A pleasaunte laborinth called Churchyardes chance framed on fancies, vttered with verses, and writte[n] to giue solace to euery well disposed mynde: wherein notwithstanding are many heauie epitaphes, sad and sorowfull discourses and sutche a multitude of other honest pastymes for the season (and passages of witte) that the reader therein maie thinke his tyme well bestowed. All whiche workes for the pleasure of the worlde, and recreation of the worthie, are dedicated to the right honourable sir Thomas Bromley knight, lorde Chancelour of Englande.

¶ An Epitaphe of one maistres Blunt, The Ladie Pauletts sister.

YOU worthie wiues that vertue seeks, and blotlesse liues doe lead: With bitter tears be dewe your cheeks, when you these verses read. And looke you mourne as matrons doe, whose modest maners maie: By outward woe and heauie lookes, their hidden harms be wraie. Blacke gounes & blasyng torches bigg, doeth bryng her to the graue To whom the Gods when she had life, greate gifts of glorie gaue. Her housbande houlls and wryngs his hands, as after corse he goes: And neibours loue bursts out in sighes, & worlde suche sorowe shoes.

As cropp and roote of woman kinde, were loste and laied full loe: A gracious life is geste and known, when hence the ghost doeth goe. Then Blount bedeckt with blessed brute, passe on to heauens hie: And leaue thy freends and children all, behinde to waile and crie. The losse of sutche a Iewell rare, more ritche then pearle or gold: More meete to dwell in breast of man, then lodge in ashes cold. Unfitt for worme O wifely dame! the worlde hath seldome bredd: A wife of sutche a worthie fame, and suche a noble hedde. As meeke as Lambe of looks or woords, of councell ripe and sounde: Of harte moste milde where humble thoughts, & bountie did abound. A Nourse of Nurture eurie waie, to child and houshold bothe: A Mirrour to the simple sort, and fountaine full of trothe. The housbandes ioye, the freends delite, the neighbours comfort too: A willyng minde, and readie hande, when she good turne might doo. That feels she now where angells syng, and good mens souls do rest And where we cease from worldly toile, I meane in Abrams brest. Where loe I leaue her till we meete, full faste our date drawes on: And we the self same stepps must tread, that she before hath gon.

Finis.