WILLIAM LORD HOWARD, OF EFFINGHAM,

I did not know thee, lord, nor do I strive To win access, or grace, with lords alive: The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can Move me, nor favour; nor a greater man. To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent, From whom no penance warns, nor portion spent; To these I dedicate as much of me, As I can spare from my own husbandry: And till ghosts walk as they were wont to do, I trade for some, and do these errands too. But first I do enquire, and am assur’d, What tryals in their journeys they endur’d; What certainties of honour and of worth Their most uncertain life-times have brought forth; And who so did least hurt of this small store, He is my patron, dy’d he rich or poor. First I will know of Fame (after his peace, When flattery and envy both do cease) Who rul’d his actions: Reason, or my lord? Did the whole man rely upon a word, A badge of title? or, above all chance, Seem’d he as ancient as his cognizance? What did he? Acts of mercy, and refrain Oppression in himself, and in his train? Was his essential table full as free As boasts and invitations use to be? Where if his russet-friend did chance to dine, Whether his satten-man would fill him wine? Did he think perjury as lov’d a sin, Himself forsworn, as if his slave had been? Did he seek regular pleasures? Was he known Just husband of one wife, and she his own? Did he give freely without pause, or doubt, And read petitions ere they were worn out? Or should his well-deserving client ask, Would he bestow a tilting, or a masque To keep need vertuous? and that done, not fear What lady damn’d him for his absence there? Did he attend the court for no man’s fall? Wore he the ruine of no hospital? And when he did his rich apparel don, Put he no widow, nor an orphan on? Did he love simple vertue for the thing? The king for no respect but for the king? But, above all, did his religion wait Upon God’s throne, or on the chair of state? He that is guilty of no quæry here, Out-lasts his epitaph, out-lives his heir. But there is none such, none so little bad; Who but this negative goodness ever had? Of such a lord we may expect the birth, He’s rather in the womb, than on the earth. And ’twere a crime in such a public fate, For one to live well and degenerate: And therefore I am angry, when a name Comes to upbraid the world like Effingham. Nor was it modest in thee to depart To thy eternal home, where now thou art, Ere thy reproach was ready; or to die, Ere custom had prepar’d thy calumny. Eight days have past since thou hast paid thy debt To sin, and not a libel stirring yet; Courtiers that scoff by patent, silent sit, And have no use of slander or of wit; But (which is monstrous) though against the tyde, The watermen have neither rayl’d nor ly’d. Of good or bad there’s no distinction known, For in thy praise the good and bad are one. It seems, we all are covetous of fame, And, hearing what a purchase of good name Thou lately mad’st, are careful to increase Our title, by the holding of some lease From thee our landlord, and for that th’ whole crew Speak now like tenants, ready to renew. It were too sad to tell thy pedegree, Death hath disordered all, misplacing thee; Whilst now thy herauld, in his line of heirs, Blots out thy name, and fills the space with tears. And thus hath conqu’ring Death, or Nature rather, Made thee prepostrous ancient to thy father, Who grieves th’ art so, and like a glorious light Shines ore thy hearse. He therefore that would write And blaze thee throughly, may at once say all, Here lies the anchor of our admiral. Let others write for glory or reward, Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.