An Epitaph of Maister Edwards sometime Maister of the Children of the Chappell, and Gentleman of Lyncolns Inne of Court

YE Learned Muses nine
and sacred Sisters all,
Now lay your chéerefull Cithrons downe
and to lamenting fall.
Rent off those Garlands gréene,
doe Lawrell Leaues away,
Remooue the Myrtell from your browes
and stint on strings to play.
For he that led the daunce
the chiefest of your traine,
(I meane the man that Edwards height)
by cruell death is slaine.
Yée Courtyers chaunge your chéere,
lament in wailefull wise,
For now your Orpheus hath resignde,
in clay his Carcas lyes.
O ruth, he is bereft
that whilst he liued héere
For Poets Pen and passing Wit
could haue no English Péere.
His vaine in Verse was such,
so stately eke his stile
His feate in forging sugred Songs
with cleane and curious file,
As all the learned Greekes
and Romaines would repine
If they did liue againe, to vewe
his Verse with scornefull eine.
From Plautus he the Palme
and learned Terence wan,
His writings well declarde the Wit
that lurcked in the man.
O Death thou stoodste in dread
that Edwards by his Art
And Wisedome would haue scapte thy shaft
and fled thy furious Dart.
This feare enforste thy fist
thy cursed Bow to bende,
And let the fatall Arrow flie
that Edwards life did ende.
But spite of all thy spite
when all thy hate is tride,
(Thou cursed Death) his earned praise
in Mouth of Man shall bide.
Wherefore (O Fame) I say
to trumpe thy lips applie,
And blow a blast that Edwards brute
may pierce the golden Skie.
For here bylow in earth
his name is so well knowne:
As eche that knew his life, laments
that hée so soone is gone.