 | Saint Peters complaint |  |
The Author to the Reader.
Deare
eie that daynest to let fall a looke,
On these sad memories of Peters plaintes:
Muse not to see some mud in cleerest brooke,
They once were brittle mould, that now are Saintes.
Their weakeness is no warrant to offend,
Learne by their faultes; what in thine owne to mend.
On these sad memories of Peters plaintes:
Muse not to see some mud in cleerest brooke,
They once were brittle mould, that now are Saintes.
Their weakeness is no warrant to offend,
Learne by their faultes; what in thine owne to mend.
If equities euen-hand the ballance held,
Where Peters sinnes and ours were made the weightes:
Ounce, for his Dramme: Pound, for his Ounce we yeeld:
His Ship would groane to feele some sinners freightes.
So ripe is vice, so greene is vertues bud:
The world doth waxe in ill, but waine in good.
Where Peters sinnes and ours were made the weightes:
Ounce, for his Dramme: Pound, for his Ounce we yeeld:
His Ship would groane to feele some sinners freightes.
So ripe is vice, so greene is vertues bud:
The world doth waxe in ill, but waine in good.
This makes my mourning Muse resolue in teares,
This Theames my heauy penne to plaine in prose,
Christs Thorne is sharpe, no head his Garland weares:
Still finest wits are stilling Venus Rose.
In paynim toyes the sweetest vaines are spent:
To Christian workes, few haue their tallents lent.
This Theames my heauy penne to plaine in prose,
Christs Thorne is sharpe, no head his Garland weares:
Still finest wits are stilling Venus Rose.
In paynim toyes the sweetest vaines are spent:
To Christian workes, few haue their tallents lent.
Licence my single penne to seeke a pheere,
You heauenly sparkes of wit, shew natiue light:
Cloud not with mistie loues your Orient cleere,
Sweete flights you shoote; learne once to leuell right.
Fauour my wish, well-wishing workes no ill:
I mooue the Suite, the Graunt restes in your will.
You heauenly sparkes of wit, shew natiue light:
Cloud not with mistie loues your Orient cleere,
Sweete flights you shoote; learne once to leuell right.
Fauour my wish, well-wishing workes no ill:
I mooue the Suite, the Graunt restes in your will.
| Saint Peters complaint | |