¶ An epitaph vpon the death master John Viron Preacher.  
THou soul which on Christes breast, dost rest as John loved,  
And corps which art like his also, with earth enVironed:  
Full joyful mayst thou be, but we( alas) may wail,  
Thy presence to forego so soon, thy voice so soon to fail.  
But oh thy pain and toil, in God thee praise we shall,  
That thou ensample now mayst be, unto thy fellowes all.  
which ceasedst not at morn, at noon, nor yet at night,  
To preach Gods word, to beate down vice, and to put sin to flight.  
thine native country thou, regardedst not a whit,  
When God did call thee forth to preach, but out thou wentst with it.  
which when in thine own tongue, thou mightst not preach in france,  
Yet forth thou wentst, and by God lead, to us wast brought by chance.  
Where thou with painful watch, didst learn our english tongue,  
And with as painful diligence, didst preach Gods truth among.  
No tyrant, nor fierce laws, could make thee us forsake:  
But in the mydst of ragyng storms, with Gods Sayntes part didst take.  
And since thou hast well shewde, whose servant thou hast been,  
In preaching and in writing both, which to Gods praise is sene.  
But now ho shall lament? or who may ioy now flee?  
even every state from top to to, both high and low degree.  
The poor may wail his miss, which with both tongue and hand,  
did well refresh their weary state, which often they in stand.  
The rich may mone with them, his barkyng voice to want,  
That kept from them that karking beast, which richesse daily haunt.  
And though his like yet live, and many such there be:  
Yet shall we miss him in our life, and numbers more then he.  
But oh London, London, thou oughtest chief to wail,  
The people such, and vices great, may at his want sore quail.  
For twice so many as there be, and myllions like to him,  
Were not sufficient to draw back, thy people from their sin.  
But shall I show the thankes, which in thee he hath got?  
Oh London, London, sodom was, not so ill unto Lot.  
His pains deserved praise, but some in thee him gave:  
Obprobrious words, and slanders vile, even to his bodies grave.  
But what for that they thus, haue used him so ill:  
his virtues were thereby more known, in spite of their ill will?  
And eke their lying blasts, are so laid in their face:  
That they may shane and weep thereat, if they haue any grace.  
But now thou flock and fold, which he in life did guide:  
What cause hast thou to wail his want, and count thee wo betide?  
which hadst a shepherd good, that did his duty right:  
In saving rams from danger near, and helping lambs to might.  
From pasture unto pasture, he did thee bring to feed,  
And never ceased to make thee from faith to faith proceed.  
There rests no more for you, his pains now to requited:  
But so to walk as he you taught, and speak of him the right.  
And thou O England now, to end and mone with freeze:  
Lament thou mayst also with us, a work man thus to lose.  
Thy harvest is so great, and labourers so few,  
Yea of those few some loiterers, full ill themselves do show.  
And let us here by take, a warning to us all,  
That seing harvest is so great, and woorkemens number small:  
Our fruit must needs be lost ourselves to famishe brought,  
Our Land laid like a wilderness, and brought at length to nought.  
But thou O lord and God, of this our harvest great,  
Spare thou our woorkemen, and more sand, that labour will with sweat.  
That as we mone for John, enVironed by death,  
Thou wilt us glad with many a paul, enspirde with heavenly breath.  
Finis.  
Quod John Awdelie.   

¶ Imprinted at London/ by John Awdely, dwelling in little britain street by great Saint Bartelmewes.