Churchyards good will. Sad and heavy Verses, in the nature of an Epitaph, for the loss of the Archbishop of Canterbury, lately deceased, Primate and Metropolitan of all England.  
Written by Thomas Churchyard, Esquire.  
Imprinted at London by Simon Stafford, dwelling in Hosier lane, near Smithfield. 1604.   

To the Honourable and right Reverend Father in God, D. Bancraft, Bishop of London.  
MY good Lord, as God's grace and high calling made you great, and in special favour with the Rulers of this Land, and in that while, called your Lordship to be well liked of the late Archbishop of Canterbury, (for some your good virtues:) so I, in boldness of those good parts, dedicate to your Lordship, the life and death (in verse) of the matchless Archbishop of Canterbury, lately deceased.  
Your Lordships at commandment, Thomas Churchyard.   

Churchyards good will.  
THe Staff of stay, from feeble folk is gone,  
The Lanterne-light, of England is burnt out,  
The Spectacle, for world to look upon,  
The tickle wheel, of Fortune turned about.  
O mortal chance, that gives us all a check!  
O flattering life! Fie on thy froward fate.  
A firmy Card, is robbed from the deck:  
A Prelate great, is taken from our State,  
A chief Shepherd, flies now from flock & fold,  
To leave warm lodge, and lie in Coffin cold.  
A woeful change, hard destiny doth afford,  
To set some high, in honour and great place,  
And in three days, to tumble under board,  
Like lump of lead, to lose life, goods, and Grace.  
This tells a tale, to twenty thousand men,  
They must prepare, to go when God doth call,  
To droop and die, the Lord knows how & when;  
The Tree cries crack, & down the boughs do fall,  
Of all our date, the day and hour is set  
(Before man's birth) when we shall pay our det.  
When virtuous Mind, with wisdom won the goal,  
And chaste desires, might claim a crown of praise,  
And Grace did guide, both body, mind & soul,  
To triumph on, bad world with blessed days,  
A cruel course, of sudden sickness came,  
A Palzy cold, a wolvish dead disease,  
Stepped to the Fold, and took away the Lamb,  
Whose hasty death, did all good men displease,  
Save that world knows, God still takes but his own,  
To show his power, and make his glory known.  
Whitegift his name, great gifts of God he had,  
Won worthy fame, as white & black now shoes,  
His presence made, full many people glad,  
Always got friends, and still reclaimed foes,  
Held liberal house, and kept a Lordly train,  
Fed rich and poor, with all God sent and gave,  
hoardward not up, nor loved no greedy gain,  
Knew that all we, shall carry nought to grave,  
But shrouding sheet, good name, & true renown,  
That wins from hence, an everlasting Crown.  
Mild, soft and sweet, (like Conduit water clear,)  
Spoke that was meet, as his high calling would:  
Slo to sharp words, but quick good things to here  
Of kind speech free, held silence dear as gold:  
Loved learned lore, and could thereof dispute  
Gravely and sound, and did subdue some Sect:  
His knowledge deep, brought forth sweet perfect fruit,  
That sprowted from, the Tree of Gods elect,  
Who suffereth not, no sprig nor branch to bud,  
But such as bears, fair fruit and blossoms good.  
Croyden can show, 
An Hospital built there, & a Free School.  his works, life, laud and all,  
Croyden hath lost, the Saint of that sweet shrine,  
Lambeth may cry, and Canterbury may call,  
Long for the like, with woeful weeping eyen:  
But few I fear, his like are left alive,  
The more our grief: a great King so did say:  
Death stole like thief, the honey from the hive,  
Our great Primate, in patience went away,  
Left stately Court, and Country at the best,  
Because he hoped, to sleep in Abraham's breast.  
FINIS.