A mournefull Dittie, entituled Elizabeths losse, together with a welcome for King Iames.
To a pleasant new tune.
FArewell, farewell, farewell,
braue Englands ioy:
Gone is thy friend
that kept thée from annoy.
Lament, lament, lament
you English Peeres,
Lament your losse
possest so many yeeres.
Gone is thy Quéene, the
paragon of time,
On whom grim death
hath spred his fatall line.
Lament, lament, &c.
Gone is that gem which
God and man did loue,
She hath vs left
to dwell in heauen aboue.
Lament, lament, &c.
You gallant Ladies
of her Princely traine,
lament your losse
your loue, your hope, and gaine.
Lament, lament, &c.
Wéepe wring your hands,
all clad in mourning wéeds,
Shew foorth your loue,
in tongue in hart and déeds.
Lament, lament, &c.
Full foure and fortie yéeres
foure moneths seauen dayes,
She did maintaine this realme
in peace alwayes.
Lament, lament, &c.
In spite of Spaines proud Pope,
and all the rout,
Who Lyon like ran
ranging round about.
Lament, lament, &c.
With traiterous plots to slay
her Royall grace,
Her realme, her lawes
and Gospell to deface,
Lament, lament, &c.
Yet time and tide God still
was her defence,
Till for himselfe from vs
hée tooke her hence
Lament, lament, &c.
We néede not to rehearse
what care what griefe,
She still endured,
and all for our reliefe.
Lament, lament, &c.
We néede not to rehearse
what benefits,
You all inioyd, what pleasures
and what gifts.
Lament, lament, &c.
You Virgins all bewayle
your Virgin Quéene,
That Phenix rare,
on earth but sildome séene.
Lament, lament, &c.
With Angels wings she pearst
the starrie skie,
When death, grim death,
hath shut her mortall eye.
Lament, lament, &c.
You Nimphs that sing and bathe,
in Fountaines cléere:
Come lend your helpe to sing
in mournefull chéere.
Lament, lament, &c.
All you that doe professe
swéet musicks Art,
Lay all aside, your Vyoll
Lute and Harpe,
Lament, lament, &c.
Mourne Organs, Flutes,
mourne Sagbuts with sad soūd:
Mourne Trumpets shrill,
mourne Cornets mute & round.
Lament, lament, &c.
You Poets all braue Shakspeare,
Iohnson, Greene,
Bestow your time to write
for Englands Quéene.
Lament, lament, &c.
Returne your songs and Sonnets
and your sayes:
To set foorth swéete
Elizabeths praise.
Lament, lament, &c.
In fine all you
that loyall harts possesse,
With Roses swéete,
bedeck hir Princely hearse.
Lament, lament, &c.
Bedeck that hearse
sprong from that famous King,
King Henrie the eight,
whose fame on earth doth ring
Lament, lament, &c.
Now is the time that we
must all forget,
Thy sacred name
oh swéet Elizabeth.
Lament, lament, &c.
Praying for King Iames,
as earst we prayed for thée,
In all submissiue loue
and loyaltie.
Lament, lament, &c.
Beséeching God to blesse
his Maiestie
With earthly peace
and heauens felicitie.
Lament, lament, &c.
And make his raigne
more prosperous here on earth
Then was the raigne
of late Elizabeth.
Lament, lament, &c.
Wherefore all you
that subiects true beare names
Still pray with me, and say
God saue King Iames.
Lament, lament, lament,
you English Peeres,
Lament your losse enioyd
so many yeeres.
FINIS.
Imprinted at London for T.P.