FRAGMENT OF A POEM TO LORD WARWICK. RUNNING TITLE "A NUE YEARES GIFT." TO MY LORDE OF WARWICKE. Page 1 To presēt Mars wt paper skrowlls It wear as I should giue a reede 2 But whear thear is no weapons bright A man is foerst from barrain tree, Yet had I Cressus wealth at will, my wants to furnish throw: I skarce could tel what gift wear meet, $ And 3 And waginge sens I was your man, I passe my bounds I feare To yielde my maister other fruet, This argues but my greate good will, as farre as duetie goes: Or may be cald for chaunge of spetch, 4 Of him whose natuer from the Nurs, That with his life both staetly courte, And sayth that heer we haue to few, or noen like him at all : In sondry pointes of honour suer, that we most noble call. Then follows a chasm, of what length is uncertain. 5 If enuye barke at well wonne faem, If world but wist, what good doth ries, With bieting words it would not seeke. mans credit to distaine. 6 Who clipps renowme, is lieke a foole, Or one that sporns and kieks at Faem, Twear better striue to win like lawds Than shack the head or bend the brow, 7 Of others prayse, but God be thankt, (And uoyde of strēgth) the happy needs The learned hath a mortall foe, 8 Well: whear that noble nature dwells, Take wel in worth my Nueyeares gift, for whiells your vertues liue : to your or yours to giuẹ. Finis q goodwill. This is all in black letter, and forms two fty leaves to Neville" de furoribus Norfolciensium Ketto duce." In the possession of the Rev. Mr. White, of Lichfield. THE THE DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK. THE following curious old Ballad has never appeared in any collection, and seems well worthy of being preserved. It was originally printed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. "THE MOST RARE AND EXCELLENT HISTORY OF THE DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK, AND HER HUSBAND, RICHARD BERTIE'S CALA MITIES. To the tune of "Queen Dido." I, When Gon had taken, for our sin, That prudent Prince King Edward away, His raging malice to bewray; All those that did GoD's word profess 11. Thus while the LORD on us did low'r, Many in prison he did throw, Whereby they wight the truth forego, Then Cranmer, Ridley, and the rest, Were burning in the fire, that CHRIST profess'd. 111. Smithfield was then with faggots fill'd, At Worcester eke good Hooper died; Beyond-sea many fled away. 1V. Among the rest that sought relief, King Henry's daughter of Royal Blood; Who in the Tower did prisoner lie, V. The Dutchess of Suffolk seeing this, Within God's word her comfort wrought; For fear of death was fore'd to fly, VI. That for the love of GoD alone, The word and truth so rare to find: VII. Thus |