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EBBA 32417

Huntington Library - Britwell
Ballad XSLT Template
An Epitaphe on the death of the right noble and most vertuous Lady Margarit Duglasis good
grace, Countisse of Livinox (& Daughter to the renowmed & most excellent Lady Margarit Queene, Sister to the magnificent & most mighty
Prince Henry the eight of England, Fraunce and Ireland, Kinge, and by Gods permission Queene of Scotland,) who disceased this
life the ninth day of March. Anno. 1577. at hir mannoure in Hackny in the countye of Midelsex and lieth enterred the .3. day of April at Westminster
in the Chaple of King Henry the seventh, her worthie Grandfather of Englande, Fraunce and Ireland King etc. The yeare of our
Lorde God. 1578, and in the .20. yeare of our soveraigne Lady Queene, Elizabeth by the grace of God of Englande,
Fraunce and Irelande, Queene, defendour of the faith. etc.

REporte run on, ringe forth thy doleful Bel,
That worldly wightes, may waile our great anoye:
In Court and Towne, our cause of woe do tel,
That stand distrest bereft of al our joye.
With care see that, thy skyl thou do imploye,
To blase our luckles hap throughout each land:
That mortal wightes, our gretes may understande.

And as we waile, so let constraint of paine,
Inforce them weepe, to thinke upon our losse:
In woful wise, with us, let them complaine,
That yeld of care, to beare the bitter crosse.
Let waves of woe, their mindes in anguish tosse,
Let flouds of flowing teares, each where be seene:
To waile this Dame, the Daughter of a Queene.

rits grace
ter to the
ter of
the .7.
now dis-
borne at
tell three
before ill

In princely place, let Prince and Peeres lament,
Let Noble Lordes, and Ladies yeld to waile:
For from the Courte a Jwel ritch is hent,
And such a one as to her great availe,
Deserveth fame, though Death her life do quaile,
Wher she might helpe, she would no harme procure:
You all can tel, her freindship was most pure.

A foe to vice and such as vitious were,
This noble dame continually did rest:
A freendly hart she did to vertue beare,
The fruites whereof did florish in her brest.
To ritche and poore true frendship she profest,
Her wordes with deedes confirmed were each howre:
Then nobles al lament this fragrant flowre.

Cast of your silkes, your coastly robes forbeare,
Abandon Joy, let myrth an exile be:
Vouchsafe a while your mourning weedes to weare,
Beweepe this dame borne of so hye degree.
A royal prince, Henry the seaventh even he,
Of England, Fraunce, and Ireland, famous kinge,
Her Gran-syre was consider you this thing.

Her Lady mothers grace, that Margarit hight,
Of Scotland was, whilom the crowned queene:
And syster to, the eigth Henry by right,
Whose flowring fame in England shineth greene.
Alied by byrth this gem was to our queene,
Then noble states, minde you her bloud and byrth:
And helpe with teares to bring her to the earth.

Send forth your sobes, let floudes fal from your eyes,
This gratious gem, this pearle of prize beweepe:
And in your hartes, of Livinox that Countesse wise,
For vertue vouch, a true recorde to keepe.
And though her corpes in earth lye cloased deepe,
Consent to make memorial of her name:
That conquereth death by force of worthy fame.

Her love to God was alwaies faithful founde,
Her lyfe she led in loyalty and awe:
On trueth she staid, to prince her troth was sounde,
And stoode in dread for to transgresse the lawe.
Infortune fel could not her hart with drawe,
From God nor prince, her thought could never chaunge,
Ne was her love to countrey showne as straunge.

Then Brittaines kinde that sytte in honors stal,
Forget not you, to bid this dame adew:
And you in court, that meanest are of al,
With teares prepare, your loving freende to rew.
Whilst life she joyed she was a freende to you,
Her hart was meeke and humble to the ende:
Just cause you have to weepe so good a freende.

You sutors poore, have lost a Margarit deare,
A precious pearle, the piller of your trust:
Who willing was, your due demaundes to heare,
And to the prince to further causes just.
Thinke on this Phenix rare of right you must,
Whose want, with woe vouchsafe a time to waile,
Her shrine remaines, her presence you do faile.

In wedlockes right, whilst she posessed life,
This perelesse dame most dutiful was founde:
Unto her worthy spowse she was a constant wife,
Faith knit loves knot, truth was her trustie ground
Two sons she had most fyt to be renowmd
The one of Scots the diadem did weare:
Whose fatal syne is knowen to every eare.

King of
hir eldest

Whilst he as prince did beare the royal sway,
The commons hartes most curtuously he wonne:
But treason false in cancred hartes did stay,
And traitors fearce to worke his spoile begonne.
Yet weldeth now the scepter (there) his sonne,
Whose death did nyp this Countesse to the gall:
Yet did she joy, his seede was safe from thrall.

Her other sonne Lord Charles that worthy wight,
Espousd she see, whose seede she did imbrace:
Yet death in time bereft him from her sight,
Whose want in her a double dole did place.
Twixt these extremes yet did this Ladies grace,
Use patience sweete to salve her inward griefe:
And praised God that was her comfort chiefe.

But as theyr race the course of time ware out,
And they to death constrained were to bende:
So to her state (Time) his compas courst about,
And toucht her corpes with sicknesse sharp in ende.
In which by faith on Christ she did depende,
Whose onely bloud she did affye and trust:
By faith should purge, her sin and make her just.

Her hope was heaven, this world she did detest,
And when that death began to draw ful nye:
To beare his stroke she patience pure possest,
And unto heaven for savegarde sweete did flye.
She unto God with hart and minde did crye,
Preserve our queene and blesse this little land:
Her foes confound with thy out stretched hand.

her son,
Earle of
buried at

This done she bids the noble Peares adew,
She takes her leave of friendes and servants all:
My tyme is come, I take my leave of you,
The fruite thats ripe, is sonest apt to fall.
And though to death my body now be thrall,
I dye, to live in heaven with Christ my love:
And hope to reste with his elect above.

This said, her breth forthwith began to fayle,
And fading life, inclines to draw to ende:
She leaves this world unto her great availe,
For Jesus Christ is found her surest frende.
From daunger great, hir soule he doth defende,
Synne is defaste by vertue of his blood:
And he alone hath done this Countesse good.

Her Daughter deare that lovinge Lady kinde,
Her Gracesse death to mourne is reddy prest:
The Lady younge that nature hath asynde,
As yet for foode to claime the Nourses brest.
Even as it can with sorrowe is possest,
And Scotlands Kinge, his Gran-dames death doth mone:
In Court and Towne a cause of care is showne.

Wife &
Lady to
the lorde
Earle of

Kinge of

Her servants all beweepe hir noble grace,
The poore each where, her losse with teares lament
From whom no time she once would turne her face
Her hart and hand they say, each howre was bent.
Their neede to helpe, and Hackney doth assent,
with wringing hands to waile this worthies wrack
That gave them foode and clad the naked back.

But what can teares or pearcing plaints prevaile,
Her time was come, and death hath cut her downe:
Thre score, three yeres she livd til death did quaile,
The life of hir most worthye high renowne.
And now her head of life hath got the Crowne,
Her blessed soule before the heavenly kinge:
Doth hymes of Joy with saints & Angels synge.

I. Phillips
Imprinted at London for Edward White and are to be solde at the little North dore of Paules at the Signe of the Gunne.
Vivit post funera virtus.

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