An Epitaph of

Master Thomas Phaer

The haughty verse that Maro wrote
made Rome to wonder much;
And marvel none: for why? the style
and weightiness was such,
That all men judged Parnassus Mount
had cleft herself in twain,
And brought forth one that seemed to drop
from out Minerva's brain.
But wonder more may Britain great,
where Phaer did flourish late,
And barren tongue with sweet accord
reduced to such estate
That Virgil's verse hath greater grace
in foreign foot obtained
Than in his own, who whilst he lived
each other poets stained.
The noble Henry Howard once
that raught eternal fame,
With mighty style, did bring a piece
of Virgil's work in frame,
And Grimald gave the like attempt,
and Douglas won the ball,
Whose famous wit in Scottish rhyme
had made an end of all.
But all these same did Phaer excel,
I dare presume to write,
As much as doth Apollo's beams
the dimmest star in light.
The envious Fates (O pity great)
had great disdain to see
That us amongst there should remain
so fine a wit as he,
And in the midst of all his toil
did force him hence to wend,
And leave a work unperfect so,
that never man shall end.