The Complaint of Prudence

A wreath of serpents 'bout her lily wrist

Did seemly Prudence wear; she then arose;

A silver dove sat mourning on her fist;

Tears on her cheeks like dew upon a rose;

And thus began the goddess grief-ful glose:

" Let England mourn, for why his days are done

Whom Prudence nursed like her dearest son. "

Hatton, — at that I started in my dream,

But not awoke, " Hatton is dead, " quoth she!

Oh, could I pour out tears like to a stream,

A sea of them would not sufficient be!

For why our age had few more wise than he!

Like oracles as were Apollo's saws,

So were his words accordant to the laws.

Wisdom sat watching in his weary eyes,

His insight subtle, if unto a foe;

He could with counsel's commonwealths comprise:

No foreign wit could Hatton's overgo:

Yet to a friend wise, simple, and no more.

His civil policy unto the state

Scarce left behind him now a second mate.

For country's weal his counsel did exceed,

And eagle-ey'd he was to spy a fault:

For wars or peace right wisely could he rede:

'Twas hard for trechors 'fore his looks to halt;

The smooth-fac'd traitor could not him assault.

As by his country's love his grees did rise

So to his country was he simple-wise.

This grave adviser of the commonweal,

This prudent counsellor unto his prince,

Whose wit was busied with his mistress heal,

Secret conspiracies could well convince,

Whose insight pierced the sharp-eyed lynce;

He is dead! At this her sorrows were so sore,

And so she wept that she could speak no more.