Death with his dart strake me for the nons[263],
In Leicester, full lowe, where nowe lyeth my boons.
Loo, nowe you may see what it is to trust
In worldly vanyties that voydyth with the wynd;
For death in a moment consumeth all to dust:
No honor, no glory, that ever man cowld fynd,
But Tyme with hys tyme puttythe all out of mynd;
For Tyme in breafe tyme duskyth the hystory
Of them that long tyme lyved in glory.
Where is my tombe that I made for the nons,