Which render God his prayses meete,
And teache vs to reioyce :

And as they more esteeme that merth
Than dread the night's annoy,

So must we deeme our dayes on erth
But hell to heauenly ioye.

Unto which ioyes for to attayne
God graunt vs all hys grace,
And send vs, after worldlie payne,
In heauen to haue a place:

Where wee maye still enioye that light,

Which neuer shall decaye:

Lord, for thy mercy lend vs might

To see that ioyfull daye.

Haud ictus sapio.

GOOD NIGHTE.

WHEN thou hast spent the lingring daye In pleasure and delight,

Or after toyle and wearie waye

Dost seeke to rest at nighte:

Unto thy paynes or pleasures past

Adde thys one labor yet,

Ere sleepe close vp thyne eie too fast,

Doo not thy God forget.

But searche within thy secret thought,

What deeds did thee befall;

And if thou find amisse in ought,

To God for mercie call.

Yea, though thou find nothing amisse,

Which thou canst call to mind,

Yet euermore remember this,

There is the more behind.

And thinke, how well so euer it be
That thou hast spent the daye,

It came of God, and not of thee,
So to direct thy waye.

Thus if thou trie thy dayly deedes,
And pleasure in thys payne,

Thy life shall clense thy corne from weeds,
And thine shal be the gaine.

But if thy sinfull sluggishe eye

Will venter for to winke,

Before thy wading will maye trye
How far thy soule maye sinke;
Beware and wake, for else thy bed,
Which soft and smoth is made,
May heape more harm vpon thy head,
Than blowes of enmies' blade.

Thus if this paine procure thine ease
In bed as thou doost lye,

Perhaps it shall not God displease
To sing thus soberly-

I see that sleepe is lent me here
To ease my wearie bones,

As death at laste shall eeke appeere,

To ease my greeuous grones.

The stretching armes, the yauning breath,

Which I to bedward vse,

Are patternes of the pangs of death,

When life will me refuse:

And of my bed eche sundrye part

In shaddowes doth resemble

The sundry shapes of deth, whose dart
Shal make my flesh to tremble.

My bed it selfe is like the graue,
My sheetes the winding sheete,

My cloths the mould which I must haue
To couer me most meete:

The waking cock, that early crowes
To weare the night awaye,

Puts in my minde the trumpe that blowes
Before the latter daye.

And as I ryse vp lustily,

When sluggish sleep is past,
So hope I to ryse ioyfully
To iudgment at the last.

Thus will I wake, thus will I sleepe,
Thus will I hope to ryse;

Thus will I neither waile nor weepe,
But sing in godly wyse.

My bones shall in this bed remaine,

My soule in God shall trust;
By whome I hope to ryse againe
From death and earthlie dust.

V.

BARNABY BARNES.

SONNET II.

SWEETE Saviour! from whose fivefold bleeding wound

That comfortable antidote distilde,

Which that ranck poyson hath expeld and kild, In our old wretched father Adam found In Paradise, when he desertlesse crown'd

Receav'd it as th' envenomde Serpent willde; Insteede of lustfull eyes with arrowes fillde Of sinful loves, which from their beames abound, Let those sweete blessed wounds with streams of grace

Aboundantly sollicite my poor spirite,

Ravishde with love of Thee, that didst debase Thyselfe on earth, that I might heaven inherite. O blessed sweet wounds! fountains of electre ! My wounded soul's balm, and salvation's nectre.

SONNET V.

BLESSED Creatour! let thine onely Sonne, Sweete blossome, stocke, and root of David's line, The cleare, bright morning-starre, give light and shine

On my poore spirit; which hath new begunne With his Love's praise, and with vain loves hath donne.

To my poor Muse let him his eares incline,
Thirsting to taste of that celestiall wine

Whose purple streame hath our salvation wonne. O gracious Bridegroome! and thrice-lovely Bride'

Which "Come and fill who will"-for ever crie; "Water of life to no man is denyde; Fill still, who will,-if any man be drye."

O heavenly voice! I thirst, I thirst, and come For life, with other sinners to get some.

SONNET VII.

WHITE spotlesse Lambe! whose precious sweete bloudshed

The whole world's sinneful debt hath satisfied,

For sinners scorn'd, whippde, wounded, crucified;

Beholde my sinfull soule by Sathan led
Even to the gates of hell, where will be read
My Conscience's blacke booke; unlesse supplide
Be to those leaves past number thy wounds
wide,

Whose purple issue, which for sinners bled,
Shall wash the register of my foul sin,
And thence blot out the vile memoriall :—
Then let thy blessed Angell enter in
My temple purged, and that historiall

Of my sinnes numberlesse in deepe seas cast;
So shall I be new borne and sav'd at last.

SONNET VIII.

LYON of Judah! which dost judge, and fight With endlesse justice; whose anointed head Was once with wounding thornes invironed, But now with sacred crownes, by glorious right; Whose glorious hoast succeedes in armour white;