When boistering windes begins to blowe
And cruel costes from haven wee
The foggie mysts soe dimes the shore
The rocks and sandes we maie not see
Nor have no Rome on Seaes to trie
But praie to God and yeld to Die
When shouldes and sandie bankes Apears
What pillot can divert his course
When foming tides draweth us so nere
A las what fortenn can be worsse
The Ankers hould roust be our staie
Or Elise we fall into Decaye
We wander still from Loffe to Lie
And findes no steadfast wind to blow
We still remaine in jeopardie
Each perelos poynt is hard to showe
In time we hope to find Redresse
That long have lived in Heavines
O pinchinge werie lothsome Lyffe
That Travell still in far Exsylle
The dangers great on Sease be ryfe
Whose recompense doth yeld but toylle
O fortune graunte me mie Desire
A hapie end I doe Require
When freates and states have had their fill
The gentill calm the cost will clere
Then hawtie hartes shall have their will
That longe hast wept with morning chere
And leave the Seaes with thair Anoy
At whome at Ease to live in Joy.
'Finis.'
The poetical Sir Richard's son Roger, a Captain in the Navy, lost his life at the sinking of the Mary Rose (commanded by Sir George Carew, a Cornishman), at Spithead in 1545. 'Thus the ocean became a bedde of honour,' as Carew says, 'to more than one of the Grenvilles.'
But it is time that we should turn to a greater Sir Richard—the son of Roger Grenville and Thomasin Cole of Slade.
My task will be on this occasion comparatively light;