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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
that sword and target lieks
And ioyes in clattringe coets of steel
and goodly armed pieks.

It wear as I should giue a reede
whear lawnce is clapt in rest;
And warlike armour at the need,
defends the noble brest.

2 But whear thear is no weapons bright that fit is for the field:

A man is foerst from barrain tree,
baer trifulls for to yeld.

Yet had I Cressus wealth at will,
my wants to furnish throw:

I skarce could tel what gift wear meet,
for worthy Warwike now.

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3 And waginge sens I was your man,
I passe my bounds I feare

To yielde my maister other fruet,
than simple soile doth bear.

This argues but my greate good will,
as farre as duetie goes:

Or may be cald for chaunge of spetch,
a foile that vertue shoes.

4 Of him whose natuer from the Nurs,
hath bin so noblie bent:

That with his life both staetly courte,
and country stands content.

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 un

certain.

5 If enuye barke at well wonne faem,
it calls mens acts to minde:

And still reuieus the lamp with oyle,
that els would waest with wind.

If world but wist, what good doth ries,
throw enuies deep disdame:
With bieting words it would not seeke.
mans credit to distaine.

Ff3

6 Who

6 Who clipps renowme, is lieke a foole,
that faine would robb the Sunne :
Or one that sporns and kieks at Faem,
that worthies well haue wunne.

Twear better striue to win like lawds
by blotles life in deede :

Than shaek the head or bend the brow,
at uerses that you reed.

7 Of others prayse, but God be thankt,
the hatefull are so weake:
(And uoydẹ of strēgth) the happy needs
not caer what babblars spcake.

The learned hath a mortall foe,

of him that knothing knoes: The floure is malliest by a weede, that for no purpose groes.

8 Well: whear that noble nature dwells,
and parfait honour is :

Thear vertue harbreth in the hart,
and rests the God of blis.

Take wel in worth my Nueyeares gift,
for whiells your vertues liue :
And I maye write, I minde like verse,
to your or yours to giue.

Finis q goodwill.

This is all in black letter, and forms two fly 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 God had taken, for our sin,

That prudent Prince King Edward away,

Then bloody Bonner did begin

His raging malice to bewray; All those that did God's word profess He persecuted more or less.

11.

Thus while the LORD on us did low'r,
Many in prison he did throw,
Tormenting them in Lollard's Tower,
Whereby they wight the truth forego,

Then Cranmer, Ridley, and the rest,

Were burning in the fire, that CHRIST profess'd.

Ff 4

111. Smithfield

111.

Smithfield was then with faggots fill'd,
And many places more beside;
At Coventry was Saunders kill'd,
At Worcester eke good Hooper died;
And to escape this bloody day,
Beyond-sea many fled away.

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King Henry's daughter of Royal Blood;
Who in the Tower did prisoner lie,
Looking each day when she should die.

V.

The Dutchess of Suffolk seeing this,
Whose life likewise the Tyrant sought,
Who in the hopes of heavenly bliss,

Within God's word her comfort wrought;
For fear of death was fore'd to fly,
And leave her house most secretly.

VI.

That for the love of GoD alone,
Her land and goods she left behind;
Seeking still that precious stone,

The word and truth so rare to find:
She with her husband, nurse, and child,
In poor array their sighs beguil'd.

VII. Thus

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