IN POETAM EXAUCTORATUM ET EMERITUM.

Nor is it griev’d, grave youth, the memory Of such a story, such a booke as hee, That such a copy through the world were read; Henry yet lives, though he be buried. It could be wish’d that every eye might beare His eare good witnesse that he still were here; That sorrowe ruled the yeare, and by that sunne Each man could tell you how the day had runne: O ’twere an honest boast, for him could say I have been busy, and wept out the day Remembring him. An epitaph would last Were such a trophee, such a banner placed Upon his corse as this: Here a man lyes Was slaine by Henrye’s dart, not Destinie’s. Why this were med’cinable, and would heale, Though the whole languish’d, halfe the commonweale. But for a Cobler to goe burn his cappe, And cry, The Prince, the Prince! O dire mishappe! Or a Geneva-bridegroom, after grace, To throw his spouse i’ th’ fire; or scratch her face To the tune of the Lamentation; or delay His Friday capon till the Sabbath day: Or an old Popish lady half vow’d dead To fast away the day in gingerbread: For him to write such annals; all these things Do open laughter’s and shutt up griefe’s springs. Tell me, what juster or more congruous peere Than Ale, to judge of workes begott of beere? Wherefore forbeare—or, if thou print the next, Bring better notes, or take a meaner text.