I. Queen Elizabeth

FOOLES, that true fayth yet neuer had,

Sayth in their harts, there is no God!

Fylthy they are in their practyse,

Of them not one is godly wyse.

From heauen th’ Lorde on man did loke,

To know what wayes he undertoke:

All they were vague, and went a straye,

Not one he founde in the ryght waye;

In hart and tunge haue they deceyte,

The lyppes throwe fourth a poysened bayte;

Their myndes are mad, their mouthes are wode,

And swift they be in shedynge blode:

So blynde they are, no truth they knowe,

No feare of God in them wyll growe.

How can that cruell sort be good,

Of God’s dere folcke whych sucke the blood?

On hym ryghtly shall they not call;

Dyspaire wyll so their hartes appall.

At all tymes God is with the just,

Bycause they put in hym their trust.

Who shall therefor from Syon geue

That helthe whych hangeth on our b’leue?

When God shall take from hys the smart,

Then wyll Jacob rejoice in hart.

Prayse to God.