The general sorrow that was made
Among the creatures of kind,
Fired the Phoenix where she laid,
Her ashes flying with the wind.

So as I might with reason see

That such a Phoenix ne'er should be.

Haply, the cinders driven about,
May breed an offspring near that kind;
But hardly a peer to that, I doubt:
It cannot sink into my mind

That under branches e'er can be,
Of worth and value as the tree.

The eagle marked with piercing sight
The mournful habit of the place;
And parted thence with mounting flight,
To signify to JOVE the case:

What sorrow Nature doth sustain,
For ASTROPHIL, by ENVY slain.

And while I followed with mine eye
The flight the eagle upward took;
All things did vanish by and by,

And disappearèd from my look.

The trees, beasts, birds and grove were gone:
So was the friend that made this moan.

This spectacle had firmly wrought
A deep compassion in my sprite;
My molten heart issued, methought,
In streams forth at mine eyes aright:

And here my pen is forced to shrink;
My tears discolour so mine ink.

An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Knight, Lord Governor of Flushing.

O PRAISE thy life or wail thy worthy death;
And want thy wit, thy wit pure, high, divine:
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeal, though poor in learning's lore;
And friendly care obscured in secret breast,
And love that envy in thy life supprest,

Thy dear life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time and living state,
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought;
As one that seld the rising sun hath sought:
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.

Drawn was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor less than such (by gifts that Nature gave,
The common mother that all creatures have)
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.

A King gave thee thy name; a kingly mind
That GOD thee gave: who found it now too dear
For this base world; and hath resumed it near,
To sit in skies, and 'sort with powers divine.

Kent, thy birthdays; and Oxford held thy youth.
The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime :
Thy will, thy words; thy words, the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed 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 thence.

Whence to sharp wars, sweet Honour did thee call,
Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men, the marks, the lives and ends;
And her defence, for whom we labour all.

These didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Grief, sorrow, sickness and base fortune's might. Thy rising day saw never woeful night,

But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame; Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won.
Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure.
O happy race! with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;
Flanders, thy valour; where it last was tried.
The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died.
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame.

Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love. Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come. In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.