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Edward Farr, ed. Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. 1845.

Stanzas

CXXVI. John Phillip

  • From “A Frendly Larum, or faythfull warnynge to the trueharted subiectes of England. Discoueryng the actes and malicious myndes of those obstinate and rebellious Papists that hope (as they term it) to haue theyr golden day.”


  • WHAT meanes the ragynge mindes

    Of cruell carelesse sorte,

    To raunge with rage, whose chollor hot

    They deeme a sweete disporte?

    Or why do Papistes mutter so

    In euery corner now

    Such tidinges straunge, as scarsly they

    In triall dare auow?

    Their tongues to tell forth lies

    They dayly do imploy;

    To sclaunder truth and godly men

    They take exceeding ioy.

    As rechlesse forth they raunge,

    Regarding nought at all;

    Some liue in hope againe to see

    The worship of God Baall.

    And still they boast therof,

    As peruerse Papistes will:

    They spit their poison where they please,

    As Hydra’s whelps full ill.

    And here they prie, and there they spie,

    Their equals forth to finde;

    And oft in Paules they parley forth

    Their spiteful cankered minde.

    Yea, still they talke of newes,

    And then their mindes they say:

    But partinge then, “Adew,” saithe one,

    “Unto the golden day:

    “When wee shall haue our wils

    And purpose come to passe;

    And eke enioy, as wee doo wish,

    Our long-desired masse.

    “And then shall goe to wracke

    The broode that Luther bred:

    Olde custome shall supplie the Churche,

    Whiche errour now hath fed.”

    Thus prate they as they liste,

    In secret muttringe sorte;

    Not basshing suche pernitious talke

    To parley and reporte.

    Some wish the Basan bull

    Might haue the rulinge sway;

    Who (as they boast) shall them restoare

    Unto there golden day.

    Some wish the waueringe Moone

    Might quite eclips the Sunne:

    And thus before their wittes, wee see,

    Some Papistes’ tounges doo runne.

    Some wish the redcombde bird might crow,

    And beare away the game:

    But yet his combe may hap be cut,

    For practisinge the same.

    And longe this sauage crewe

    Of Bonner made account,

    To throne of London’s rule againe

    In golden day should mount;

    Who then would make our Protestants

    The cuckoe’s songe to singe;

    Or els with faggottes’ fine flames

    To ruine them to bringe.

    But God berefte their hope,

    Which vainely fed their minde:

    And unto his elected churche

    A pleadge of loue assinde.

    For when they bragged most

    To haue there golden day,

    Then God by death did ouerthrowe

    The piller of their staye.

    And then they hunge their heades,

    As men that wanted braynes;

    And sobbingly did shewe by sighes

    Their straunge tormenting paynes.

    Some then were drownd in deepe dispaire,

    That longe in hope did liue:

    Yea, some did showe with streames,

    What griefe his death did giue.

    Thus were the Papistes drencht

    In fluddes of flowinge woe:

    As plainely men might see and vew

    By their externall shoe.

    ******

    But harke! ye Balaams blind,

    Of popish saincts ye bee;

    The darknesse with cleare light

    At no time can agree.

    Can Christe and Belliall loue?

    Can truth a falsehood bee?

    Or shall the goates expulse the lambes

    From heaven? confesse to mee.

    No more can you his sainctes,

    The flocke of God, deface;

    Ne yet his pardon graunt to you

    In heauen a resting-place.

    But yet if cursed cruell Cain,

    Which shed iust Abel’s blood,

    For homicide shall winne the heauens,

    Then Christ shall doo you good.

    If Arius, that heretique,

    Enioy felicitie;

    Then shall your pope, and you his sainctes,

    Which are as ill as he.

    If Iudas for betraying Christe

    Shall raigne in heauen on hie;

    So shall the pope, and you his sainctes;

    I can it not denie.

    If Mahomet, that prophete false,

    Eternitie doo gaine;

    Then shall the pope, and you his sainctes,

    In heauen be sure to raigne.

    If Julius Apostata

    With Christe a place possesse;

    So shall the pope, and you his sainctes;

    Of force I must confesse.

    But harke! prepare your eares to heare

    What tidinges I shall tell:

    As these for their most wicked liues

    Did sincke downe into hell;

    So shall the pope and all his saincts,

    Unlesse they doo repent,

    Receiue like hyre, when Christ from heauen

    To iudge us shal be sent.

    For none more prone then he

    The truthe for to withstand;

    And none more apte then are his saincts

    To take the sworde in hand,

    To fight against God’s heauenly truth,

    And those that loue the same:

    Such zeale haue they vnto the drosse

    That peltinge popes did frame.

    What truth their doctrine hath,

    Is easie for to trie:

    A man may iudge the fruites thereof,

    That hath but halfe an eie.

    ******

    But God from heauen with vengeance hot

    This monster vile will blast;

    Yea, he will breake the crewe

    Of all the popish brood,

    That hope to haue a golden day

    To shed more martyrs’ bloud.

    Yea, Christ wil swage the greedy thirst

    Of cruell carelesse Cain,

    Which persecute his members still,

    And put his saincts to paine.

    He will not leaue his Churche

    To languish in distresse,

    Though he permit some tirants still

    Hir children to oppresse:

    But as a faithfull husband sure

    He doth his Church regard,

    And at the last amidst his wrath

    His foes will sure reward.

    Yea, he will breake the jawes

    Of antichrist so wood,

    Which greedely his woluish thirst

    Doth quench with martyrs’ bloud.

    ******

    Then thinke ye, papists prowd,

    The mighty God doth sleepe,

    Because ye scape unplagued yet,

    That kill his simple sheepe?

    No! God beholds your rage,

    He sees his people’s griefe;

    And, to decay your force in time,

    Will graunt his saincts reliefe.

    ******

    Then haue we not a golden daye?

    The Lorde prolonge the same!

    That in his feare henceforth we may

    Practise our liues to frame;

    And so be thankfull to our God

    For these his giftes of grace,

    That he may still behold our daies

    With his most louyng face;

    That all our wordes and deedes henceforth

    May learne so to accorde,

    That we with harts unfained may

    Still liue and laude the Lorde:

    And next our gracious Queene

    So honour and obaye,

    That England may be freed still

    From papists’ golden daye;

    Which unto those that feare the Lord,

    And loue his veritie,

    Through rigor and extorted force

    A dismall daie would be.

    From which, Lord, fende thy littel flocke,

    And giue our foes a fall:

    Confound those cruell Caines, O Lord,

    That for a chaunge do call.

    And so thy truth do grafte

    Within our tender hart,

    That from thy truth and testament

    No daunger cause us start.

    Confound the rage of rebels stout;

    Lord, be our strength and towre:

    As from the Turke, so shield us, Lord,

    From force of popish powre.

    Abate their pride, which wilfull be,

    In lingringe hope to staie;

    Protect thy fold, defend thy churche

    From papists’ golden daye.

    Aduaunce thy gospell still,

    Let not thy praise decaie:

    Stretch forth thine arme, and shield us still

    From papists’ golden daie.

    Let all that loue thy testament

    With harts unfayned praie,

    That neuer more in England here

    The pope haue golden daie.

    Increase the number of thy folde;

    Thy mercie, Lord, displaie;

    Prolonge amonge thy simple sheepe

    This happy golden daie:

    That we thy pasture may attaine,

    And so thy worde obaie,

    That we at no time neede to feare

    The papists’ golden daie.

    Come, hast thy kingdome, mighty God,

    Come, Jesus Christ, we praie;

    That all our foes may learne and know

    We haue a golden daie.

    Our realme and queen defend, dere God,

    With hart and minde I praie;

    That by thy aide hir grace may keepe

    The papists from their daie.

    Hir health, hir wealth, and vitall race,

    In mercy longe increase;

    And graunt that ciuill warre and strife

    In England still may cease.

    Confound the purpose and deuise

    Of all that carelesse crewe,

    Which seeke by force for to withstand

    Thy worde and gospell trewe.

    Preserue the counsell of this realme,

    Let thy Sprite be their staie;

    That they their councell may imploy

    To breake the papistes’ daie.

    Sende preachers true, good Lord,

    Thy gospell to display;

    That by their trauell they may let

    The papists’ golden day.

    The commons of this realme defend,

    That loue may ay abound;

    And graunt obedience to our queene

    May euermore be found:

    That as she faithfull is

    Hir subiectes ay to loue,

    So true and trustie unto hir

    Our hartes may euer proue.

    Thus shall the mighty God

    Be our defence and stay,

    And keepe the cruell papists still

    From their longe-wished day.

    And we shall haue, as God do graunt

    To papists swift decay,

    The worde of grace sincerely preacht,

    Which is our golden day.

    Which to continew longe,

    To God let us all pray:

    Whose glorious name be lauded still

    For this our golden day.