And, while I followed with mine eie The flight the Egle upward tooke, All things did vanish by and by, And disappeared from my looke: The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone; So was the friend that made this mone. This spectacle had firmly wrought 225 230 AN EPITAPH UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING. To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death, Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore, Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled more. And I, that in thy time, and living state, As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought, Drawne was thy race aright from princely line; The common mother that all creatures have,) 10 15 A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, 20 Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth; Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, 25 Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call, There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, But past with praise from off this worldly stage. Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, 40 What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon? England doth hold thy lims that bred the same, Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love; 45 51 Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, fall: Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall; That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell; 55 60 270 ANOTHER OF THE SAME. SILENCE 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; 6 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: 10 Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports; Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sundry sorts. |