English

Tyme and trust doth trie both weake and sure,
O blisful hap that trust in time maye reache:
The patients paine which sicknesse doth procure,
Hath health or ende, at last to be his leache.
Effects (alas) I see doe fall out harde,
Lost labor reapes the crop of lyngering griefe,
And friendships force, through falshoode is debarde.
Despite denies deserte to reache reliefe,
I see some smyle as they were gyrte with gladnesse,
Stayde vp by hope, though drencht in deepe dispayre:
Preferring sporte, but daunted downe with sadnesse.

Lay downe your Pens, that pen vnworthy prayse,
Aduaunsing Dames which naught may claime by right:
Direct your course a Ladies fame to raise,
In eche respect that well deserues your light.
Grace is a gifte deuyne giuen from aboue,
Cancell the scrowles that others praise pretende:
All writs are voyde that substance none doe proue,
Vertue and blood, this Lady both commende.
Eche perfite good in her doth fyrmely rest,
Noble by byrth, by Nature affable,
Disposed well, all ill she doth detest,
In euery action modest and stable.

Let wisedome welde your witte and all your wayes,
Among the best your credite twill enhaunce:
Detest eche Vice, by Vertue purchase prayse,
In Noble moulde, a Noble minde aduaunce.

March on with those gainst frayle desyres that fight,
And gayne the Gole where glorye great doth dwell:
Resist eche wrong, endeuour to doe right,
Imbrace good will of such as wishe you well.

Suspend to deeme the worst, what euer breede,
And poyse eche poynte before you verdit giue,
Vntill you syft the depth of doubts in deede,

Long may you lyue, and happy yeares enioye,
Among your friends, to staye in blisfull state
Deuoyde of Foes, safe shrowded from annoye.
In all your workes: God graunt you happy fate,
Kindle your care to compasse heauenly things:
Presse downe the worlde, let not his power preuayle.
Esteeme him not, a Syrens song he sings.
Most happy they, where most his flatteries fayle.
Beginne no acte, but fyrst foresee the ende:
Reache forth your hande to helpe the needie still,
Obserue such rules as may your state defende.

She's gone! a foreign land contains
Her ever honour'd dear remains:
Pale are the cheeks where beauty glow'd;
And mute the tongue whence music flow'd;
Torn, in the height of all her charms,
From a fond husband's eager arms.
Could youth, or brightest beauty save,
She had not met an early grave;
Could worth reverse the gen'ral doom,
She'd boast exemption from the tomb.
But why for her should I complain,
Though mine the loss, yet her's the gain?
Too good for earth, heav'n bade her die,
And took her to her native sky.

A Poyson piercing to the death,
A Traytor to the lyfe:
A Foe to friendships constancie,
a friend to deadly stryfe.
Armed agaynst good counsels force,
weake in aduersitie:
A spoyler of such guiltlesse blood,
as is condemde by thee.
A troubled wyt, a reaklesse hande,
a wrathfull hart to spill:
A partiall Iudge, a iealous wyfe,
where anger hath her will.
A wastefull pursse, a greedie Foe,
a false suspecting thing:
A tickle stay, a prowde disgrace,
a cruell Serpents sting.

And art thou likewise gone away,
Companion of my early day?
To the first friend my bosom knew
Already must I bid adieu?
A vicious world's polluted air,
Heav'n saw thee much too good to bear,
And took thee to a purer sky,
To flourish in thy Maker's eye.
The worth in thee so early found,
With merited reward it crown'd:
So soon of goodness thou possest,
It but remain'd to make thee blest.

Thy countnance changde, though clokt in couert sort,
Not all things well, long since did make report.
Though thou vnkinde, and twise vnkinde againe
To me thy friend, wouldst not imparte thy paine.
See yet at last, how tyme the truth hath tolde,
What thou wouldst not, loe time doth here vnfolde.
No doubtfull drift whereon demurre dependes.
So close is kept, that time not tries and endes.
And art thou changde? doth fansie so perswade?
To heape thy harme, doe secrete flames inuade?
Wilt thou from me so hide thy cause of pine?

Parents, wish not that he you mourn,
So very good, had ne'er been born:
Does it repent you, to have giv'n
To earth a saint, an angel heav'n?

Ah me! opprest with never-ending woes,
My hopes and wishes center in the tomb!
When shall I sink securely to repose,
And sleep encircled with its friendly gloom?

Long wish'd in vain, no more I wish for weal,
I only seek the rest of death to prove;
When I shall cease, forever cease, to feel
The wounds of fortune, and the pangs of love.

Soon, soon, I hope, that, to these closing eyes,
Its last kind office friendship shall bestow,
Convey me where my honour'd mother lies,
And bid my dust with kindred dustly low.