This lament on the occasion of Campion’s death is sometimes attributed to Shakespeare!

The scowling skies did storm and puff apace,
They could not bear the wrongs that malice wrought;
The sun drew in his shining purple face;
The moistened clouds shed brinish tears for thought;
The river Thames awhile astonished stood
To count the drops of Campion’s sacred blood.

Nature with teares bewailed her heavy loss;
Honesty feared herself should shortly die;
Religion saw her champion on the cross;
Angels and saints desired leave to cry;
E’en heresy, the eldest child of hell,
Began to blush and thought she did not well.