Thou mighty _Mars_, the Lord of Soldiers brave,
And thou _Mirnerve_, that dost in wit excel,
And thou _Apollo_, who dost knowledge have
Of every Art that from _Parnassus_ fell,
With all your Sisters that thereon do dwell,
Lament for him who duly serv'd you all:
Whom in you wisely all your Arts did mell,
Bewail (I say) his unexpected fall,
I need not in remembrance for to call
His Race, his Youth, the hope had of him ay,
Since that in him doth cruel Death appall
Both Manhood, Wit and Learning every way:
But yet he doth in bed of Honour rest,
And evermore of him shall live the best.

And in another place thus;

When _Venus_ sad saw _Philip Sidney_ slain,
She wept, supposing _Mars_ that he had been,
From Fingers Rings, and from her Neck the Chain
She pluckt away, as if _Mars_ ne'er again
She meant to please, in that form he was in,
Dead, and yet could a Goddess thus beguile,
What had he done if he had liv'd this while?

These Commendations given him by so learned a Prince, made Mr.
_Alexander Nevil_ thus to write;

Harps others Praise, a Scepter his doth sing,
Of Crowned Poet, and of Laureat King.