THou soule whych on Christes brest, doest rest as John loved,
|
And corps whych art lyke hys also, wyth earth enVironed:
|
Full joyfull mayst thou be, but we (alas) may wayle,
|
Thy presence to forgo so soone, thy voyce so soone to fayle.
|
But oh thy payne and toyle, in God thee prayse we shall,
|
That thou ensample now mayst be, unto thy fellowes all.
|
Whych ceasedst not at morne, at noone, nor yet at nyght,
|
To preache Gods woorde, to beate downe vyce, and to put synne to flyght.
|
Thyne native countrye thou, regardedst not a whyt,
|
When God dyd call thee foorth to preache, but out thou wentst wyth it.
|
Whych when in thyne owne toung, thou mightst not preache in Fraunce,
|
Yet foorth thou wentst, and by God led, to us wast brought by chaunce.
|
Where thou wyth paynefull watche, dydst learne our Englysh tounge,
|
And wyth as paynefull diligence, dydst preache Gods truth among.
|
No Tyraunt, nor fierce lawes, coulde make thee us forsake:
|
But in the mydst of ragyng stormes, wyth Gods Sayntes part dydst take.
|
And synce thou hast well shewde, whose servaunt thou hast bene,
|
In preaching and in writyng both, whych to Gods prayse is sene.
|
But now who shall lament? or who may joy now flee?
|
Even every state from top to toe, both hygh and low degree.
|
The poore may wayle hys mysse, whych wyth both tounge and hand,
|
Dyd well refreshe theyr weary state, whych often they in stand.
|
The ryche may mone wyth them, hys barkyng voyce to want,
|
That kept from them that karking beast, whych rychesse dayly haunt.
|
And though hys lyke yet lyve, and many suche there be:
|
Yet shall we mysse hym in our lyfe, and nombers more then he.
|
But oh London, London, thou oughtest chiefe to wayle,
|
The people suche, and vyces great, may at hys want sore quayle.
|
For twyse so many as there be, and myllions lyke to hym,
|
Were not sufficient to draw backe, thy people from theyr synne.
|
But shall I shewe the thankes, whych in thee he hath got?
|
Oh London, London, Sodome was, not so yll unto Lot.
|
His paynes deserved prayse, but some in thee hym gave:
|
Obprobrious woordes, and sclaunders vyle, even to hys bodyes grave.
|
But what for that they thus, have used hym so yll:
|
Hys vertues were thereby more knowen, in spight of their yll wyll?
|
And eke theyr lying blastes, are so layde in their face:
|
That they may shame and weepe thereat, if they have any grace.
|
But now thou flocke and folde, whych he in lyfe dyd guyde:
|
What cause hast thou to wayle hys want, and count thee wo betyde?
|
Whych hadst a Shepheard good, that dyd hys duty ryght:
|
In saving Rammes from daunger neare, and helpyng Lambes to myght.
|
From pasture unto pasture, he dyd thee bryng to feede,
|
And never ceased to make thee from fayth to fayth proceede.
|
There restes no more for you, hys paynes now to requite:
|
But so to walke as he you taught, and speake of hym the ryght.
|
And thou O England now, to ende and mone wyth theese:
|
Lament thou mayst also wyth us, a woorkeman thus to leese.
|
Thy harvest is so great, and Laborers so fewe,
|
Yea of those fewe some Loyterers, full yll them selves do shewe.
|
And let us here by take, a warning to us all,
|
That seing harvest is so great, and woorkemens nomber small:
|
Our fruit must needes be lost ourselves to famishe brought,
|
Our Land layde lyke a wyldernes, and brought at length to nought.
|
But thou O Lorde and God, of this our harvest great,
|
Spare thou our woorkemen, and more send, that labour wil with sweate.
|
That as we mone for John, enVironed by death,
|
Thou wylt us glad wyth many a Paule, enspirde with heavenly breath.
|