Honour and vertue, triumphing over the grave Exemplified in a faire devout life, and death, adorned with the surviving perfections of Edward Lord Stafford, lately deceased; the last baron of that illustrious family: which honour in him ended with as great lustre as the sunne sets within a serene skye. A treatise so written, that it is as well applicative to all of noble extraction, as to him, and wherein are handled all the requisites of honour, together with the greatest morall, and divine vertues, and commended to the practise of the noble prudent reader. By Anth. Stafford his most humble kinsman. This worke is much embelish'd by the addition of many most elegant elegies penned by the most accute wits of these times.

On the Lord STAFFORD, the last Baron of his Race, who dyed in his None-age.

YOur Country Hindes if you have seene When they have a Lopping beene, They take not here a Branch or there, But leave the naked Backe so bare, It cannot be term'd Plant, but we Must call't the Carcasse of a Tree: Which they (beleeving nought their owne, But what within their Pale is throwne) Have so dismembred, for no good But to encrease their Stack of Wood. Yet even these leave one sprout there Expecting Company next Yeare, Where if so chance it be not found They lose their right to the whole ground. What hast thou forfeited, Death, now That hast not left a Topping Bough On such a glorious stocke? not spar'd The tender sprigge, but further dar'd Going beyond dire Sicknesse spight Not for to bend, but breake it quite: What Plot is now in hand? Do's Fate Meane to bring in Confusion streight? How shall a Stately shady Tree, From Trunk or Mast distingnishd bee,

If this be suffer'd? shall the source Of Noble blood be stopt its course Or chill'd? and shall the Pedant Veine Through all the Body flash amaine? Therefore Death (since you cannot be Exempted from all Penalty, When thou shalt dare Trespasse so high Not in mistake, but cruelty) Your Dart is forfeite, and must cease, The Darter being bound to th' Peace, And so disarm'd by Natures Will, If you must needs yet Wound or Kill, You must your presence use, or sight; All weapons are debarr'd you quite; For let Time accursed be If he shall lend his Sithe to Thee. And all this Nature does enact, Not for one petty Crime, or fact. Her Law does not thee guilty call Of treason, murder, but of All. That which last yeare you did commit, And we not know to name it yet; Prometheus once presumed so To steale from Heav'n a flame or two; Where now he feeles loves angers edge In Hell, and rues his Sacriledge: How many Vultures had love sent, If he had stolne the Element? Put out a Starre or Two, or more And make them give their winking o're, You doe no hurt, there's more to shine: Which else perhaps had not beene seene:

Or if we take them All away, We shall be blam'd no more than day. But if we put out the Sunnes light, We may bid the whole World Good-Night: Not meerely 'cause it is the Sunne, But chiefely 'cause it was but One: For had we Two, who could repine Though One did Set, so One did shine? Thus stands it with thee death, and us That hast affronted the state thus: Could not one House suffice, nay Towne But must you pull our None-such downe? Could your transcendent Envie ayme Not at the Person, but the Name? Must Stafford dye? True! States-men say That even Kingdomes have their day Nor dare Iavouch they erre, A Kingdome's a Particular: A Name's Eternall, and a Race Is bound to neither Time nor Place. Now therefore thinke what thou hast done And burst thou foolish Sceleton: Sithence we shall beleeve your spite, Not your Power, infinite: For though here lyes the Corps of Stafford dead His Name and Epitaph can't be Buried.

Io. Goad. Ioan. Ox.