English

PSALM III

Domine, quid multiplici?

1.

Lord, how do they encrease,
That hatefull never cease
To breed my grievous trouble?
How many ones there be,
That all against poor me
Their numbrous strength redouble?

2.

Even multitudes be they
That to my soul do say,
No help for you remaineth
In God, on whom you build
Yet, Lord, Thou art my shield,

PSALM II .

Quare fremuerunt gentes?

What ayles this Heathenish rage? what do theis people meane,
To mutter murmurs vaine?
Why do these earthly kings and lords such meeting make,
And counsel jointly take
Against the Lord of lords, the Lord of ev'ry thing,
And His anoynted king?
Come, let us break their bonds, say they, — and fondly say, —
And cast their yoakes away.
But He shall them deride who by the Heav'n's is borne,
He shall laugh them to scorn,

PSALM I

Beatus vir.

1.

He blessed is who neither loosely treades
The straying stepps as wicked counsaile leades;
Ne for badd mates in waie of sinning wayteth,
Nor yet himself with idle scorners seateth;
But on God's lawe his harte's delight doth binde,
Which, night and daie, he calls to marking minde.

2.

He shall be lyke a freshly planted tree,

L OE ! I have made a Calender for every yeare,
That steele in strength, and time in durance, shall outweare:
And if I marked well the starres revolution,
It shall continewe till the worlds dissolution,
To teach the ruder shepheard how to feede his sheepe,
And from the falsers fraud his folded flocke to keepe.
Goe, lyttle Calender! thou hast a free passeporte:
Goe but a lowly gate emongste the meaner sorte:
Dare not to match thy pype with Tityrus hys style,
Nor with the Pilgrim that the Ploughman playde awhyle:

Goe little booke: thy selfe present,As child whose parent is vnkent:To him that is the presidentOf noblesse and of cheualree,And if that Enuie barke at thee,As sure it will, for succoure fleeVnder the shadow of his wing,And asked, who thee forth did bring,A shepheards swaine saye did thee sing,All as his straying flocke he fedd:And when his honor has thee redde,Crave pardon for my hardyhedde.But if that any aske thy name,Say thou wert base begot with blame:For thy thereof thou takest shame.And when thou art past ieopardee,Come tell me, what was sayd of mee:And I will send more after thee.Immer

The gentle shepheard satte beside a springe,
All in the shadowe of a bushye brere,
That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe,
For he of Tityrus his songs did lere.
There as he satte in secreate shade alone,
Thus gan he make of love his piteous mone.

" O soveraigne Pan, thou god of shepheards all,
Which of our tender lambkins takest keepe,
And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fall,
Doest save from mischiefe the unwary sheepe,
Als of their maisters hast no lesse regard

Up, then, Melpomene, thou mournefulst Muse of nyne!
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore:
Up, grieslie ghostes! and up my rufull ryme!
Matter of myrth now shalt thou have no more:
For dead shee is that myrth thee made of yore.
Dido, my deare, alas! is dead,
Dead, and lyeth wrapt in lead:
O heavie herse!
Let streaming teares be poured out in store:
O carefull verse!
Shepheards, that by your flocks on Kentish downes abyde,
Waile ye this wofull waste of Natures warke:
Waile we the wight whose presence was our pryde:

Thenot: Colin, my deare, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou were wont, songs of some jouisaunce?
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing,
Lulled a sleepe through loves misgovernaunce:
Now somewhat sing whose endles sovenaunce
Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine,
Whether thee list thy loved lasse advaunce,
Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine.
Colin: Thenot, now nis the time of merimake,
Nor Pan to herye, nor with love to playe:
Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cocked haye.

Piers. Cuddie, for shame hold up thy heavye head,
And let us cast with what delight to chace,
And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade,
In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base:
Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead.

Cuddie. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne,
That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore:
And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne.
Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore,

HOBBINOL. DIGGON DAVIE.

Hob. Diggon Davie, I bidde her god day:
Or Diggon her is, or I missaye.
Dig. Her was her while it was daye light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.
For day, that was, is wightly past,
And now at earst the dirke night doth hast.
Hob. Diggon, areede, who has thee so dight?
Never I wist thee in so poore a plight.
Where is the fayre flocke thou was wont to leade?
Or bene they chaffred? or at mischiefe dead?