And with her, to increase deaths pompe, decay.
Since the supporting fabricke of your clay
Is faine, how can ye stand? How can the night
Shew stars, when Fate puts out the dayes great light?
But 'mong the faire, if there live any yet,
She's but the fairer Digbies counterfeit.
Come you who speake your titles. Reade in this
Pale booke, how vaine a boast your greatnesse is.
What's honour but a hatchment? what is here
Of Percy left, and Stanly, names most deare