TO praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,

Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,

Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising Sun hath sought,

With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.

Drawne was thy race aright from princely line;
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave,
The common mother that all creatures have,)
Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.

A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde,
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.

Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.

Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence,
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!

Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might :
Thy rising day saw never wofull night,

But past with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought,
First thine owne death, and after thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame,
Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.

What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon?
Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure
Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure;
Oh! happie race with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy lims that bred the same,
Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried,
The Campe thy sorrow where thy bodie died;
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.

Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come;
In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe;
Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above.

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Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares,
Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall:
Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall;
Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.

That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell;
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time!
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthelesse rime,
Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME

ILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age;

Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound, And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she

found:

Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight; Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds delight.

Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride; Time crieth out, My ebbe is come; his life was my spring tide:

Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports; Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose vertue ever shinde, Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none,

Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone:

Their losse, not him, waile they, that fill the world with cries; Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the

skies.

Now sinke of sorrow I, who live; the more the wrong; Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose thred is al-to

long,

Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no reliefe, Must spend my ever dying daies in never ending griefe.

Harts ease and onely I, like parallels run on,

Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and never meet in one;

Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrowes cell, Shall not run out, though leake they will, for liking him so

well.

Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames ; Farewell, sometimes enjoyed, joy; eclipsed are thy beames! Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings

foorth;

And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting minds of woorth.

And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie assignes ; Let all, that sweete is, voyd; in me no mirth may dwell: Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content, farewell!

Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes not how to kill,

Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held so good a

minde.