No More Learning

fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
Bee alle the manne display'd. 140

"Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,
And guarde thee and thye sonne,
Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

"My honest friende, my faulte has beene 145
To serve Godde and mye prynce;
And thatt I no tyme-server am,
My dethe wylle soone convynce.

"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note; 150
My fadre dydd a nobile armes
Emblazon onne hys cote:

"I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
Where soone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 155
From oute the reech of woe:

"Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
Wyth pitie to unite;
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wronge cause fromm the ryghte: 160

"Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
The hungrie fromme my doore:

"And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe 165
I have hys wordyes kept;
And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept.

"I have a spouse, goe aske of her,
Yff I defyl'd her bedde? 170
I have a kynge, and none can laie
Blacke treason onne my hedde.

"Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd 175
To leave thys worlde of payne?

"Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,
I shalle ne see thye dethe;
Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe. 180

"Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe!
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle RICHARD'S sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

"Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, 185
And godlie HENRIE'S reigne,
Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies
For those of bloude and peyne?
"Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne,
And mangled by a hynde, 190
I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
Hee can ne harm my mynde;

"Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
And ne ryche monument of brasse 195
CHARLES BAWDIN'S name shall bear;

"Yett ynne the holie booke above,
Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
There wythe the sarvants of the Lorde
Mye name shall lyve for aie. 200

"Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
I leave thys mortall lyfe:
Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare,
Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!

"Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes, 205
As e'er the moneth of Maie;
Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
Wyth my dere wyfe to staie. "

Quod CANYNGE, "'Tys a goodlie thynge
To bee prepar'd to die; 210
And from thys world of peyne and grefe
To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie. "

And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to sounde;
Syr CHARLES hee herde the horses feete 215
A prauncyng onne the grounde:

And just before the officers,
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. 220

"Sweet FLORENCE! nowe I praie forbere,
Ynne quiet lett mee die;
Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule
Maye looke onne dethe as I.

"Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres? 225
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.

"'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse; 230
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse. "

Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge! 235
My herte ys welle nyghe broke:

"Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?