To John Carpenter, Bishop of Worcester.
(By Rowleie.)
IV.
To you, good bishop, I address my say,
To you, who honourest the cloth you wear;
Like precious bighes in gold of best allay,
Each one doth make the other seem more fair.
Other than you, where could a man be found
So fit to make a place be holy ground?
V.
The saints in stone so neatly carvellèd,
They scantly are what they enseem to be,
By fervent prayer of yours might rear their head,
And chant out masses to our Virginè.
Were every prelate like a Carpenter,
The church would not blush at a Winchester.
VI.
Learned as Beauclerc, as the Confessor
Holy in life, like Canynge charitable,
Busy in holy church as Vavasour,
Slack in things evil, in all good things stable,
Honest as Saxons were, from whence thou'rt sprung,
Though body weak, thy soul for ever young.
VII.
Thou knowest well thy conscience free from stain,
Thy soul her rode no sable 'batements have;
Y-clenchèd o'er with virtue's best adaygne,
A day eterne thy mind doth aye adave.
No spoilèd widows, orphyäns distress'd,
Nor starving priests distract thy nightly rest.
VIII.
Here then to thee let me, for one and all,
Give laud to Carpenter and commendation,
For his great virtues; but, alas! too small
Is my poor skill to shew you his just blation,
Or to blaze forth his public good alone,
And all his private good to God and him is known.
Spirit of Nimrod
speaketh.
(By Iscamme.)
IX.
Soon as the morn, but newly 'wake,
Spied Night y-storven lie,
On her corse did dewdrops shake,
Then 'fore the sun upgotten was I.
X.
The ramping lion, fell tigèr,
The buck that skips from place to place,
The elephant and rhinocère,
Before me through the greenwood I did chase.
XI.
Nimrod, as Scripture calls my name,
Baal, as fabled stories say;
For rearing Babel of great fame
My name and renown shall live for aye.
XII.
But here I spy a finer rearing,
'Gainst which the cloudès do not fight,
On which the stars do sit, to appearing;
Weak men think it reaches the kingdom of light.
XIII.
Oh! where is the man that built the same,
Dispending worldly store so well?
Fain would I change with him my name,
And stand in his chance not to go to hell.
Sprites of Assyrians
sing.
XIV.
When, to their caves eterne abased,
The waters have no more distressed
The world so large;
But did discharge
Themselves into their bed of rest;
XV.
Then men, besprinkled all abroad,
No more did worship the true God;
But did create
His temples great
Unto the image of Nimròd.
XVI.
But now the Word of God is come,
Born of Maid Mary, to bring home
Mankind, his sheep;
Them for to keep
In the fold of his heavenly kingdòm.
XVII.
This church which Canynge he did rear,
To be dispent in praise and prayer,
Men's souls to save
From 'vouring grave,
And purify them heaven-were.
