¶ An Epitaphe vpon the death Mayster Iohn Viron Preacher.
THou soule whych on Christes brest, doest rest as Iohn loued,
And corps whych art lyke hys also, wyth earth en Viron ed:
Full ioyfull mayst thou be, but we (alas) may wayle,
Thy presence to forgo so soone, thy voyce so soone to fayle.
But oh thy payne and toyle, in God thee prayse we shall,
That thou ensample now mayst be, vnto thy fellowes all.
Whych ceasedst not at morne, at noone, nor yet at nyght,
To preache Gods woorde, to beate downe vyce, and to put synne to flyght.
Thyne natiue countrye thou, regardedst not a whyt,
When God dyd call thee foorth to preache, but out thou wentst wyth it.
Whych when in thyne owne toung, thou mightst not preache in Fraunce,
Yet foorth thou wentst, and by God led, to vs wast brought by chaunce.
Where thou wyth paynefull watche, dydst learne our Englysh tounge,
And wyth as paynefull diligence, dydst preache Gods truth among.
No Tyraunt, nor fierce lawes, coulde make thee vs forsake:
But in the mydst of ragyng stormes, wyth Gods Sayntes part dydst take.
And synce thou hast well shewde, whose seruaunt thou hast bene,
In preaching and in writyng both, whych to Gods prayse is sene.
But now ho shall lament? or who may ioy now flee?
Euen euery state from top to toe, both hygh and low degree.
The poore may wayle hys mysse, whych wyth both tounge and hand,
Dyd well refreshe theyr weary state, whych often they in stand.
The ryche may mone wyth them, hys barkyng voyce to want,
That kept from them that karking beast, whych rychesse dayly haunt.
And though hys lyke yet lyue, and many suche there be:
Yet shall we mysse hym in our lyfe, and nombers more then he.
But oh London, London, thou oughtest chiefe to wayle,
The people suche, and vyces great, may at hys want sore quayle.
For twyse so many as there be, and myllions lyke to hym,
Were not sufficient to draw backe, thy people from theyr synne.
But shall I shewe the thankes, whych in thee he hath got?
Oh London, London, Sodome was, not so yll vnto Lot.
His paynes deserued prayse, but some in thee hym gaue:
Obprobrious woordes, and sclaunders vyle, euen to hys bodyes graue.
But what for that they thus, haue vsed hym so yll:
Hys vertues were thereby more knowen, in spight of their yll wyll?
And eke theyr lying blastes, are so layde in their face:
That they may shame and weepe thereat, if they haue any grace.
But now thou flocke and folde, whych he in lyfe dyd guyde:
What cause hast thou to wayle hys want, and count thee wo betyde?
Whych hadst a Shepheard good, that dyd hys duty ryght:
In sauing Rammes from daunger neare, and helpyng Lambes to myght.
From pasture vnto pasture, he dyd thee bryng to feede,
And neuer ceased to make thee from fayth to fayth proceede.
There restes no more for you, hys paynes now to requite:
But so to walke as he you taught, and speake of hym the ryght.
And thou O England now, to ende and mone wyth theese:
Lament thou mayst also wyth vs, a woorke man thus to leese.
Thy haruest is so great, and Laborers so fewe,
Yea of those fewe some Loyterers, full yll themselues do shewe.
And let vs here by take, a warning to vs all,
That seing haruest is so great, and woorkemens nomber small:
Our fruit must needes be lost our selues to famishe brought,
Our Land layde lyke a wyldernes, and brought at length to nought.
But thou O Lorde and God, of this our haruest great,
Spare thou our woorkemen, and more send, that labour wil with sweate.
That as we mone for Iohn, en Viron ed by death,
Thou wylt vs glad wyth many a Paule, enspirde with heauenly breath.
Finis.
Quod Iohn Awdelie.
¶ Imprinted at London / by Iohn Awdely, dwellyng in lytle Britayne streete by great Saint Bartelmewes.