Blake be your habetts, dyme, and funeral;
For deathe bathe bereft, to our great dolour,
Mary our mastres, our quene of honor.
Our quene of honor, compared aptly
To Veritas victrix, daughter of Tyme,
By God assisted, amased in armye,
When she a virgin cleare, without cryme,
By ryght, without might, did happely clyme
To the stage royal, just inheritor,
Proclaymed Mary our quene of honor.