EPICEDIUM, A Funeral Song, upon the virtuous life, and godly death, of the right worshipful the Lady Helen Branch.  Virtus sola manet, caetera cuncta ruunt. 
LONDON Printed by Thomas Creed. 1594.   

EPICEDIUM, In obitum illustrissimae mulieris dominae Helenae Branch, uxoris multum venerandi equitis johannis Branch, quondam pernobilis civitatis Londini Maioris perquam honorabilis.  

YOu that to show your wits have taken toil,  
In registering the deeds of noble men:  
And sought for matter in a foreign soil,  
(As worthy subjects of your silver pen)  
Whom you have raised from dark oblivions den.  
You that have writ of chaste Lucretia,  
Whose death was witness of her spotless life:  
Or penned the praise of sad Cornelia,  
Whose blameless name hath made her fame so rife:  
As noble Pompey's most renowned wife.  
Hither unto your home direct your eyes:  
Whereas unthought on, much more matter lies.   

Matter that well deserves your golden style,  
And substance that will fit your shadows right,  
Whereon his wits a Scholar well may file:  
Whereof a Poet needs not blush to write,  
When strangers cau●●s should be banished quite.  
And this bright Comet▪ of whose splendent rays,  
My too-unworthie pen shall give a sight,  
A Lady was of whose deserved praise  
A far more learned Artist ought to write:  
Less wit should speak of stars of lesser light.  
Yet since their ways, by her light many find,  
I ('mongst the rest) may show my thankful mind.   

When first her life gave essence to her light,  
She was the daughter of a worthy fire,  
And Willi●m Nicolson his name it hight:  
To whom dame Fortune gave his heart's desire,  
Rich, and yet free from haut ambitions fire:  
Yea double rich by such an offspring fair,  
Who from her cradle, and young infancy  
Gave certain augurs of her virtues rare,  
And what a matron she in time would be:  
Her seemly graces wrought her father's glee.  
And for her beauty he gave her the name  
Of her, whom Troy did make so much of fame.   

Only her face unto her name was like,  
Her virtues rather shone like Phoebe's pride,  
Or her whose shaft did rash Actaeon strike,  
When from his light herself she sought to hide.  
Well might she vaunt of judith's wit beside,  
Nor was Polyxena so much admir'de  
For maidens blush, and seemly modesty:  
Nor fair Virginia half so much desired  
For comely grace, and civil courtesy:  
As she was praised of high and low degree.  
As hard it was her constancy to move,  
As Cleopatra from Antonius' love.   

And thus she lived (whiles she a maid did live)  
Till father's care, and maidens ripened years,  
Did to a worthy man as wife her give:  
Like taketh like, all ages choose their peers,  
And now do end her parents cares, and fears:  
For as her life did make them happy deemed,  
And as her bliss did make to thrive their joys,  
So by her loss they had unhappy seemed,  
And her mishaps had framed their dire annoys:  
The husbandman his fields for corn employs.  
And happy he, who from his happy seed,  
Doth reap a great grandfathers name, for meed.   

john minors was her loving husband called,  
Who blessed her aged parents by his son:  
And with three daughters more their joys installed:  
(But foul oft falls, when fair is well begun)  
For long these lived not but their glass was run.  
We daily see when Phoebus in the sky  
Is highest mounted, strait he 'gins descend:  
And when good-haps do sit so wondrous high,  
They must decline (although not have an end)  
For each extreme, of force must pair, or mend.  
'tis better always bide calamity,  
Then once feel, joys and then taste misery.   

They gone, with them was gone the father's bliss,  
And with his bliss, the mother's comfort goes:  
And with her comfort went her husband's miss,  
And by his miss, increased her triple woes.  
On what world's prop, may man his trust repose?  
The younger grass doth whither ere the hay,  
The stronger flieth, and leaves the weak behind,  
The child's life ere the fathers flits away,  
The husband dies, ere wife hath death assigned,  
Daughter's son, husband dead, she life doth find.  
Yet died her joys: the mirth which she could have,  
Was with her tears, to wash their thirsty grave.   

Now (like to her who drunk her husband's dust)  
She for her husband, loved her husband's trade,  
A Chronicle of which needs be they must,  
Who by that love full wealth have been made:  
The witness lives, the fame than cannot fade.  
And like to them who do adopt successors)  
She, for her children, did regard the poor,  
Of whom there live, that may be just professors,  
Who oft have been relieved at her door,  
Nor this was all, for they have had much more▪  
For Christ his will she executed faithfully,  
Prisoned, sick, naked, poor, she gave his legacy.   

And thus she lived (whilst widow she did live,)  
Till husband's death, and widows dried tears  
Were almost out of mind, and grief did give  
A place unto the course of some spent years.  
(Unwise whose house doth fall and no new rears,)  
Then was she grafted in a worthy stem,  
And of a green-leaved Branch the blossom proved  
To him more dear, than was the richest gem:  
And so together they both lived and loved,  
And still her Orphans care the mother moved.  
For though nor Branch, nor blossom fruit did bear,  
Yet both in good works always fruitful were.   

In time this Branch so far abroad did spread,  
That over London it did cast his shade:  
(A nest where many virtuous birds are bred)  
Of whom, some on this Branch their nests have made:  
Long flourish may his leaves, and never fade.  
And though the stock, the Branch, the blossom sweet  
Wants sap, is withered, and is fallen away,  
Yet doth a young plant, spring up at their feet,  
Which shall their green leaves up in safety lay,  
And they unscattered, maugre blasts shall stay.  
Yea from the root, the juice this plant hath gotten,  
Shall make them flourish, when their root is rotten.   

The Branch being dead, the blossom 'gan to droop,  
Like to a parched flower in the dog-days rage:  
The shepherd fled, toth' wolf the lambs must stoop,  
Youth's heat being past, there's small resist in age:  
And now no comfort could her cares assuage.  
Yet still in virtuous deeds she spent her days,  
Poor virgins thereof still can make report,  
Those naked persons well may tell her praise,  
Whom she hath clothed in a seemly so●t:  
(Surely a treasure laid in a strongest ●o●t)  
But now hath death cut off her virtues prime,  
In ripened harvest of her golden time.   

Her faithful end, was like her godly life,  
Wedn'sday the tenth of April, and no more  
It was, when as was seen her breaths last strife:  
The year was fifteen hundredth, ninety four,  
And grateful Abchurch hath her bones in store.  
You two strong props that undershore the vine,  
From whose ripe clusters sweetest Nectar flows,  
Whereof do drink, the famous Muses nine,  
Perform more full, what duty doth impose,  
Bring hither Cypress sad, see where it grows.  
Embalm with Myrrh, and stick with Rosemary,  
Time is the only herb which rests for me.   

Quae te propellat (nimium propensa)  
Cura mors? O te properans veloci  
Penna quis turbet? Dare terga cogat  
Quod medicamen?   

Aequè tu regis deruis superbi  
Regias, & sic inopum cucumas.  
Cura sunt morti iwenes senesque  
Semper eadem.   

Sola post mortem, remanet in aewm  
Virtus, quae nunquam peritura probis,  
Fama florescet, licet ipsa cumbunt  
Corpora in urnis.   
W. Har.  
FINIS.