To see a commentary note, click on a blue square. To see the Latin text, click on a green square.    


If I could fashion statues out of Parian marble, if I could paint men with lively color, if I could chase lifelike images in brass, or in verse commend the worthy to remembering fame, or to bless the deserving in heaven’s stars, my statues, paint, brass, and verse would depict Ascham, and he would stand in the heaven, glorious with shining stars, where Juno’s Draco divides the lofty Bears, or where Orpheus’ lyre wheels with the swan of Jove.
But only divine power raises men to heaven, and my hand is unteachable, alas, it can write nothing with skill, or engrave, or paint. The Cyllenian god begrudges me talent, he begrudges me the arts, all that has power is my eager will, which would wish these all. This craves to celebrate Ascham with eternal fame, and, when it cannot, it is downcast, dumbstruck, amazed, and behold, its amazement gives birth to this unpolished song.
But my song fears to enter into the praises of so great a teacher, who alone matches the ancients and surpasses those to come, and alone snatches very praise from men of the present.
His praise seeks nothing for itself from his homeland or his pedigree; his homeland is the renowned territory of the Brigantes, and he traces his pedigree from a line of ancient forebears. But he sought a name for himself by his talent and arty, by which he might celebrate his family and nation, as he himself is celebrated.
He was born with the gods for his auspices, with Juno favorable. And from his lofty citadel the Cyllenian god, that giver of talent, shone on him as he was being borne and granted him a ready talent, which the gods admire, men marvel at, and for the sake of which, were she not born of Jove, Minerva herself would wish to be reborn as him.
Nor did he have a light care to cultivate his talent in the various arts; he buried himself in the better studies, read the ancients, conveyed himself back to the learned age of Cicero. Roman grace often spoke placidly with him, as did Cecropian elegance. He was well-versed in the laws of the gods and all the ways of mankind. If you consider the earth, he grasped all earthly things; if you consider the heaven, he understood everything celestial. Thus he understood all, and used all rightly. He displayed a rich vein of easy eloquence, he had great grace in his speech and in his writing. He transcended envy in his writings: no man has been found better at understanding his subject, or superior at writing of it. Read through the monuments he as written, scan his volumes: how well his discourse has arranged its subject in order, the discourse easy and simple, the subject clever and learned.
I do not begrudge those who praise their own (and they should praise them), but the viburnum does not equal the cypress, neither do the hazel trees match the cedar, nor Cynthia the sun. Our neighbor the Dutchman extols Erasmus, the Belgian speaks of Longolius and mourns his loss, and to learned Germans Sturm is a second Tully; Manutius, the darling of the Venetians, is an ornament to his fellow citizens. Portugal lauds the power of Bishop Osorius, Rome boasts of Sadoleto and triumphs in Bembo. Everywhere brilliant France shows off her Bunellus. Let Britain boast of and celebrate our Ascham. He is our Mercury, “the marrow of our suasion.”
Shall I say he surpasses these men? My mind heaves with seething doubt. What reason would like to proclaim, reverence conceals. This at least I shall say: if he does not overtop all men by the powers of his eloquence, yet he alone matches them all, and while the first laurel wreath of eloquence belongs to Cicero, it will be right to award the second prize to Ascham. In him a wise industry and an industrious wisdom conjointly thrive. Nature rendered him apt, learning made him assured, experience made him expert, and echoing imitation made him supreme. These are things to be sounded by a greater trumpet and quill: let others, filled with Apollo and the Muses, sing of them.
And because I would celebrate you in a song scarce worthy, pray forgive me, Ascham, that I wished this to gain approval. The Muse has not planted my feet, I am unfamiliar with Cirrha’s trackless wastes, tendrils of ivy do not lap my temples.
As once Cecropian Plato was only to be praised by the honorable, thus Ascham’s praise is only to be hymned by the learned. Thus let there be a limit for my words and my measures, let there be a limit on all these things, and let Ascham’s enduring name remain through the ages, let it flourish, live, thrive, let it not be lost by age.
And let the learning protecting the Granta be celebrated and loved. He has a care for us, he has a care for Ascham; it behooves you to have a care for him, as long as you have a care for the study of the right.



“Either plunge me in Cocytus’ glowing pit, or may a nor’ wester, greatly hating me, sink me in the waves, or may Elizabeth at length bring me the honors of a marriage bed and acknowledge my maternal titles, being bent on consoling my cares and those of my fearful sister. With her our mistress, with this goddess our prophetess, the golden age of the primeval world is born for us, I discard my woodland ways, no longer wild. On all sides Leinster cheers, its villages serene; Connaght yields its swords to laws, and Munster bends its axes into plowshares. Long-haired Ulster learns how to grow mild, and Meath wholly thrives with happy crops. You must bring all this, let things not collapse and fall backwards, you cannot begrudge us these swelling joys. But you should begrudge us both, if you forbid her her marriage, if you forbid us your pledges. Alas, how roaring wrath will cavort with its deadly arms, wholly inflamed with haughty hatreds! Alas, how many swords I will see plunged in civic throats! Towns with their lofty walls will smoke. Corpses will grow into heaps, then the Shannon will flow red with blood, the Boyne will be amazed at all the bodies it bears, running higher with bloody waters. I shall endure things the Getes would lament, the Geloni deplore. Ah, rather let the decaying power of the plague return under a corrupt star, one such as once crept through my bowels, a bane on trees and crops, which might empty cities of their dwellers, the sea of its ships, the fields of their tillers. Or rather let the ax-wielding Vikings return, raging to our harm, let a hostile sword consume us, not a civil war. Just as it is wretched to be conquered in civil strife, so it is sinful to have conquered.”
She had not yet made an ending, when from his high throne Jupiter began to speak, and everywhere in heaven profound silences prevailed. “Banish the fears you have conceived in your fearful mind, now stop your tears, and look for the gods to be favorable to your pious prayers, for a day destined to roll forth and a happier hour will freely bring what you seek.”
He spoke, and Clotho, receiving his words, inscribed them on marble. Now England, arising, gleamed with a rosy neck. The majesty of her face, which pallor had banished, is present and shines, reborn, suffused with a welcome glow. Ireland now is gladdened with a ruddy countenance, and each admires the honors of the other’s visage. Believing hope sported upon her face, alternating with anxious care: The fearful are wont to hope. Then the great universe’s machinery slackened, with linked hands the sisters departed the high places, traversing first the tracts of Saturn and peaceful Jove, transcending the realms of ruddy Mars and the bejewelled palaces of shining Phoebus. Then they passed over Venus’ bowers, the orb of the god of Arcady, and the globe of the moon, and then swam through the liquid air and, embracing, separated straightway. England alit where bright Britain spreads out its grassy fields, and with stars strewed turreted cities opposite the stern French and the mouths of the Rhine, in the direction where lazy Bootes lays down his dry wain. The other sister, Hibernia, turned aside to western climes, where the [ . . . ] Titan sinks his chariot in the waters, where the [ . . . ] sea howls with its raucous roar. Now each sister rejoices, now each smiles, may the gods continue to give them both better things in a favoring continual course, may they ever enhance their good successes with ones yet better.


England, which is separated from all the world, was a corner of the world, and was a little world. Now, when it has discovered other separated worlds, it is the world’s greatest honor, it will be a world of worlds. But what should this world owe you, Hakluyt, for showing these things? Trust me, your praise will be no less then the world.


Why, when peace is thriving, does Edmund tell us about clattering movements and battles during open warfare? Why does he examine and extol the meanings and intentions of captains, and learnedly teach the English many warlike things? Presumably so that in the midst of peace warlike England may practice battles, and so her honor may not decay. Assuredly, he is foresightful in setting this forth for his nation’s use, so that he who desires peace for his nation may ready his weapons.



Nature’s genius admired herself in Sidney, as did Art and War. Death saw this in admiration, and took him away, lest divinities admire divinity only on this earth. 


Lately, as Mars thundered at Zutphen’s walls, the heaven resounded, and a new light was received. Lo, of a sudden the stars wondered at a new star, but this new star was our Sidney. 


Are you looking for tombs. Don’t look for Sidney’s. For a tomb he has Europe, in which he is entombed. 


Oh glory of the Muses, when you were alive the Muses hoped to live; with you dead, they fear to dead. But I am mistaken. I see that by your means the Muses now life, and by the Muses you have the means not to die. 


With her measures the Muse consecrated Sidney’s tomb, lest the Muse be entombed with Sidney. 


You weep for Sidney, taken away in the flower of his youth, but in vain, for there is no reason for weeping. Neither age nor days could added to his genius, his virtue, or his praises. He was whatever Nature could fashion, nor ever did so much honor repose in so great a mind. 


Sidney our star, a heaped mass of good things, done in by a ball, departed for Olympus. Surely I cannot match his praises in my singing? Come now, Homer, rise up, resume your quill. Now Democritus does not summon you with his magic art, that lively virtue of Sidney summons you. Behold, he is a great subject, worthy of your genius, our Sidney, greater than great Achilles. 


When Sidney strewed fierce battles with his hand, he was our new Mars. When he roused our senses with his lively words, he gave us poems worthy even of Vergil. When unmerciful death saw these things, he grew envious and said, “There will only be one Mars, there will be no Vergil.” 


Our Britain is the glory and jewel of the world, but Sidney was the jewel of Britain. 



I have appended a poetical description of the source from the Marriage of Tama and Isis, though it little matters whether one includes it or not.

Where the widespread Cotswolds feed their fleecy flocks, and grow into easy hills as they go to meet the Dobuni, not far from the Fosse a cave is espied with its long recess, where a cliff surges up with a rising mound, whose entrance glistens with gold-flecked tufa, and ivory covers the hall, its roof gleams with British jet and its pillars are strengthened in turns with pumice. But the work surpasses its material, and the tufa, the pumice, the ivory and the jet all defer to the artist’s effort. Here is painted Cynthia, the ruler of her glassy realm, surveying the turning stars as she walks her oblique way. There the earth and sea are engraved, conjoined like husband and wife, and those kindred rivers the Ganges, the Nile, the Amazon, the course of the two-named Ister, and the nearby Rhine. And among these shines upright Britain, rich in her golden Phryxus-fleece, bright in her triumph over the French &c. …Here on his watery throne sits Isis, ruler of waters, who, revered for his riverine majesty, reclines and pours fourth his urn from his blue bosom. His unshorn hair is bound with weeds and reeds, his white horns are wet, his water-filled shoot forth their gleam, his beard, combed over his breast, is quite soaked, drops fall of his whole body, and on every side veins of shooting water burst forth. Everywhere little fish play in their watery hiding-places, and many a swan, silvery with his snow-white wings, flutters about &c.


This Isis, when it has passed a small part of Wilshire, no sooner is entred into Oxfordshire but, presently being kept in and restrained with Rodcot bridge, passes by Bablac, where Sir Richard Vere, that most puissant Earle of Oxford, Marquesse of Dublin and Duke of Ireland, who as he stood in most high favour and authority with King Richard the Second, so he was as much envied of the nobles, taught us (as one said) that no power is always powerfull. Who being discomfited in a skirmish by the Nobles and constrained to take the river and swim over, found the catastrophe of his fortune and subversion of his state. For immediately he fled his country and died distressed in exile. Of whom the poet in his Mariage of Tame and Isis made these verses:

Here Vere, well known for his boar, since his virtue forbade him to turn tail, and prudence, that governess of his indomitable mind, forbade him to attack, while the boss of his shield rang from repeated blows dealt from every quarter, and the helm around his head resounded, hurled himself into the river. Glad to have such a guest, the stream received him in a safe condition, and released him safe again.


Now as touching this marriage of Isis, which you may read or leave unread at your pleasure:

Here Zephyrus clothes the flowering banks with grass, and Flora binds Isis’ head with honeyed plants, the fairest Grace chooses ambrosial flores, happy Concord has woven twin crowns, and Hymen has raised aloft his torches. In the deep, the Naiads build a bower and a bed, covered with bejeweled cloth, gleaming with painted columns. Such a one neither did Lydia raise up for its Pelops, nor you, Cleopatra, for your husband. There they heap up the spoils taken from the Greeks by Brutus, by Brennus from the Greeks, by stern Gurmund from the Irish, by Boadica from the Romans, by Arthur from the noble Angles, and whatever Edward wrenched from the Scots with his victorious arms, and British virtue from the French.
Meanwhile, gliding out of the Chiltern hills, Thame eagerly drank in the fires of the bridegroom she longed for. Frustrated at her lack of acquaintance with his bed and intent on the marriage, she hastened her steps, and for her the lengthy days seemed to stand still, until in her eagerness she could place her name before that of her lover. What mortal deeds does eagerness not compel? Now she left the village known by their name, repeating “good-bye, farewell” to the Norrises. At length ancient Dorchester was espied, bringing an augury of the sought-for marriage. Then Thame reappeared, having bound her hair with ears of corn, clad in a green robe, surpassing the fingers of Aurora and the countenance of Dione. The roses of Paestum did not rival her lips, nor jewels her eyes, nor lilies her tresses, nor snow her neck. And as she flowed she pushed her dripping tresses over her back, and imposed order and shape on her waving hair. And lo, Isis suddenly raised his brow above his peaceful waters, and through all the fields the golden beams of his dripping face shone bright. Now he joined many kisses with his hoped-for Thame, they enfolded each other’s necks with embraces, a thousand kisses could be heard, their arms grew pale from embracing, their lips joined their spirits. At length the went down together to their marriage-bed, where holy Concord, joined with Faith, sanctified their splendid wedding with their solemn words.
Now the boxwood flute with its many holes resigned, the river-dwelling Nymphs, Dryads, and butting Satyrs trip their round dances while happily striking the sod with their alternating feet. Everywhere the birds sweeten the greenwoods with their tune, and Echo vies with their their happy sound, restoring it. Now all things smile, the fields rejoice, the Loves clap, borne through the empty air on bridled birds. With her harp Britona, decked with undying laurel, sings of all the things our ancestors have seen. She sings how Britain was taken away from all the world when victorious Nereus had wrenched away her cliffs with the sea, and why Hercules, borne to our shores and having drunk the unmuddied water of the Thames, killed Neptune’s son Albion with hail of stone, the Altars which Ulysses consecrated when he came here, and how Brutus, accompanied by Corinaeus, his Achates, went in to western parts, and how gasping Caesar turned his terrified back on the Britons he had sought to conquer, &c.

And after a few lines:

He spoke, and, with a united love, they arose as one, now more happily rejoicing in the single name of Tamisis, and seeking Father Ocean, the united river pushed its waves forward more urgently.


But as touching this place, listen also the Poet describing the Tamis as he passes hereby:

Next he sees little Cholsey, and hastens to see elegant Reading, noble for its textiles. His shows the victorious standards of our Alfred, the death of Bagsac, and the trampled corpses of the Danes, and how the fields were trenched with the blood they shed. Here our sovereign’s hooved steeds, born of winds out of the west and north-west, fill the air with their frequent neighing and curvette around, proudly prancing as they yearn to obey our warriors’ bits. But is this piety? Alas the dire sin, Henry the First, a man of Norman stock, buried here, now lies ingloriously thrown out of his grave, a newcomer seeks his tomb in vain. For accursed hunger for gold (a source of fear for royal sepulchres) begrudged this king his small piece of earth.


Neither think much of our labor to run over these verses of Windsor taken out of the poem entitled The mariage of Tame and Isis and penned certaine years past, wherein Father Tamisis endeavors to set forth as well the dignity of the place as the majesty of Queene Elizabeth, keeping her Court therein.

And now Windsor’s banks rise up to turreted towers, tickling heaven with their lofty pinnacles. And when he had given his greetings to learned Eton (subject to schoolmasters all too inclined to flog), and saw them, he lifted up his blue head and thus began to speak.
“Cease now to speak of your lofty mass, your churches raised up with their stairs, your iron-bound lintels, battlements, parks, meadows that are truely gladsome forever, your gardens flowering as the West-wind tends to them, your cradles of kings, your gilded bowers of kings, your famous tombs of kings, and whatever else you have to boast. Cease now to speak, although you are famous for the military service of St. George of Cappadocia and the company of robed knights, bound at the ankle with a gleaming garter, dazzles you and the world with such rays that now Burgundy scorns her Golden Fleece, France disdains her cockle-decked collars, and Rhodes, Alcala and Elba their robes, notable for their crosses, and the glory of military service is yours alone. Cease to wonder, cease at length to rejoice. Everything yields to one person, whatever you have is surpassed by that which exists within one person: for you it is a greater honor, a greater glory that Elizabeth, a dweller on my bank, should reside in you.”
And then , as if on bended knee Tamisis peacefully subsided, saying then, “Elizabeth is the sole saint and goddess for her Britons, and if I were to seek to embrace her inexhaustible praises in my song, I should sooner place the Alps on Meliboccus and mathematically number my sands. If I should prefer to keep silent about some, whatever I do not speak of will be the greater. Shall I rehearse her first acts and old exertions? The present recalls my mind to itself. Shall I speak of her justice? Her mercy shines the more. Shall I mention her victorious powers? She she conquers more without arms. That piety is flourishing, that England has no fear of war, that no man governs the law and that the law governs all men, that neighboring Scotland is not the slave to the harsh Frenchman, that rustic Ireland has abandoned its own ways and long-haired Ulster now learns to grow mild, the praise is hers alone, nothing is not due to her. All those goddesses who ward of crimes and are worthy of such a sovereign have set up their temples in her breast. Religion piously admonishes her that the beings of heaven are to be worshipped, Justice teaches her always to prefer the just to the advantageous. Prudence urges her that nothing should be done rashly, Temperance instructs her that she should wish to be modest and chaste, Constance makes her mind unmoving. Hence she rightly claims for herself ALWAYS THE SAME. Who can represent such praises in a watery verse? She alone possesses all the praises you can enumerate. Let her be happy, let her thrive and live, let her be praised and loved as long as I have a current, a course and banks, let this happy sovereign of the English wield her reins, and let my course and her life having an ending on the selfsame day.”

6. (Surrey)

Yet some few verses as touching these places and this argument, have here out of the Marriage betweene Tame and Isis, if haply they may content your taste:

On my right hand Richmond, called Shene by the ancients, loftily shines, for wise Henry wanted this place to be called Richmond because by right of paternal inheritance it had brought him the honor and title of Earl of Richmond. But it mourns the death of Edward, our Hector. Here, alas, his mind departed, freed of the body it scorned, destined to have its home in heaven. And if the iron-hearted Fates had not suddenly stolen him away, he would have victoriously stolen you, France, from those of the line of Valois, or them from you.

And a few verses set between:

Tamisis feels the alternating ebb and flow of the sea. As often as the errant moon steers her eager chariot in the eighth heaven’s station, or occupies the opposite tract with her varying light, he grows fuller and runs with a swift current, proudly saying, “Let rivers defer to me. Throughout the renowned lands of Europe no rivers renew their alternating waters according to such fixed laws, save for my brothers the Scheld and the Elbe.”


Near this stone is the most famed meadow of Runningmead, commonly known as Runnimede, where in the year 1215 the Peers of England collected in their numbers to exact their liberties of King John. Of which it is written of the passing river, in The Marriage of Tama and Isis:

Here he flows by the meadow that your Englishman calls Runnimede, where the leaders sat, reverend for their arms and their minds, they who desired to sway King John’s scepter, while, holding their prince in contempt, they desired to retrieve St. Edward’s laws and liberties from their dark dungeon. Here the trumpets sounded wars more than civil, and Louis came to our shores, then fled.


And in The Marriage of Tama and Isis:

He waters famed Hampton, which, outspread, wears the look of a city. That grave purple-clad Father, that grave priest Wolsey built this hall, him to whom Fortune bore honeycombs filled with bile, alas, and at length brought him sorrows as her gifts.


A certain poet called it Leucaean for its whiteness :

Kings go in to royal Leucaea (once upon a time they gave these halls this name, as it shone with snow-white marble), and Tamisis, whose prime glory is to feed Leda’s swans, bathes it, flying headlong with its roaring tide.

*10. (Middlesex)

Another Poet has poured out these verses also concerning London, if you deign to read them:

London, that rival of her mother-city Troy, outstretched along her double banks, lifts up her eyes as she tends eastward towards a gently rising hill. This is a city most pleasant for its situation, blessed for its climate and soil. A city mighty in piety, proud in its numerous citizenry, a city worthy of being called Britain’s Britain. This is a new Paris for learning, a new Ormus for wares, another Rome for its men, a second Chrysaea for its precious metals.


If it is allowed to boast of the great gods’ gifts and to take pleasure in one’s true endowments, why should I not deem myself the most fortunate land of all? He deserves ills who knows not his own goods. Far-off India is haughty over its wool-bearing groves, and the Arab takes pride in his fragrances. Rich Panchaea rejoices in its incense-bearing sands, and Spain boasts of its golden stream. The Nile’s seven mouths cheer the Egyptian and the Rhine’s celebrated wines uplift its inhabitants. Nor is happy Africa displeased with its rich fields. This land takes pride in its harbors, that one in its wares. But I am not lacking in fountains, nor in rich rivers, fat fields, nor smiling meadows. I am fertile in men, fertile in beasts, and fertile in ore. I should not be boastful that the surrounding sea provides me great wealth, nor that for no other land is the the climate friendlier, the air sweeter. For me, Phoebus is late in plunging into the western seas, and his sweet sister brings nights that shine. Could I scorn the fleeces of famed Spain? Where is there softer wool for white sheep than here? And I can disdain your wonders, Memphis, for this glory of mine is greater and it is juster, that I, Britain, have been celebrated by the Romans and the Greeks, for antiquity called me a separate world.


spacerIt is right to comopare the praise of Sophocles? genius? It is right to adore a god with incense, and a man with praise. So, Watson, you are to be adored with enduring praise: let your praise be to you as his incense is to Jove. For Sophocles’ genius has been taken and resides in your mind, marveling at itself and at Rome. For he who reads Antigone judges thus: he who will read it will re-read it, and he who re-reads it will love it. Thus one genius resides in the both of you, one tragic poet in both kinds of verse. He beat the Greek theater with his lines, you shake our theater with your Pomps. His words bloom with a Greek blossom, yours with a Latin, and the rich talent of eloquence flows for the both of you. But why am I sounding your praises from my meager store of talent? Thus I am attempting to brighten the sun with smoke, Behold, let Phoebus’ laurel, destined to endure, shade your locks: this glory is less than the glory of having deserved it.




Consecrated to the memory of William Hewet, gentleman, second son of Robert Hewet of Killamarsh in Derbyshire, who on the death of his elder brother increased his patrimony and passed it on to his posterity. He plied a noble trade. A man of most upright life and sweetest manners, he promoted the study of elegant letters, and bountifully enhanced the alms of the needy. Distinguished by his liberality and charity, and no less by his piety, with the help of holy ministers he cherished and supported religion. In all things and in all places, he thus comported himself that as a living example of probity, cordiality, and candor, thinking on Christ his Redeemer, he consummated his life before his death. He fathered four sons, John, Solomon, Thomas, and William, and two daughters, Mary and Elizabeth. Having lived for 77 years, upon being called to his celestial home on 12 June 1599 he left a great longing to his posterity, who piously and in lamentation erected this tomb.


Mary, Queen of Scots and dowager Queen of France, daughter of James V King of Scots, granddaughter of James IV, grandniece of Henry VII King of England, consort of François II King of France, having been deposed from her kingdom by the treacherous ambition of her bastard brother, invited to England by promises and retained there by the same wiles, heaped with suspicions and afterwards attacked by conspiracies, assaulted by injurious insults and afflicted by the tedium of unending captivity, was at length cast into peril by factious strife, as some sought her safety and others craftily imagined her destruction, was by an unheard-of example of royal deceit, deprived of her life on the 8th of February 1586 [old style], the 46th of her life, the 18th of her captivity, rests here.

Consecrated to God Almighty and to the everlasting memory of his best and dearest mother, endowed with motherly affection, unshaken innocence, unconquered virtue, and the other royal virtues. Her son James, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, sadly and lamentingly performed this final act of piety.


For William Peryam, Knight, a man of great virtue and experience in many matters, who, acting in public as Justice of the Court of Common Pleas for * * * * years, and as First Baron of the Exchequer for * * * * years, administered justice with deliberation and fairness, and with great mercy in capital case, in private he beloved to all for his great kindness, most peaceable manners, and his modesty, and he everywhere a most industrious champion of the Christian truth, and a dutiful worshipper of God, who, full of days, full of honors, and in certain hope of the resurrection, gave up his spirit to God Almighty on 9 October 1604,

Out of respect, his daughter J<ane>, wife of * * * * Pate and * * * * , his very grieving daughters, have most devotedly erected this tomb for their excellent father.


Consecrated to the memory of John Young, Bishop of Ross, Doctor of Theology, born at London, educated in the liberal arts at Cambridge, a man distinguished no less for his wide learning and prudence than for his holiness, who, when he had long remained wakeful for the Lord, as an old man piously and peacefully went to sleep in the Lord in the 10th day of April, 1605, after having occupied his See for 27 years.


Consecrated to the memory of John Still, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Doctor of Theology, a most vigorous champion of the Christian truth, distinguished no less for the integrity of his life than for his wide learning, who, when he had long remained wakeful for the Lord, went to sleep in the certain hope of the Resurrection in Christ. He lived * * * * years, he occupied his See * * * *, and he died on 26 February 1607 [old style]. Out of piety towards his excellent father, his firstborn son Nathan grievingly erected this tomb.


Thomas Ravis, born of a distinguished and ancient family of Maldon in Surrey, educated as a Queen’s Scholar at the Westminster School, admitted to the University of Oxford, achieved all academic honors and performed all administrative offices, being selected as Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, and twice Vice-Chancellor of the University. Hence, for his gravity, learning, and tested prudence, he was first promoted by to the Bishopric of Gloucester by King James, and was then translated to London. And when he had long remained wakeful for his Church, his nation, and his sovereign, summoned to his celestial homeland by Christ, he peacefully departed this life, and set aside that of himself which was mortal on the * * * * of * * * * in the year of salvation 1609.


Hugh Beeston, knight, and son of George Beeston, also a knight, mindful of his mortality and in the sure hope of Resurrection in Christ, placed this tomb here for himself and for his only son George Beeston, likewise a knight, sadly snatched away by premature death. Hugh, the father, died in the year of Christ * * * * , his son George in 1611.

Death is a passage to life.


Consecrated to the memory of Richard Carew of Anthony, gentleman, the son of Thomas Carew by Anne Edgecombe, grandson of Sir Wimund Carew by Martha Denny, great-grandson of John Carew by Thomasina Holland, a man of modest manners, noble mind, wide learning, an a mind devoted to God, who in the midst of his meditations upon celestial life peacefully went to sleep in Christ in the 63rd year of his life. Both his wife , an Arundel, erected this tomb for her dearest husband out of conjugal fidelity, and his son *** for his best father out of filial duty. He died * * * *


James Montagu, distinguished for his piety, virtue, and learning, fifth son of Edward de Boughton, knight, in the County of Northamptonshire (of the stock of the Earls of Salisbury), by our most most wise King James appointed Dean of the Royal Chapel, promoted to the See of Bath, then to that of Winchester, taken on to the Privy Council because of fidelity, ability and prudence well demonstrated in most weighty matters, at Court of greatest service to the King (to whom he was most beloved), was summoned to eternal life in the mid-course of the life which he had devoted to God, the Church, and his nation, July 22 in the year of our Lord 1618, age 51.

On another part of the tomb

This right reverent Bishop commanded that his body be deposited in this most ancient cathedral, which (among the other monuments of his piety) he repaired at great expense, until Christ our Redeemer shall elect to revive him, together with the just, to life everlasting, for which on earth he always longed.

Charles Montagu, executor of his will, Edward Montagu of Boughton, Henry Montagu, Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, and Sidney Motagu of the Court of Requests, knight, tearfully (as he deserved) erected this monument for their excellent brother.


The most serene Queen Anne, * * * * consort, of James, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, daughter of Frederick II, King of Denmark, Norway, the Vandals and the Goths, sister of Christian IV, is buried here. She died in the year of our salvation 1618 on the 4th of March, having lived 44 years, 4 months, and 18 days.