Thomas Watson (1555–1592)

RESOLVED to dust entombed here lieth Love,

Through fault of her, who here herself should lie;

He struck her breast, but all in vain did prove

To fire the ice: and doubting by and by

His brand had lost his force, he gan to try

Upon himself; which trial made him die.

In sooth no force; let those lament who lust,

I’ll sing a carol song for obsequy;

For, towards me his dealings were unjust,

And cause of all my passèd misery:

The Fates, I think, seeing what I had passed

In my behalf wrought this revenge at last.

But somewhat more to pacify my mind,

By illing him, through whom I lived a slave,

I’ll cast his ashes to the open wind,

Or write this epitaph upon his grave:

Here lieth Love, of Mars the bastard son,

Whose foolish fault to death himself hath done.