Nor is it griev’d, grave youth, the memory
Of such a story, such a booke as hee,
That such a copy through the world were read;
_Henry yet lives, though he be buried_.
It could be wish’d that every eye might beare
His eare good witnesse that he still were here;
That sorrowe ruled the yeare, and by that sunne
Each man could tell you how the day had runne:
O ’twere an honest boast, for him could say
I have been busy, and wept out the day
Remembring him. An epitaph would last
Were such a trophee, such a banner placed
Upon his corse as this: _Here a man lyes_
_Was slaine by Henrye’s dart, not Destinie’s_.
Why this were med’cinable, and would heale,
Though the whole languish’d, halfe the commonweale.
But for a _Cobler_ to goe burn his cappe,
And cry, The Prince, the Prince! O dire mishappe!
Or a Geneva-bridegroom, after grace,
To throw his spouse i’ th’ fire; or scratch her face
To the tune of the Lamentation; or delay
His _Friday_ capon till the _Sabbath_ day:
Or an old Popish lady half vow’d dead
To fast away the day in gingerbread:
For him to write such annals; all these things
Do open laughter’s and shutt up griefe’s springs.
Tell me, what juster or more congruous peere
Than Ale, to judge of workes begott of beere?
Wherefore forbeare—or, if thou print the next,
Bring better notes, or take a meaner text.