“Where my high steeples whilom usde to stand,
On which the lordly faulcon wont to towre,
There now is but an heap of lyme and sand
For the shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre:  130
And where the nightingale wont forth to powre
Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull lovers,
There now haunt yelling mewes and whining plovers.

“And where the christall Thamis wont to slide
In silver channell downe along the lee, 135
About whose flowrie bankes on either side
A thousand nymphes, with mirthfull iollitee,
Were wont to play, from all annoyance free,
There now no rivers course is to be seene,
But moorish fennes, and marshes ever greene. 140

“Seemes that that gentle river, for great griefe
Of my mishaps which oft I to him plained,
Or for to shunne the horrible mischiefe
With which he saw my cruell foes me pained,
And his pure streames with guiltles blood oft stained,
From my unhappie neighborhood farre fled, 145
And his sweete waters away with him led.

“There also where the winged ships were seene
In liquid waves to cut their fomie waie,
And thousand fishers numbred to have been, 150
In that wide lake looking for plenteous praie
Of fish, which they with baits usde to betraie,
Is now no lake, nor anie fishers store,
Nor ever ship shall saile there anie more.

“They all are gone, and all with them is gone! 155
Ne ought to me remaines, but to lament
My long decay, which no man els doth mone,
And mourne my fall with dolefull dreriment: 
Yet it is comfort in great languishment,
To be bemoned with compassion kinde, 160
And mitigates the anguish of the minde.

“But me no man bewaileth, but in game
Ne sheddeth teares from lamentable eie;
Nor anie lives that mentioneth my name
To be remembred of posteritie, 165
Save one, that maugre Fortunes iniurie,
And Times decay, and Envies cruell tort*,
Hath writ my record in true-seeming sort.
  [* Tort, wrong]

“CAMBDEN! the nourice* of antiquitie,
And lanterne unto late succeding age 170
To see the light of simple veritie
Buried in ruines, through the great outrage
Of her owne people led with warlike rage,
CAMBDEN! though Time all moniments obscure,
Yet thy iust labours ever shall endure. 175
  [* Nourice, nurse]

“But whie, unhappie wight! doo I thus crie,
And grieve that my remembrance quite is raced*
Out of the knowledge of posteritie,
And all my antique moniments defaced? 
Sith I doo dailie see things highest placed, 180
So soone as Fates their vitall thred have shorne,
Forgotten quite as they were never borne
  [* Raced, razed.]