A poore knight his pallace of priuate pleasures Gallantly garnished, with goodly galleries of strang inuentio[n]s and prudently polished, with sundry pleasant posies, [et] other fine fancies of dainty deuices, and rare delightes. Written by a student in Ca[m]bridge. And published by I.C. Gent.

The poore Knights lamentation: wherin hee earnestly bewayleth the late losse of diuers worthy Gentilmens lyues, that died of a verye strange disease, at Oxforde, in Iuly 1577. among whom died Sir Robert Bell, Lorde cheefe Baron, and Maister Nicolas Barham, Ser∣••ant of the Law, both Iustices of the Assise there, with other Knights and Gentlemen, beside Studients and others of all degrees, as fol∣loweth.

STand still yee Féends of Limbo Lake, ye hellish hounds giue eare, Stay Theseus on thy whorling whéele, harke what I shall declare. Come plonge in pit of paynfull plight, yee Furies three I pray, Oh Pluto marke my dolefull mone, giue eare what I shall say. And rue with mee the rufull chance, and mone the yll successe, The dolefull dole, the heauy hap, the dumpes of déepe distresse. Which Oxforde Towne hath had of late, most fresh & new in minde Harke, harke, ye Dames of Stigian flood, and waile by course of kinde And though no teares of furies eyes, will ease the fatall fall, Yet plaints of you which Furies bée, may moue the minde of all. To say with mee, as I haue sayd, alas helpe to deplore, And waile y^• chance, like to which chance, no chance hath chanst before In Oxforde towne, or English soile, since worthy Troians time, Since Brute in coast, did seeke by fame, to clustering clowds to clime. Oh strange disease most strange to tell, and strange to call to minde, As thundring fame hath tolde for truth, as reason did her binde. Alas, alas, I rue to thinke, I tremble for to tell, My fainting hart is much apalde, my soule in gréefe doth dwell. But yet alas what hoote to mone, where teares will not a••ayle? No gentle wordes will fence the Forte, where denting death assaile,

No sugred termes will stay his stroke, no force will make him fey, No subtill sleight of mortall minde, hée wayeth no hydeous cry. No worthy actes can bannish death, or cause him to relent, No fame, no name, for good deserts no dayes in Iustice spent: Can him intreate to holde his hand, no hope of future gaine, Which might redound to common wealth, can cause him to abstaine But oft that Impe by whirling winde, is blasted to decay, And sonest beares the withered leaues, wherof most hope doth stay. Of Troian soile, let Hector say, let Pyrhus speak•• for Greece, Or ioyne Achilles if you please, and Paris with his peece. Macedons Prince may tell his tale, and Caesar may discharge, That good Hamilcars eldest Sonne, by proofe may tell at large. What neede I range, sith ranging far, doth br••••de to great annoy, Sith Bell, & Barham may blaze forth, which once were Englands ioy Ah sounding Bell, ah Barham bolde, (I meane in Iustice cause,) Ah true maintainers of the right, and strengthners of the lawes. How oft can VVestminster report, whose record can not ly, Your true deserts in Pleas of price, your worthy wits to try. How oft can al Assises say, loe Bell, loe Barham hee? Perdy in skill of Lawiers trades, those worthy champions bée. How oft hath Bell béene sounded of, through euery Sheere & Towne? How oft hath Barham through his deedes, atchiued high renowne? But out alas, the Bell is broke, and Barhams toung doth stay, For Death hath strooke, whose daunting dartes eche worldling must obay. Both Iudge & Shrife, both Shrife and Clarke, yea Clarke & Cryer al Must giue accompt before the Iudge, when Christ his Cryer call. And well I hope hath Bell deserued, and Barham shal haue meede, With all the rest aloft in skyes, wheras the Angels feede. And you ye doughty Knights whose corps, be laid in mourning graue Whose bones shall long bée kept in store, a good reward shall haue. And though ye waile, yee Templers all, for them which you did know Which oft within your costly Courts, their sage aduise did show. Yet sith the Fates haue cut their clewes, sith Lachesis hath sayd, That shee would stretch her hand no more, then be you well apayde. And stay from murmering at their fate, such fatall hap had they, (Whom God had long ordaind before, to visit in that day.) As few haue seene or heard the like, with watery eyes lament, With salted sighes, and gushing teares (which all in vaine be spent.)

In Oxford Town & euery where, where fame hath blown her blast, And scalding sighes in sundry brestes, haue vowed for ay to last. What shall I say? what shall I wright? or shall I leaue my verse? How can my hand holde fast my pen, these dollors to reherse. Nay, nay, as great a gréefe as that, did more augment my paine, Which yet-hath lurkte, concealed fast, but can not so remaine. Euē for your sakes yée Studiēts all, whose gréefe increase my smart, For whom my minde was troubled sore, (all flattery set apart) Not mine alone, but thousands more, did see themselues agréeued, And askt on knees of mighty Ioue, your time might bee reléeued. How many harts haue wept with vs, which neuer saw that towne, How many chéekes were moistned here, with teares y^• ran adowne. Should Cambridge smile, & Oxforde wéepe, then Camb. were vnkind Nay, nay, my harts, your swelling smart, did beat in euery minde. And floods of teares, for you did flow, repleat with mestful mone, So Cambridge swere that Oxforde towne, shall neuer morne alone. Nay God forbid that Cambridge hart, should euer harden so, That would not send forth gushing teares, to weepe for Oxfords we. For why? no hart was hardned so, though it were made of brasse, That would not weepe for Fraunce his fall, when feirce Afflictiō was And rue with Antwerpes ruinous ruthe: alas what hart had hee? That would not say Antwerpe adew: or Fraunce, Christ fight for thee, Then who could cease (although hee would) your fate for to deplore? Sith wounds that sticke more nere the bone, do breed the greter sore And though the case were far vnlike, to Fraunce and Antwerps ruthe, Yet was your case as strange to tell, as Fame hath tolde for truth, Yea though your chāce were much more les, yet ought we to cōplain, Sith that your ioy increase our mirth, your wo doth bring our paine Then what was left for Cambridge towne, when Oxford felt the rod, But still to waile and weepe for you, and pray to mighty God: That hee when his good pleasure were, his heauy hand would stay, And with his powre as well hee can, remoue his scourge away. And cease not you, as wée for you, to Ioue for vs to call, That he would hold his stroke away, and keepe our towne from thral That you which felt his heauy hand, and wee which rued the same, May ioyne in one to laude the Lorde, and praise his holy name. And bee content to beare the blow, which hee to you hath lent, Though you had taste of bittter pangs, (good harts) yet be content.

For why? when God shall thinke it good, in the twinckling of an eye Hee can reuoke that hee hath sent, your constancy to try. Till then wee weepe, and pray for you, and listen what insew, Desiring Christ to stay his hand. From Cambridge thus adew.