O Lord, my faults I now confess,

And sorry am therefore;

But not so much as fain I would:

O Lord, what wilt thou more?

It is thy grace must bring that spirit,
For which I humbly pray,

And that this night thou me defend,
As thou hast done this day.

And grant, when these mine eyes and tongue
Shall fail through Nature's might,

That then the powers of my poor soul
May praise thee day and night.

MEDITATION.

By the same.

From his "Poor Widow's Mite," 1585.

THOU, God, that rul'st and reign'st in light,

That flesh cannot attain;

Thou God that know'st, the thoughts of men

Are altogether vain;

Thou God, whom neither tongue of man,

Nor angel can express;

Thou God it is, that I do seek;

Thou pity my distress!

Thy seat, O God, is every where;

Thy power all powers transcend;

Thy wisdom cannot measur'd be,
For that it hath no end!

Thou art the power and wisdom too,
And sole felicity:

But I a lump of sinful flesh;

Nurse of iniquity.

Thou art by Nature merciful,

And Mercy is thy name;

And I by Nature miserable,

The thrall of sin and shame:

Then let thy Nature, O good God!

Now work his force in me;

And cleanse the nature of my sin,

And heal my misery:

One depth, good Lord, another craves;
My depth of sinful crime
Requires thy depth of mercy great,

For saving health in time.

Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace

May swallow up my sin;

That I thereby may whiter be,

Than even snow hath been.

CHRIST TO HIS Spouse.

By William Baldwin. *

From "Solomon's Canticles and Ballads," 1549.

THE TEXT.

Lo, thou art fair, my Love; lo, thou art fair;
Thou hast dove's eyes.

THE ARGUMENT.

WHEN the Church hath transcribed the glory of all her goodness to her beloved, and praised him as the author thereof, he, pleased with this her true judgment, praiseth her therefore, singing again, as followeth :

Lo, thou, my Love, art fair:
Myself have made thee so:

Yea, thou art fair indeed,

Wherefore thou shalt not need

In beauty to despair;

For I acceptthee so,

For fair.

For fair, because thine eyes

Are, like the culver's, white;

Principal Author and Conductor of the "Mirror for Magis

trates," 1559, &c.

Whose simpleness in deed
All others do exceed;

Thy judgment wholly lies

In true sense of sprite

Most wise.

THE DESCRIPTION OF THE SHEPHERD

AND HIS WIFE.

From "Robert Greene's Mourning Garment," 1616.

It was near a thicky shade,

That broad leaves of beech had made;

Joining all their tops so nigh,

That scarce Phoebus in could pry,

To see if Lovers in the thick,

Could dally with a wanton trick;
Where sate the Swain and his Wife,

Sporting in that pleasing life,
That Coridon commendeth so,

All other lives, to over-go.

He and she did sit and keep

Flocks of kids, and folds of sheep:

He upon his pipe did play,

She tuned voice unto his lay.

And for you might her housewife know, Voice did sing and fingers sow:

He was young, his coat was green,

With welts of white seam'd between,

Turned over with a flap,

That breast and bosom in did wrap,

Skirts side, and plighted free,
Seemly hanging to his knee.

A whittle with a silver chape,

Cloak was russet, and the

cape

Served for a bonnet oft,

To shroud him from the wet aloft:

A leather scrip of colour red,
With a button on the head;
A bottle full of country whig,
By the Shepherd's side did lig;
And in a little bush hard by,
There the Shepherd's dog did lie,
Who while his master 'gan to sleep,

Well could watch both kids and sheep.

The Shepherd was a frolic swain,

For though his 'parel was but plain,
Yet doon the authors soothly say,
His colour was both fresh and gay;

And in their writs plain discuss,
Fairer was not Tytirus,