mought preuaild,
If life well led, if true vnfayned hart
Mought purchase lyfe: then Death had not assaild.
This Tuftons lyfe with curst and cruell blade
Breaking the course of him that ran so right
A race as he no stop at all had made
Had Death not tript this Tufton for despight.
The poore haue lost the ritch haue nothing gaind,
The good haue cause to mourne, the yll to plaine:
For Tufton was to all a Friend vnfaind.
Let Kent cry out that Death hath Tufton slaine,
Yet this there is whereof they may reioyce
That his good lyfe hath woon the peoples voyce.