Rev. Charles Fitzgeffrey

D. W., "To the Author" in Fitzgeffrey, Sir Francis Drake (1596) sig. A4.

Englands Ulysses, slaine by mortall fates,
His bodie Tethys caught within her armes,
Jove plac'd his soule amid the heavenlie states,
Setting him free from fortune-tossing harmes,
From Scylla's gulfes, and Circes deadlie charmes:
And both did chuse a place to keepe his pray,
Tethys her lap, but Jove the Milke-white Waye.

Yet shall his fame, his worth, his worthy deeds,
Eterniz'd by thy verse, amonge us dwell,
And whatsoe'er after-age succeedes,
Unto posteritie the same shall tell,
And make thy prayses with his owne excell:
Time that doth all things else in time devoure,
Shall never have thy name within her power.

Old GEFFREY CHAUCER, Englands auncient Muse,
And mirrour of the times that did ensue,
Yeelded to death, that nere admits excuse;
But now in thee he seemes to live anew,
(If grave Pythagoras sage sawes be true:)
The sith old GEFFREY'S spirit lives in thee,
Rightlie thou named art FITZ-GEFFERY.