The Epitaphe upon the Death of the

Most Excellent and our late vertuous

Quene, Marie, deceased

Vayne is the blisse, and brittle is the glasse, of worldly wishèd welth;

The steppes unstayde, the life unsure, of lasting hopèd helth.

witnes (alas) may Marie be, late Quene of rare renowne,

whose body dead, her vertues live, and doth her fame resowne;

In whom suche golden giftes were grafte, of nature and of grace,

As when the tongue dyd ceasse to say, yet vertue spake in face.

what vertue is that was not founde within that worthy wight?

what vice is there that can be sayde wherin she had delight?

She never closde her eare to heare the rightous man distrest,

Nor never sparde her hande to helpe, wher wrong or power opprest.

when all was wracke, she was the porte from peryll unto ioye;

when all was spoyle, she spared all, she pitied to destroye.

As Princely was her birth, so Princely was her life,

Constante, courtise, modest, and mylde, a chast and chosen wife.

In greatest stormes she feared not, for God she made her shielde,

And all her care she cast on him, who forst her foes to yelde.

Her perfect life in all extremes her pacient hert dyd shoe,

For in this worlde she never founde but dolfull dayes and woe.¹⁸