An Epitaph An Epitaph vpon upon the right Honourable sir Phillip Sidney knight: Lord gouernor governor of Flushing. TO To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death, And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, diuine 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 loue love that enuie envie in thy life supprest, Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more. And I, that in thy time and liuing 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 gaue gave , Backe The common mother that all creatures haue,) haue), have,) have), Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine. A king gaue gave thee thy name, a kingly minde, That God thee gaue gave , who found it now too deere For this base world, and hath resumde it neere, To sit in skies, and sort with powres diuine divine . Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth, The heauens 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 frõ from kings, with those more great thã 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 loue love , religion, and thy friends: Of worthy men, the marks, the liues 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 neuer never wofull night, But past with praise, from of this worldly stage. K3 Another Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; Teares 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 vnsure 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 vp up thy loue love , Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come, In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe, Thy soule and spright enrich the heauens heavens aboue above . Thy liberall hart imbalmd in gratefull teares, Yoong sighs, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaileth (fall, Enuie 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 worthlesse rime, Let Angels speake, and heauen heaven thy praises tell.