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 These didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Grief, sorrow, sickness and base fortune's might. Thy rising day saw never woeful night, But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame; Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won. Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure. 0 happy race! with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same; Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried. The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died. Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame.

Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love. Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come. In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.