LVI. Sir William Leighton

ALL curious quaint abiliments exil’d,

In humblest habite now my verse compil’d;

Like a poor pilgrime, all alone I stand,

Taking my iorney to the Holy Land,

And fain would have, since thus transported hither,

All sorts, all sects, associate me thither;

But all (alas! woe worth) doe me disdaine,

And on my palmer’s weeds with scorn complaine,

Upbraiding me, that I, in time of yore,

Triumphant vertue’s vestures viuely wore.

What though those lines a prisoner’s pace now walk,

Which whilom did in courtly measure stalke?

To open view now they expose their faults,

Though like a weakeling that on crowches haultes;

The fading flower those youthfull times,

Now reft of power, bewailes her ruthfull crimes,

And ruminating on a sea of sinne,

Bewraies without what her betraies within;

Then with my poems playnness wract dispence,

Devour’d in zeal, is oft distract in sence.

Let not the rashnes of demolisht time

Explode my harshnes and unpolisht rime,

Nor shun me now, though I, like lowly Job,

This leprous corps of sinne with rags enrobe;

But sit by me, read me, and turn me ore,

And with thine vnguents gently salue my soare.

Within this port weel’e anchor safe from rockes,

From swelling billowes, raging gusts, and shocks,

Till Thetis, Halcion, Neptune’s force doth hayle,

Then shall our gallion spread a loftier saile,

And from outragious stormes and tempests stand

For safe arivall in the Holy Land.