An Epitaph. The Death Playnt Poem by William Baldwin

The noble hart which feare might never moove,
Wherin a minde with vertue fraught did rest,
A face whose chere allured vnto loove
All hartes, through iyes which pity whole possest,
The brayne, which wit and wisedome made their chest,
Fulfyld with all good giftes that man may have,
Rest with a princely Carkas here in grave.

Whose vertuous giftes immixed with the minde
As godly feare, with constant zeale to truth,
Such skill of tounges, and artes of every kinde,
Such manhode, prudens, iustice ioynd with ruth
As age seeld hath, though here they greed with youth,
Are from their wemles vndefiled hoast,
Goen hence to heaven with their godly goast.

Of which two partes belinkt in lace of life,
It pleased the Lord to lend vs late a king:
But out alas our sins they wer so rife,
And we so vnworthy of so good a thing,
That Atropos did knap in two the string
Before her sisters sixtene whurles had spun,
Or we the gayne of seven yeres rayne through wun.

Wo wurth our sinnes, our sinnes our sins I say,
The wreke wherof hath rest vs such a loan
As never realme the like recover may,
In princely giftes, the Phenix byrd alone.
Oh happy he, but we full wo begoen.
Whose haynous sins have slayne the giltles gide,
Whose souls the heave, whose corse this herse doth hide