XVII. Humphrey Gifford

HAST thou desire thy golden dayes to spend

In blissfull state exempt from all annoyes?

So liue as if death now thy life should end;

Still treade the pathes that leade to perfect ioyes.

Bee slow to shine, but speedie to ask grace:

How are they blest that thus runne out their race!

Ech night, ere sleepe shut vp thy drowsie eyes,

Thinke thou how much in day thou hast transgrest,

And pardon craue of God in any wise,

To doe that’s good, and to forsake the rest.

Sinne thus shake of; the fiend for enuie weepes,

Sound are our ioyes, most quiet are our sleepes.

Haue not thy head so cloyd with worldly cares,

As to neglect that thou shouldst chiefly minde;

But beare an eye to Sathan’s wily snares,

Who to beguile a thousand shiftes will finde.

Vaine are the ioyes that wretched world allowes:

Who trust them most doe trust but rotten bowes.

Shunne filthy vice; persist in doing well;

For doing well doth godly life procure;

And godly life makes vs with Christ to dwell

In endlesse blisse that euer shall endure.

Wee pray thee, Lord, our follyes to redresse,

That we thus doe, thus liue, this blisse possesse.