A proper new ballad in praise of my Lady Marquis▪ Whose death is be wailed,  
To the tune of new lusty gallant.  
 

LAdies I think you marvel that  
I writ no merry report to you,  
And what is the cause I court it not  
So merry as I was wont to do,  
Alas I let you understand,  
It is no news for me to show,  
The fairest flower of my garland  
Was caught from court a great while a go.   

For under the roof of sweet Saint Paul,  
There lieth my Lady buried in Clay,  
Where I make memory for her soul,  
With weeping eyes once every day,  
All other sights I have for got,  
That ever in court I joyed to see:  
And that is the cause I court it not,  
So merry as I was wont to be,   

And though that she be dead and gone,  
Whose courting need not to be told,  
And nature's mould of flesh and bone,  
Whose like now lives not to be hold,  
Me thinks I see her walk in black,  
In every corner where I go:  
To look if any body do lack,  
A friend to help them of their woe.   

Me thinks I see her sorrowful tears,  
To princely state approaching nigh  
Me thinks I see her trembling fears,  
lest any her suits should hit a wry,  
Me thinks she should be still in place  
A pitiful speaker to a Queen,  
Bewailinge every poor man's case,  
As many a time the hath been seen.   

Me thinks I see her modest mood  
Her comely clothig plainly clad,  
Her face so sweet her cheer so good,  
The courtly countenance that she had  
But chief of all me thinks I see,  
Her virtues dentie day by day,  
Homblie kneeling one her knee  
As her desire was still to pray.   

Me thinks I cold from morrow to night  
Do no thing else very good will,  
But spend the time to speak and writ:  
The praise of my good ladies still  
Though reason saith now she is dead  
To seek and serve as good as she  
It will not sink so in my head  
That ever the like in court will be.   

But sure I am there liveth yet,  
In court a dearer friend to me,  
Whom I to serve am so unfit,  
I am sure the like will never be,  
For I with all that I can do,  
Unworthy most may seem to be  
To undo the lachet of her shoe,  
Yet will I come to court and see.   

Then have a mongste ye once a gain,  
Faint hearts fair Ladies never win,  
I trust ye will consider my pain,  
When any good Venison cometh in,  
And gentle Ladies I you pray,  
If my absenting breed to blame,  
In my behalf that ye will say,  
In court is remedy for the same.   
ꝙ W. Elderton.  
¶ Finis.   

¶ Imprinted at London in Fletestreat beneath the Conduit, at the sign of S. john Evangelist, by Thomas Colwell.