'Who list at whome at carte to drudge And carke and care for worldlie trishe With buckled sheues let him go trudge Instead of laureall a whip to slishe A mynd that basse his hind will show Of carome sweet to feed a crowe 'If fasonn of that mynd had bine The gresions when they came to troye Had never so the Trogians foyhte Nor neuer put them to such Anoye Wherfore who lust to live at whome To purchase fame I will go Rome 'FINIS--SUR RICHARD GRINFILLDE'S FAREWELL' But Sir Richard feels bound to confess that there is another and quite a different aspect of the question; and accordingly frames the following set-off to his former lines: 'ANOTHER OF SEA FARDINGERS DISCRIBING EVILL FORTUNES.' 'What pen can well reporte the plighte Of those that travell on the seaes To pas the werie winters nighte With stormie cloudes wisshinge for daie With waves that toss them to and fro Their pore estate is hard to show When boistering windes begins to blowe And cruel costes from haven wee The foggie mysts soe dimes the shore The rocks and sandes we maie not see Nor have no Rome on Seaes to trie But praie to God and yeld to Die When shouldes and sandie bankes Apears What pillot can divert his course When foming tides draweth us so nere A las what fortenn can be worsse The Ankers hould roust be our staie Or Elise we fall into Decaye We wander still from Loffe to Lie And findes no steadfast wind to blow We still remaine in jeopardie Each perelos poynt is hard to showe In time we hope to find Redresse That long have lived in Heavines O pinchinge werie lothsome Lyffe That Travell still in far Exsylle The dangers great on Sease be ryfe Whose recompense doth yeld but toylle O fortune graunte me mie Desire A hapie end I doe Require When freates and states have had their fill The gentill calm the cost will clere Then hawtie hartes shall have their will That longe hast wept with morning chere And leave the Seaes with thair Anoy At whome at Ease to live in Joy. 'FINIS.' The poetical Sir Richard's son Roger, a Captain in the Navy, lost his life at the sinking of the _Mary Rose_ (commanded by Sir George Carew, a Cornishman), at Spithead in 1545. 'Thus the ocean became a bedde of honour,' as Carew says, 'to more than one of the Grenvilles.' But it is time that we should turn to a greater Sir Richard--the son of Roger Grenville and Thomasin Cole of Slade. My task will be on this occasion comparatively light; 'His praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine.'