Classic Poem

Y F teares might ought auayle to stynt my woe,
If sobbyng sighes breathd out from pensiue brest,
Could ease the gryping greefes that payn me so,
Or pleasure them for whom I am distrest:
Noyther would I stycke wyth teares to fret my face,
Nor spare to spend redoubled sighes apace.

But sith neyther dreary drops nor sighes haue power
To doe me good, or stand my frends in steede,
Why should I seeke wyth sorowes to deuoure
Those humors that my fayntyng lymmes should feede,
Bootclesse it were therfore I wyl assay
To shew my selfe a frend some other way.

Some other way, as by my mournyng pen
To doe the world to wit what wyghts they were
Whose deaths I wayle, what frendly forward men
And to thys land they both dyd beare,
Alas, I rue to name them in my verse:
Whose only thought my trembling hart doth pearse.

But yet I must of force their names vnfolde,
(For things concealde are seldome when bewaild,)
Tone Syanham was, a manly wight and bolde,
In whom neither courage haute, nor feature faylde,
Faythful to frends, vndaunted to his foes,
A lambe in loue, where he to fancy chose.

The second neere vnto my selfe allyde,
Gyles Bamfield hight, (I weepe to wryte his name),
A gallant ympe, amyd his youthfull pryde:
Whose seemely shape commended natures frame.
Deekte of the gods in cradle where he lay:
With louely lymmes, and parts of purest clay.

Themselues might boast theyr byrths for gentle bloud,
The houses are of countenance whence they came,
And vaunt I dare their vertues rare as good,
As was their race and fitted to the same.
There wanted nought to make them perfect blest.
Saue happy deathes which clouded all the rest.

When rascall Irysh hapned to rebel,
(Who seld we see doe long continue true)
Vnto the Lord of Essex lotte it fell
To haue the lotte those outlawes to subdue:
Who went away to please the prynce and state,
Attended on of many a doughty mate:

Whose names although my dreary quil conceale,
Yet they (I trust) wil take it wel in worth,
For noble mindes employd to common wealc,
Shall finde a stemme to blaze their prowes foorth
My dolefull muse but this alone entends,
To wryte and wayle my frends vnhappy endes.

A way they would, and gaue their last adew,
With burning hearts to slay the sauage foe,
Bestride their steads, and to the sea they flew,
Where weather rose, and water raged so,
As they (alas) who meant their countrey good,
Were forst to lose their liues in Irish flood.

Those eyes should haue lookt the foe in face.
Were then constraind to winke at euery waue,
Those valiant armes the billowes did imbrace,
That vowd with sword this realms renowne to saue:
Those manly minds that dreaded no mishap.
Were soust in seas, and caught in suddaine trap.

Proud Eole Prince, controller of the winds,
With churlish Neptune, soucraigne of the seas,
Did play their parts, and shewd their stubburn kinds,
Whom no request nor prayer might appease,
The Troyan Duke bid not so great a brunt,
When he of yore for Lauine land did hunt.

And yet these wights committed none offence
To Juno, as sir Paris did of yore,
Their only trauell was for our defence,
Which makes me waile their sodain deaths the more.
But what the Gods do purpose to be done,
By proofe we see, mans wisdom cannot shun.

Yo water Nimphes, and you that Ladies be,
Of more remorse, and of a milder mood,
Than Neptune or king Eole, if you see
Their balefull bodies driuing on the floud,
Take vp their lims, allowing them a graue,
Who well deserued a richer hearse to haue.
Whereon do stampe this small deuice in stonn,
That passers by may read with dewed eyes,
When they by chance shall chance to light thereon.

Ante obitum, supremaque funera faelix

Deo iubente, futo cedunt mor talia.