What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won. Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure. O happy race! with so great praises run. England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same; Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried. The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died. Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame. Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love. Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come. In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above. Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears, Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs bewail thy fall. ENVY, her sting; and SPITE, hath left her gall. MALICE herself, a mourning garment wears. That day their HANNIBAL died, our SCIPIO fell: SCIPIO, CICERO, and PETRARCH of our time: Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme, Let angels speak; and heaven, thy praises tell. [Illustration] _Another of the same._ [Illustration] Silence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage! Stald are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age. Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write, I know not what. Dead, quick, I know not how. Hard-hearted minds relent, and RIGOUR'S tears abound, And ENVY strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; KNOWLEDGE her light hath lost; VALOUR hath slain her Knight: SIDNEY is dead! Dead is my friend! Dead is the world's delight. PLACE pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride. TIME crieth out "my ebb is come; his life was my springtide." FAME mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports. Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts. He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind, A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined: Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ; Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. He only like himself, was second unto none, Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan. Their loss, not him; wail they, that fill the world with cries. DEATH slew not him; but he made death his ladder to the skies. Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong, Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long; Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief, Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief. Heartsease and only I like parallels run on, Whose equal length keep equal breadth, and never meet in one: Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell, Shall not run out; though leak they will, for liking him so well.