 | In the wrackes of Walsingham |  |
470
[In the wrackes of Walsingam]
In the wrackes of Walsingam
Whom should I chuse
But the Queene of Walsingam,
to be guide to my muse?
Then thou Prince of Walsingam,
graunt me to frame
Bitter plaintes to rewe thy wronge,
bitter wo for thy name.
Whom should I chuse
But the Queene of Walsingam,
to be guide to my muse?
Then thou Prince of Walsingam,
graunt me to frame
Bitter plaintes to rewe thy wronge,
bitter wo for thy name.
Bitter was it, oh! to see
The seely sheepe
Murdred by the raueninge wolues
While the sheephardes did sleep!
Bitter was it, oh! to vewe
the sacred vyne,
Whiles the gardiners plaied all close.
rooted vp by the swine.
The seely sheepe
Murdred by the raueninge wolues
While the sheephardes did sleep!
Bitter was it, oh! to vewe
the sacred vyne,
Whiles the gardiners plaied all close.
rooted vp by the swine.
Bitter, bitter, oh! to behould
the grasse to growe
Where the walles of Walsingam
so statly did sheue.
Such were the workes of Walsingam
while shee did stand!
Such are the wrackes as now do shewe
of that holy land!
Levell, Levell with the ground
the towres doe lye,
the grasse to growe
Where the walles of Walsingam
so statly did sheue.
471
while shee did stand!
Such are the wrackes as now do shewe
of that holy land!
Levell, Levell with the ground
the towres doe lye,
Which with their golden glitteringe tops
pearsed once to the skye!
Wher weare gates, no gates ar nowe;
the waies vnknowen
Wher the presse of peares did passe,
while her fame far was blowen.
Oules do scrike wher the sweetest himnes
lately weer songe;
Toades and serpentes hold ther dennes
wher the Palmers did thronge.
pearsed once to the skye!
Wher weare gates, no gates ar nowe;
the waies vnknowen
Wher the presse of peares did passe,
while her fame far was blowen.
Oules do scrike wher the sweetest himnes
lately weer songe;
Toades and serpentes hold ther dennes
wher the Palmers did thronge.
Weepe, weepe, o Walsingam!
whose dayes are nightes,
Blessinge turned to blasphemies,
holy deedes to dispites!
Sinne is wher our Ladie sate,
heauen turned is to hell!
Sathan sittes wher our Lord did swaye
Walsingham, oh! farewell!
whose dayes are nightes,
Blessinge turned to blasphemies,
holy deedes to dispites!
Sinne is wher our Ladie sate,
heauen turned is to hell!
Sathan sittes wher our Lord did swaye
Walsingham, oh! farewell!
finis.
| In the wrackes of Walsingham | |