It could be wish’d that every eye might beare
His eare good witnesse that he still were here;
That sorrowe ruled the yeare, and by that sunne
Each man could tell you how the day had runne:
O ’twere an honest boast, for him could say
I have been busy, and wept out the day
Remembring him. An epitaph would last
Were such a trophee, such a banner placed
Upon his corse as this: Here a man lyes
Was slaine by Henrye’s dart, not Destinie’s.