To grow from loue of common good are seene,
To reape such fruit, whoso his life shall giue,
Though dead, yet liues: his fruit aye waxeth greene,
Of which my life a Mirrour might haue been:
But whose sad muse my tragedie doth sing,
Or who to light king Edmund’s deeds doth bring?
3.
Now from my graue, the bed of my long rest
Rous’d vp by fame, through shades of silent night,
Behold I come obeying her behest,