If ever hapless woman had a cause
To breath her plaintes into the open ayre,
And never suffer inward griefe to pause
Or seeke her sorrow shaken soules repayre
Then I for I have lost my onelie brother
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

Come therefore mournefull Muses and lament,
Forsake all wanton pleasing motions,
Bedew your cheekes, stil shal my teares be spent:
Yet still encreast with inundations,
For must I weepe, since I have lost my brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

The cruell hand of murther cloyde with bloud
Lewdly deprivde him of his mortal life:
Woe the death attended blades that stoode,
In opposition gainst him in the strife,
Wherein he fell, and where I lost a brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.

Then unto griefe let me a Temple make,
And mourning dayly, enter sorrowes portes,
Knocke on my breast, sweete brother for thy sake,
Nature and love will both be my consorts,
And helpe me aye to wayle my onely brother,
Whose like this age can scarsly yeeld another.