Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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.