That man from wealth, to live in woe, doth ever seek to change.

Thus thoughtful as I lay, I saw my wither'd skin, How it doth shew my dented chews, the flesh was worn so thin.

And eke my toothless chaps, the gates of my right

way,

That opes and shuts as I do speak, do thus unto

me say:

'Thy white and hoarish hairs, the messengers of

age,

That shew, like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage;

Bid thee lay hand, and feel them hanging on thy

chin;

The which do write two ages past, the third now coming in.

Hang up therefore the bit of thy young wanton time: And thou that therein beaten art, the happiest life

define.'

Whereat I sigh'd, and said: 'Fare well! my wonted

joy;

Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me to every little boy;

And tell them thus from me; their time most happy

is,

If, to their time, they reason had, to know the truth

of this.'

F

BONUM EST MIHI QUOD HUMILIASTI ME.

HE storms are past; the clouds are over

blown ;

And humble chere great rigour hath
represt.

For the default is set a pain foreknown;
And patience graft in a determined breast.
And in the heart, where heaps of griefs were grown,
The sweet revenge hath planted mirth and rest.
No company so pleasant as mine own.

.

Thraldom at large hath made this prison free.
Danger well past, remembered, works delight.
Of ling'ring doubts such hope is sprung, pardie!'
That nought I find displeasant in my sight,
But when my glass presented unto me

The cureless wound, that bleedeth day and night,
To think, alas! such hap should granted be
Unto a wretch, that hath no heart to fight,

To spill that blood, that hath so oft been shed,
For Britain's sake, alas! and now is dead!

1 A corruption of par Dieu.

EXHORTATION TO LEARN BY OTHERS' TROUBLE.

Y Ratclif, when thy rechless youth

M

offends,

Receive thy scourge by others' chastise-
ment;

For such calling, when it works none amends,
Then plagues are sent without advertisement.
Yet Solomon said, the wronged shall recure:
But Wyatt said true; 'The scar doth aye endure.'

THE FANCY OF A WEARIED LOVER.

HE fancy, which that I have served long
That hath alway been enemy to mine

ease;

Seemed of late to rue upon my wrong,

And bade me fly the cause of my misease.
And I forthwith did press out of the throng,
That thought by flight my painful heart to please
Some other way, till I saw faith more strong;
And to myself I said, 'Alas! those days
In vain were spent, to run the race so long.'

1 Perhaps Sir Humphrey Ratcliffe, one of the gentlemen pensioners.

2 Careless.

And with that thought I met my guide, that plain, Out of the way wherein I wander'd wrong, Brought me amidst the hills in base Bullayne: Where I am now, as restless to remain

Against my will, full pleased with my pain.

A SATIRE AGAINST THE CITIZENS OF LONDON.1

ONDON! hast thou accused me

Of breach of laws? the root of strife?
Within whose breast did boil to see,
So fervent hot, thy dissolute life;
That even the hate of sins, that grow
Within thy wicked walls so rife,
For to break forth did convert so,
That terror could it not repress.

The which, by words, since preachers know
What hope is left for to redress,
By unknown means it liked me
My hidden burthen to express.
Whereby it might appear to thee
That secret sin hath secret spite;
From justice' rod no fault is free
But that all such as work unright

1 "A Satire on London" was first published by Mr. Park from a manuscript in his possession. The version printed by Dr. Nott was collated from Park's copy and Dr. Harrington's manuscript. It was probably written after Lord Surrey had been condemned by a London jury.

In most quiet, are next ill rest.
In secret silence of the night

This made me, with a rechless breast,
To wake thy sluggards with my bow:
A figure of the Lord's behest ;

Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures shew.
That as the fearful thunder's clap

By sudden flame at hand we know;
Of pebble stones the soundless rap,
The dreadful plague might make thee see
Of God's wrath, that doth thee enwrap.
That pride might know, from conscience free,
How lofty works may her defend;
And envy find, as he hath sought,
How other seek him to offend:

And wrath taste of each cruel thought,
The just shape higher in the end:
And idle sloth, that never wrought,
To heaven his spirit lift may begin:
And greedy lucre live in dread,
To see what hate ill got goods win.
The letchers, ye that lusts do feed,
Perceive what secrecy is in sin:
And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed,
Awaked, when their fault they find,
In loathsome vice each drunken wight,
To stir to God this was my mind.
Thy windows had done me no spight;
But proud people that dread no fall,
Clothed with falsehood, and unright
Bred in the closures of thy wall.
But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal
Thou hast to strife, my secret call.