Nicholas Bacon Poems

CHORVS
O gratyous Lorde, ohe sauyor dere,
Our onelye hope and all our chere,
Our presente ayde in euerye woe,
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If the iuste mann seaven tymes eache daye
Ohe Lorde dothe fall, what shall I saye?
Of all iniuste moste sinfull manne
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Nothinge in earthe soe good I fynde
As in a mann a contented mynde.
Fewe thinges with this doe sarue alone,
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Whie woulde the Knighte a Barron bee?
Whie woulde the Barron an Earles degree?
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What is the cause the gredye manne
With care to gett waxethe pale and wanne?
Haueinge enoughe whye craues he more?
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What bringethe ruste to Iron smothe?
Whye stynkethe water that dothe not moue?
Whye dothe the grounde that fertell was
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The marchantes wishe the Lawyers trayne
For hasarde smale and certeine gayne.
The Lawyer dulled with sute and strife
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To man lewde luste bringethe theis ylles,
Councell it damnes, his mynde it kylles,
Vertue it voydes, manners it marres,
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As causer of the smoke is the kindeler of the fyer,
Euen soe is wanton talke the cause of yll desyer:
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Lorde for my slepe and reste this nighte
And for this grace preserueinge mee
In bodye sounde in mynde vprighte,
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