A Feast full of sad cheer,  
Where griefs are all on heap:  
Where solace is full dear,  
And sorrows are good cheap.  
At London, Printed for William Holme, and are to be sold at his shop, near the great North door of Paul's. 1592.   

To the Right Worshipful, my most worthy affectionate friend, Master john Stannop, one of the Queen's majesties Privy Chamber, & Postmaster of England. Thomas Church-yard wisheth much hap, great health, with great prosperity, and increase of desired credit.  
I AM BOLD RIGHT Worshipful, on the general report of good people, and great commendation that the worthiest sort gives you (besides mine own affection) to present a few sorrowful verses unto your protection and judgement. And the rather moved to write of some sad invention, because I never knew you delight in light or wanton discourses. Many times I have beheld the even carriage of your behaviour and good inclination, towards virtuous exercises & studies, that many ways produced as much benefit to those you favour, as procured profit and commodity to yourself: a natural disposition of a good mind, necessary to be about Princes, and a blessedness that in these days is not common among men. And for fear I should run too far in those causes by manifest speeches (which is not commonly allowed) I desire no more in you, but a continuance of goodness and those virtues rehearsed, and so fall I to my purposed matter. The troth is good Sir, in the long pilgrimage of mine, I purchased many good friends (requisite for my infortunate life) which friends did no sooner increase, but in a manner as quickly went away, either by death or some unwelcome accident: and losing daily one or an other that stood me in great steed, I bethought me over-often on my great loss, so shaping a kind of lamentation in that behalf to express the want of such friends, I presumed to offer you this simple Pamphlet, as a testimony to be thankful to those that did me pleasure, (the Bishop of Oxford one of the chiefest,) and to keep their favour I honour and love, who now are alive.  
This trifle in verse, is named, A Feast of sad cheer, because the best banquets I can make to my friends, is but bare Tragedies, Epitaphs, or such bitter fruit as sew do feed on, and many takes no taste in, the sowrnes of my delicates so little delights a multitude. And indeed Sir now I am left void of all provision, and am compelled to present such things as comes next to my hand, because a Book called my Challenge, (dedicated to the honourable, Master Secretary Wolley;) hath carried away most, or all together of my other conceits: yet my hope is, this little recreation that I offer you, shall be as well accepted, as though I could have feasted you with a finer Banquet; for you knowing mine ability in furniture and knowledge, I trust you will take well in worth what of good will I am able to bring.  
Thus wishing you much heart's ease, worldly hap, and heavenly felicity, I take my leave, desiring you with favour to read that which followeth.   

The epitaph of the Right honourable the Earl of Worster that last died, Knight of the most honourable order of the Garter.  

NO day so clear, but brings at length dark night,  
Fair flowers do fade, as fast as they do grow:  
No torch nor lamp, but burns away their light,  
Sun shines awhile, then under cloud doth go;  
The life of man, is here compared so.  
It lasts a space, till borrowed breath be paid:  
And then cold corpse, in Tomb or grave is laid.  
No honour, wealth, nor force, nor wisdoms lore,  
Nor famous praise  
Prolongs our days,  
When Death draws near, and man may live no more.   

The greatest Kings, are only borne to die,  
Like poorest men, their passage hence they take:  
And noble Earls, that sits in honour high,  
And all estates, of life an end must make;  
Yet wail I will, for worthy Worsters sake,  
His loyal love, to Prince and Country such:  
As in our age, can not be praised too much.  
In Wales well liked, in England honoured still  
For lordly mind,  
And heart most kind  
To all his friends: which won the world's good will.   

Brought up in Court, among the Princely sort,  
Of manner mild, as his estate might ford:  
Held stately house, with train and princely port,  
Right spare of speech, yet wise and waer in word;  
Most glad of guests, and pleasant at his board.  
Full frank and free, where things were nobly spent;  
To each degree, of nature throw-well bend.  
As though a spring in Ragland Castle were,  
To pleasure those  
That bounty knows,  
And had desire to draw sweet water there.   

This Earl had joy, to have his stable filled,  
With fair great Horse, that were for service fit:  
And was himself, in riding as well skilled,  
As any man, that might in saddle sit;  
Can use the Horse, with every kind of bit.  
On horse and hound, had much desire to look:  
In building to, a great delight he took.  
In all good gifts, and arts had sure some sight,  
Like noble man,  
That now and than  
Can pass off time, with matters grave or light.   

And when best proof, of him good people had,  
A sickness came, and took him hence in haste:  
The news whereof, makes friends & neighbours sad,  
Who hopes his soul, the heavens have embraced;  
Lo Lordings all, how here our time we waste.  
Our days are short, our race is quickly run:  
We slip away, like shadow in the Sun.  
To day on foot, to morrow down in grave,  
From world we go  
Both high and lo,  
All Adam's seed no better surety have.   
FINIS.   

THE EPITAPH OF the Right honourable Sir james Acrofft, late Controller of the Queen's majesties Household.  
IF world were waxed unkind, and would forget what here is done:  
And clean wear out of mind, the doubtful race that men do run,  
True writers should revive, time past for fear old age would rust,  
And some young heads alive, would bury virtue in the dust.  
Where are our famous Kings, the shepherds of our English herd,  
That conquered many things, and made our enemies all afeard.  
Our world remembers none, with princely Tombs, or blast of praise,  
They are no sooner gone, but their renown in world decays.  
Their Counsellors likewise, whose wisdom held up tottering state,  
Once dead we do despise, we bear in breast such heart borne hate.  
Thus world is worse than nought, his care and judgement is so small,  
It never takes no thought, for nothing here that may befall.  
But God that all doth see, and gives man grace and gift of pen,  
Of late hath moved me, with verse to honour worthy men.  
Than come Sir james Acrofft, a Knight who served 4 princes great,  
Who Fortune favoured oft, and who sat long in Senate seat.  
(Who was a while viceroy, and then of Wales vizpresdent to,  
Did many rooms enjoy, which none alive may easily do.)  
Come take the Crown Civicque, that Caesar gave for true renown,  
Not one may wear the like, in warlike field or walled Town.  
But those that bears in breast, to Country such great love and zeal,  
As still they do their best, to serve both Prince & Commonweal.  
Let France & Scotland both, and Ireland show in loving sort,  
His duty and his troth, bid all those Realms yield true report.  
And tell me who can say, now borne in this our British soil,  
He passed clear this day, through such great rooms without some foil.  
And last in Court of all, Sir james Acroffts Controller was,  
That credit i 〈…〉 ot small, that place through many perils pass.  
Yet that and 〈◊〉 he rest, of honours he possessed here,  
Filled neither purse nor chest, for he bought all those honours dear.  
With loss of time and wealth, and dreadful dangers day and night,  
To hazard life and health, and all he had for countries right.  
Yea in his bravest boast, when he in greatest favour stood,  
And profits deserved most, the Princes died should do him good.  
Save one, a Queen most rare, (to whom great God great grace doth send)  
took of his case some care, & thought to help him in the end.  
But ere the comfort came, his blaze and candle clean went out.  
And meek & mild as lamb, (that doth no death nor danger doubt)  
He took his last farewell: and so lost life, lands, goods and all,  
To her he served well, so long as he was at her call.  
Lo what mishaps men have, to rise, and rule, and govern much:  
Yet going to their grave, the world may see they die not rich.  
A sign they had no hoard, but had their hope in Prince and troth:  
By service and by sword, to purchase fame and treasure both.  
Now low in earth he lies, (that high did sit and bear great sway:)  
Till he and we shall rise, and hear our doom at judgement day.  
FINIS.   

Sir William Winter, Knight, his epitaph.  
WHat mourning verse or careful cries, shall serve where sadness flows:  
Where soaking sighs and blubber eyes, a world of sorrow shoes.  
Be still and mute, o house of joy, give groaning grief some place:  
Turn solace sweet to sour annoy, that soon is scene in face.  
Let gladsome mirth go where it please, make woe a welcome guest:  
Bid each delight and wished ease, dislodge from troubled breast.  
Let sports and pleasures silent be, and name no earthly bliss:  
For heavy hearts do best agree, where death and dolor is.  
So if you shape yourselves to hear, what did by death befall:  
This verse may chance to change your cheer, & make you mourn withal.  
A knight here lies but late alive, who purchased peerless praise:  
Who nobly long for fame did strive, by service sundry waise.  
On sea and land a happy man, that bore a lions heart:  
Who honour wealth & worship wan, throw sword and due desert.  
His skill and council gave great grace, where martial people were:  
And where he showed his manly face, he put his foes in fear.  
A victor that brought conquest home, from many a fight and field:  
A Champion that in hard attempts, had rather die then yield.  
A chieftain oft that might command, both ships & men good store:  
A gallant guide that throw would go, and lead them all before.  
His presence promised good success of all he took in hand:  
A cheerful comfort in distress, a lode-star of our Land.  
A worthy that had great regard▪ of charge and lives of men:  
A wight in world right well preferred, by sword but not by pen.  
Most grave of words and stout of mind, full constant, firm and fast:  
Not turned like weltering waves with wind, nor stirred by storm or blast.  
A targe of proof to public state, of judgement deep and great:  
That could of Country's weal debate, like Sage in Senate seat.  
A spark of Mars by speech & looks, wherein the world might spy:  
A warlike mind a worthy head, a heart and courage high.  
His service last on sea declared, what kind of man he was:  
Whose worth is of as great regard, as gold is from the glass.  
What want of him have we the while, to lose this jewel now:  
Whose valour shown amid this isle, like pearl in princely brow.  
Come Soldiers then with drum and fife, and sound his dear adieu:  
Lament the loss of Winter's life, in black sad mourning hue.  
Come Captains all both rich and poor, with shot & Armour bright  
And trail your Colours on the flower, in honour of this Knight.  
Come woeful babes, come sun and air, cast off your garments gay:  
And clap on robes of deep despair, to wail this dismal day.  
Cold death hath done us all this wrong, by grief that body bred:  
For Winter might have lived long, and had not now been dead:  
If Death gave not consent thereto, that lies like privy watch:  
But lo, what Cannon could not do, Death made thereof dispatch.  
Yet at the brunt of all this broil, when conscience cast account:  
How soon the life should leave this soil, and where the soul should mount.  
He held up hands with stayed thought, to highest clouds above:  
And so set all the world at nought, and died as meek as Dove.  
We hope the heavens have embraced, the soul we could not keep:  
And that by grace is Winter placed, in Abraham's breast to sleep.  
FINIS.   

The good Master William Holstocks Epitaph, Controller of the Queen's majesties Navy.  
Muse not to see this man in Tomb, all flesh to grave must go,  
Death calls for life (ere day of doom) to pay the debt we owe.  
〈◊〉 went from world when worlds good will, embraced him every where,  
For whom his friends sits wailing still, and sheds full many a tear.  
What taketh breath and life must die, the best and worst takes leave,  
What comes from earth in earth must lie, else we ourselves deceive.  
Then worldlings wail the dead no more, he lives & dwells in sky,  
For Holstocke did but go before, to learn us all to die.  
In youth this forward Martial man, was still in service great,  
Where he much fame and credit wan, through many a warlike feat.  
In age his care of Country such, as he loved nothing more,  
Whereon he could not talk too much, if cause fell out therefore.  
His courage always him preferred, (whiles he in world did live,  
To worthy place of great regard, which Prince did freely give,  
As he increased to wished wealth, or worship through desert,  
He showed in sickness and in health, a cheerful librall heart.  
Held house and plenteous table still, full long and many a year,  
Did welcome guests with great good will, that came to taste his cheer.  
Made much of all good virtuous men, and what so ere befell,  
Was glad and pleasant now and then, with those he liked well.  
Full wise in deed and waer of word, and careful of his charge,  
And always free and frank at board, where his expense was large.  
Beloved and praised of poor and rich, and prayed for sundry ways,  
Good Holstocke shall be miss much, in these hard needy days.  
A conscience clear, a faith most fearme, a currant stamp of truth,  
Kept touch and promise, time and term, feared God in age & youth.  
A mighty mind in stature mean, that ventured life full oft,  
On sea or land among the best, that looked most aloft.  
Good writers have in several books, set forth his value throw,  
That those which on the service looks, should honour Holstocke now.  
As life got laud, so he at death, to friends and children said,  
O babes before I yield up breath, and Pilgrims part be played,  
I bless you all, and give my goods among you as I may,  
Then in the bed shrunk down his head, and went like blaze away.  
The good he did in his accounts, where soul now pleading is,  
He feels, where heavenly joy surmounts, all kind of earthly bliss.  
FINIS.   

The epitaph of Doctor Vnderhill lately B. of Oxford.  
WHat helpeth hap or due deserts to be in favour here,  
When life is mixed with such orethwarts, we buy our fortunes dear.  
Gay gold or pearl brought home from far, at end consumes away,  
Great fame attained by peace or war, doth quickly here decay.  
The love of friends and favour won, of wise and worthy wights,  
Steals hence like shadow of the sun, or stars in moonshine nights.  
Sat I not safely Vnderhill, (in calmy vale below,)  
From bitter biasts and tempests still, how ere the wind did blow.  
What sudden storm than troubles me, that had so sure a seat,  
Hath winter's waist blown down my tree, that feared no summer's heat.  
O tell hard Destinies why you did, envy my happy state?  
Infury now, O God forbidden I should cry out on fate.  
Or brawl & chide with churlish Death, for when we hence must go,  
What beareth life or draweth breath, are horve to die I know.  
My friend is gone, the passing bell hath rung his rusull end,  
The grave God wot we see full well, doth for his corpse attend.  
Now Vnderhill lies under ground, knit up in sheet full short,  
Whose wit and learning did abound, as Oxford makes report.  
He Bishop was of that fair seat, where floods of wisdom flows,  
To whose sweet springs and Fountain great, a world of people goes.  
O would to God he had been there, when he his time did waste,  
And caught conceit some other where, that hauled him hence in haste.  
His life was such that none could stain, with any blot or crime,  
Unmatched alone he did remain, and so spent all his time.  
In chaste content and single wise, a good report to gain,  
As one that did this world despise, and held all pleasure vain.  
Held house and table in such rate, as though his rent had been,  
As great as any high estate, whose wealth comes flowing in.  
Kept men that had good gifts of grace, loved those that worthy were,  
To scholars showed a cheerful face, relieved them every where.  
His bounty and large librall mind, did daily so exceed,  
That he was glad some cause to find, to help all those that need.  
His words were of so great a weight, to balance every case,  
That who so heard his judgement strait, would give his wisdom place.  
His censure made the sentence clear, & so shut up the doubt,  
That sure a joy it was to hear, him canvas questions out.  
His love and zeal to Prince and state, in Pulpit was expressed,  
And what thereof he did debate, surmounted all the rest.  
His haviour was so sweet and meek, that men might easily know,  
No virtue was in him to seek, he made so full a show.  
For friendship, faith, and dealings just, he passed the greater sort,  
An upright man of special trust, with passing comely port.  
A thunderbolt to foreign foes, a skurge to each new Sect,  
And one the Lord above had chose, to be his own elect.  
Full long before his leave he took, and life made his last end,  
Unto the heavens did he look, and prayed with a friend.  
And when the pangs of death arose, as sickness did increase,  
He held up hands and eyes did close, and went away in peace.  
O England hadst thou many such, to be thy jewels now,  
Thou couldst not praise those men too much, if thou wilt way them throw.  
Not I alone lament the loss, for many more there be,  
A live to bear this heavy cross, of sorrow now with me.  
FINIS.   

The quick I fawn not on, the dead may none despise,  
Speak well of those are gone, is liked among the wise.  
The quick must die or droop, as fairest flower in field,  
Unto the strongest troup, the weakest force doth yield.  
So to the virtuous sort, that leaves good name behind,  
I yield but true report, to call the dead to mind.   

The unhappy man's dear adieu, that finds nothing good cheap but sorrow.  

IF Scipio said, his Country was ingrate,  
And would not have, his bones be buried there:  
If Tully found, a most unthankful state,  
Whose foul rebukes, no manly mind might bear;  
Then I may walk, like Pilgrim every where.  
As one compelled, to shun from native soil:  
Where labour long, reaped nought but loss and toil.   

Youth first be guild, in Court with hope forlorn,  
Than middle age, all wearied with sharp war:  
And now old eld, to live in lack and scorn,  
Whose wounded limbs, shows many a woeful scar;  
And sundry ways, consumed with travail far.  
These open plagues, and inward griefs of mind:  
Cries out and saith, my Country is unkind.   

I served in field, four Princes of great fame,  
Borne under those, an humble subject true:  
Three other Kings, of great renown and name,  
In faithful sort, I served for wages due;  
But here liege Lords, I do appeal from you,  
That never did, advance my loyal heart,  
For triple toil, for pains, nor just desert.   

Ten thousand have found Fortune's favour good,  
Since I began to tread the steps of time:  
And thousands rose, that in mean places stood,  
And to the top of Fortune's wheel did climb;  
Since I possessed one dram of worldly slime.  
Yea, every Wasp, and hateful humble-bee,  
Sucks up the sap, of my poor Cyper tree.   

Like Tantalus I feed, and faint for food,  
No better fare at Fortune's hands I find:  
Still near good hap, yet far from quiet mood,  
Tossed up and down, like feather in the wind;  
Never thought on, but ever out of mind,  
As world should thrust a man from credit quite,  
So seems to die, and yet must live in spite.   

If any one that stands at Wellhead still,  
Had freely filled my empty bucket bare:  
Or of himself, had showed me such good will,  
To leave some drops of water to my share;  
That I had been refreshed as others are,  
My thirsty throat or scalded heart had felt,  
Some sucker sweet that now with heat doth swelled.   

Or if good minds of men had broke the ye,  
That keeps by cold the fountain frozen hard:  
Or turned the cock, the conduit or the vice,  
That under lock is long shut up and bard;  
Or to the Prince my simple suit preferred.  
I silly man had sure possessed some place,  
That should make glad myself and all my race.   

No Butter cleaves nor sticks upon my bread,  
No Honny-combes will breed in my bare hive:  
My gold but glass, my silver worse than lead,  
My luck as bad as any man alive;  
My feeble chance, wants force with fate to strive.  
That destiny strange that brings no joyful day,  
That life but death, that finds no staff of stay.   

What course or trade that honest men may hold,  
But hath been sought and said with sweat of brow:  
What art or drift can any head unfold,  
But hath with wit been tried and searched throw;  
What can be named a grace or virtue now,  
But in some sort it hath been put in proof,  
For public state, or private man's behoof.   

All these good parts, rare gifts and graces great,  
Are spurned at here, where duty seems disdained:  
But neck in yoke once free from fortunes threat,  
When bondage hath abroad sweet freedom gained;  
May laugh to scorn at home good credit stained.  
Than those rebukes, that bites before my face,  
Behind my back, shall show their own disgrace.   

Hear lose I time that for good turns doth gape,  
No tarrying where deserts are trodden down:  
Nor dwelling with wild Wolves in human shape,  
That still devours men of their true renown;  
'wear better live with Corydon the Clown,  
Then come to Court, where taunts & girds abound,  
And gain grows small, and no great hap is found.   

For fifty years and five I plied it well,  
And burdens bore as back and bones would break:  
Still fed with shells, yet sometimes cracked the shell,  
And kernel found to comfort humour weak.  
But when lame age hath greatest cause to speak,  
They put me off from post to pillar still,  
As though they whypt a horse about a Mill.   

O wily world, thou art become too fine,  
O cunning Court, thou shufflest Cards too fast:  
O hungry age, when Soldiers starve and pine,  
O cruel days, thy date too loong doth last;  
O fair sweet words, you prove a bitter blast.  
O hapless hope, thou breed'st but deep despair,  
Whose heavy thoughts breathes out but fuming air.   

O seed ill sown, that brings no harvest home,  
O time ill spent, that gets no thanks nor gain:  
O blasted tree, whose boughs will never bloom,  
O senseless suit that breaks both sleep and brain;  
O cureless grief, o careful endless pain.  
O kanckred wound, o gnawing corsie vile,  
That eats up heart, and drives me in exile.   

Now must I leave the Land I like so well,  
And creep away to foreign Country strange,  
Now must stiff joints among strange people dwell,  
Now for hard beds I shall soft lodging change;  
Now from sweet peace, in war shall body range.  
Now shot and sword, and heavy coat of steel,  
In most weak plight, my weary bones shall feel.   

And now good Lord, the Prince I honour most,  
In heart, in soul, in fear and conscience clear:  
To whom next God, I would bequeath my ghost,  
And all good gifts that God hath sent me here,  
For her I hold ne life nor blood too dear.  
But from her face, of force now must I go,  
And to what place, the Lord himself doth know.   

To beg at home, or borrow is too bad,  
To steal or starve, or not esteemed is worse:  
To live by loss, or look like empty swad,  
Would make world think I thirst for threadbare purse,  
To want and wail, to ban, to cry and curse,  
Were great offence, great folly, sin and shame,  
For one foul fault, a man may lose good name.   

Then friends and foes farewell, God mend you all,  
The one bewitched me daily with fair words:  
The other sought, with quarrel or lewd brawl,  
To conquer him, that never feared your swords.  
To seek sweet meat upon your bitter boards,  
Is servage such, as few free minds would wish,  
Gross fare exceeds so dear a dainty dish.   

So plainly pass, in Pilgrim's habit poor,  
Eat what thou findest, in Cottage thatched with straw,  
Leave those that lack, for alms at Prince's door,  
Where thou hast been, a subject under Law.  
But tell not how, in yoke thy youth did draw,  
Like Ox that goad pricks forward to his pain,  
To plough the ground for wealthy Farmer's gain.   

Much like the Bee, that flies to every flower,  
To bring home sap, to make sweet honey still:  
And when he hath done all lies in his power,  
To show the love or fruit of his good will.  
In steed of thanks, when he doth mean no ill.  
Then is he burnt, or fling in flaming fire,  
Because new Bees contents fine world's desire.   

Yea, as the Horse, that many years and days,  
Hath labred long, and served his masters need:  
And borne him well, through many deep foul ways,  
And on good Corn and hay was wont to feed.  
Yet waxed old, and cannot do the deed,  
He is cast off, and feign to play the part  
Of Hackney jade, or else must draw the Cart.   

A cold reward, for labour toil and sweat,  
As small regard is made of many men:  
Why then his wit and wisdom is as weak  
As Waltams-calfe, that plays the fondling then,  
To wear out life, and serve with sword and pen.  
Where Horses hap, is found in worse degree,  
Then Ox in yoke, or in the hive the Bee.   

I waste but words, to wail or tell my wrong,  
Their ears are stopped that should redress the same:  
Unto the dead I sing a doleful song,  
I seek for fire, where water quencheth flame;  
I swim on seas, yet sink in open shame.  
I thirst and faint for drink at fountains head,  
I starve for food, where thousands eat their bread.   

Well, welcome want, I feel thee not alone,  
My fellows dwells in stately Court perhaps,  
That doth for want of flesh gnaw near the bone,  
Who seldom sucks sweet milk from Fortune's paps,  
Yet plies the Court, with curtsies, knees, & caps.  
A thraldom fit, for such as loves fair shoe,  
But hath no wit, nor knows not where to go.   

The Lord be blest, some bear a better brain,  
And soon can show, the blot that servage brings:  
Have wit enough to keep them out of rain,  
And knows full well, where shoe or saddle wrings;  
In silence so, I knit up all these things.  
Farewell fine Court, my plainness is unfit,  
Among the flock of gallant guests to sit.   

Poor, plain and true, and sure of right good race,  
Takes leave of you, and thereof makes no vaunts:  
Yet every where, will show plain true man's face,  
For that in world, his deeds and destinies grants.  
No force though Court yields him but open taunts.  
God and good Prince, in time can way that well,  
And make sad man, at length in quiet dwell.   
FINIS.   

A short Prayer.  
From five extremes God me preserve,  
Which common plagues all hearts do hate:  
To beg, to borrow, steal, or starve,  
Or not esteemed in public state.