An Epitaphe on the death of Dame Elyzabeth Arhundle

HEre graued is a good and Godly Wight,
That yéelded hath hir cynders to the soyle,
Who ran hir race in vertues tylt aright
And neuer had at Fortunes hand the foyle:
The guide was God whome shée did aye ensue,
And Vertue was the marke whereat she thrue.
Descending of a house of worthie fame
Shée linckt at length with one of egall state,
Who though did chaunge hir first & former name,
Did not enforce hir vertues to rebate:
For Dannat shee Dame Arhundle was hight,
whose Féere was knowne to be a worthy Knight.
Hir beautie I not blaze ne brute at all,
(Though with the best she might therein compare)
For that it was to age and fortune thrall:
Hir thewes I touch which were so passing rare,
As being earthde and reaft hir vitall breath,
Hir chiefest part doth liue and conquer death.
Let Spite not spare to speake of hir the wurst,
Let Enuie feede vpon hir godly life,
Let Rancour rage, let Hatreds bellie burst,
Let Zoill now vnsheath his cutting knife:
For death hath closde hir corse in Marble graue,
Hir soule is fled in Skies his seate to haue.
Let Leyster laugh that such a Mirrour bred:
Let Matrons mourne for losse of their renowne,
Let Cornewall crie since Dannat now is ded,
Let Vertue eke doe on hir mourning gowne:
For she is rest that was at Vertues beck
Whome Fortune had no powre to giue the check.