De Rumore Falso, De Regis Morte Subitò Sparso Poem by John Ashmore

When Fame (great King) did through this Citie flie,
And told how Thou too soon a death didst die;
All places paid to thee the wofull Rent
Of Tears, which from their grief-swoln eyes they sent.
The Father of our Countrey's dead, they cry,
And with him all our ioyes doe buried lie.
Who e'r the raines of kingdoms so did guide?
Whose Iustice ioynd with Mercy so is tride?
Who mildness so with Maiesty hath sorted?
Or with his kingly hand the wrongd supported?
None e'r (alas!) with such high praise did live.
No Age hath given one like him: none shall give.
So, false Report hath true Report brought forth,
Which still shall witness to the world thy worth.