THE misery OF flanders, calamity of France, Misfortune of Portugal, unquietness of Ireland, Troubles of scotland: And the blessed State of England.  
Written by Tho. churchyard Gent. 1579.  
¶ Imprinted at London for Andrew Maunsell, dwelling in Paul's churchyard at the sign of the parrot.   

TO THE Queen's MOST Excellent majesty, Thomas Church-yard, wisheth all heavenly blessedness, worldly felicity, and unremovable good Fortune.  
Having a dutiful desire, most redoubted sovereign, to be daily exercised in some serviceable device and action (that may please my Prince and country) I neither spare pains nor season, to purchase through practice of pen, and study of head, my desired hope.  
But weighing the greatness of your majesty and Princely judgement, I am to seek, not only what words doth best become me, but likewise what works I should present, especially to her highness, that hath such gifts from the heavens, as all our earthly imaginations, & base matter here below, may of right give place unto.  
And to offer any present where such parfections do abound, and the fountain of many graces doth freely flow, the presumption were great, and the boldness scarce pardonabel. Yet most gracious Lady, albeit I dare not bring water to the well head of knowledge, and comfortable spring (from whence all kind of people do draw succour and relief) yet my hope is, that my humble and upright meaning (of this my work) shall find favour in your highness sight.  
In which work I compare, Flaunders, France, Portugal, Ireland, and scotland, to be the shell of a precious nut, the sweet kernel whereof is the blessed state of England. And though with worldly wickedness, and troubles of our time, the goodly shell is somewhat worm-eaten and cracked, the kernel shows itself so sound, that God's great goodness & glory is partly or altogether therein expressed.  
And now by my verses and description is only touched (by all courteous and reverent means) but the troubles and misfortunes of every country a part, going no further in any phrase of speech, than Christian zeal, love, and duty may command a good mind to set out, as knoweth our living Lord, who send your majesty many good and gracious new years, with a blessed and prosperous old reign over us.  
FINIS.   

THE misery of Flaunders.  
THE soil and wealthy seat,  
where people plenty found,  
with scarcities scourge is plagued sore,  
and made a barren ground:  
Where fruitful pleasures great,  
was looked for in our days,  
And where for wealth, & worthy things,  
did run our worldly praise.  
O what a change is this,  
that neighbours mourn therefore,  
And foreign foes are grieved at heart,  
to see the everelesse sore:  
That now no sense can salve,  
nor wit can help in haste,  
Nor man may soon, by force reform,  
till wars and will makes waste.  
O havoc revels son,  
and riot sister dear:  
To foul misrule, a mother vice,  
that reigned full many a year.  
In vieu and corners close,  
O nurse of noughty pranks:  
And needless pains and labour lost,  
that can deserve no thanks.  
Why should I blame abuse,  
where Gods great wrath bears sway.  
And people's heads, will have it so,  
and worldly wits decay:  
So running on the race,  
of crooked careless steps,  
Out goes good order at a iompe,  
and in rude manner lepps.  
That at his first rebound,  
Shaks all in sunder straight:  
And each thing cracks, that feels the force,  
of wilful havocks weight.  
Now leave that long discourse,  
that hateful havoc brings:  
(By mean of rage, and revel rout)  
and speak of other things.  
That Flaunders groens to feel,  
and sundry sigh to see:  
And none but wails that ways the weight,  
of stacts in each degree.  
Why should rich Flaunders now,  
to Fortune, poor give place?  
That had the heart, and hap with all,  
from harms to hold her face,  
Among the best of name,  
that wealthy state could show:  
Do ask no more but leave the cause,  
to him that all doth know.  
Yet I with speeches free,  
may tell what troubles are:  
In Flaunders now, for that their broils,  
began of countries care.  
And matters fit for pen,  
awhile to treat upon:  
Good Whetstons for to sharp dull wits,  
the rest I look not on.  
That serves for special spreetts,  
that seeth through moon and star:  
So thus to leave of weighty things,  
and come to Flaunders war.  
(That world bewails and weeps,  
that sees thereof the end:  
And knows that head and shoulders must,  
their country's cause defend.)  
My muse bids me be bold,  
for therein wants no skill:  
To use apt words, and search out works,  
to strain the ynkchorne quill.  
For causes known to world,  
then why if men may ask,  
Doth Flaunders learn the doleful dance,  
and comes in open mask,  
With drum and trumpet loud,  
to wake the world from sleep?  
That at sweet rest and peace will laugh,  
and at sour war will weep.  
Why doth friends fall at jar,  
and slide in sects by swarms?  
And heaping mischief on their heads,  
are ground of their own harms.  
Why leaps some from their hold,  
and takes the weakest part?  
And so forsaketh God and man,  
to win a world by art.  
Why haclls the horses wrong,  
that in right course should go?  
Why do the wise heads embrace self will,  
and weave a web of woe?  
The cause doth show itself,  
for where dissension is,  
There are few matters well in frame,  
and many things amiss:  
Now is no nother 'noys,  
but howling up and down:  
And doubt and danger brings great fear,  
in many a noble town.  
Now wanders people's minds,  
like waves of troubled seas:  
And neither man nor child God wots,  
is free from wars disease.  
Death dwells in each man's door,  
and threatens mischeeus great:  
The rich but makes a hungry meal,  
the poor he starus for meat.  
Was never seen such want,  
in any soil before:  
And few have little coming in,  
but spendeth on the store.  
The soldier liu's by spoil,  
the merchants trade is done:  
The ploughman lets the plough alone,  
and out poor people ron:  
As though that men were mad,  
and know not where to go:  
In doubt to find a faithful friend,  
and sure to meet a foe.  
The Pater noster men,  
Or Mal content, they say:  
Hath brought our people such a plague,  
as breeds their whole decay.  
Each Christian heart doth weep  
to know the careful case:  
Of Flaunders now, who to the change,  
of worldly chance gives place.  
FINIS.   

THE calamity of France.  
WHat kingdom may, compare with woeful France,  
Whose civil warrres, did last God wots too long:  
The mighty men, thereby felt great mischance,  
The feeble folk, were forest to suffer wrong,  
And no estate, was free from scathe and foil,  
Such fury raingde, in rage of people's minds,  
The weaklings went, to ruin, to wrack, and spoil,  
As trees be torn, with blast and whirling winds,  
Strong goodly towns, were beaten down to ground  
high walls and towers, were battered flat as Cake,  
When trumpets blast, and drum did slaughter sound,  
And bloody blade, did wicked murder make.  
O listen now, and hear my tale a while,  
The wars of France, so sharp and cruel wear,  
The son himself, the father would beguile,  
And brother still, of brother stood in fear,  
With poison foul, and murder every where.  
The country through, was spread and plagued sore,  
And for to make, the scourge, and mischief more,  
One friend by craft, the other would betray,  
And surety none, in Prince's palace stood,  
The house of God, where people ought to pray,  
And altar stone, was daily stained with blood.  
The streets was filled, with corpses vilely slain,  
And in the stream, and flood the babes were flung,  
And Ladies throats, with knives were cut in twain  
There was no hope, when larumbell was rung,  
Both wives with child, and little children young,  
Were stabbed in, with Daggers divers ways,  
Some from their beds, were floung amid the street,  
Such murders Lord, were in those bloody days:  
As women lay, without a clout or sheet,  
(All dead and bare, a rueful sight to see)  
In open plain, yea men of ancient years,  
Were mangled sore, and some of high degree:  
And noble race, and of the Deuze Peers,  
Were naked left, and wounded to the death,  
And goodly girlls, lay groveling void of breath:  
In market place, the fury was so great,  
The rage was such, that none might scape the sword  
Nor nothing could, ne cool nor quench the heat:  
Of civil war, that both at bed and board:  
Was bloody still, and yet the more was slain,  
The more the broil, and grief began again.  
To tell you all, their battles here a row,  
Would move your mind, and heavy heart to tears,  
At sundry times, their own report doth show,  
(And good record, thereof true witness bears.)  
They lost in field, two hundredth thousand men,  
Yet still their minds, on murder ran so fast,  
They went about, nothing but bloodshed then,  
To sight it out, as long as life might last,  
Revenge did work, and weave an endless web,  
Desire of will, a woeful thread did spin,  
The flood of hate, that never thinks of ebb,  
A swelling Sea, of strife brought gushing in.  
The rooted wrath, had spread such branches out,  
That leaves of love, were blasted on the bow,  
Yet spitful twigs, began so fast to sprout,  
That from the heart, the tree was rotten throw.  
No kindly sap, did comfort any spraie,  
Both bark and stock, and body did decay.  
So that it seemed, the soil infected was,  
With malice moods, that smells of mischief great,  
Their golden land, was turned to rusty Bras:  
And each thing wrought, as God had cursed the seat,  
The ground thought scorn, to bring forth fruit in tune  
The vines did rot, the blade would bear no corn,  
Like Winter foul, became the summers Prime,  
The pleasant plots, brought forth wild brier & thorn  
With rain and storm, the land was vexed still,  
The ire of God, the people could not shun,  
Great grew the grief, that came by headstrong will,  
And all these plagues, by proud conceit begun,  
That thought to rule, perhaps past reason's lore,  
Treat that who please, my muse not framed therefore:  
Of wars and woe, I mean my pen to strain,  
In brief discourse, for wisdoms vieu alone,  
I skip over doubts, I dare not be to plain,  
Lest fire fly out, from flint and stricken stone.  
Those broils abroach, the realm ran all to ruin:  
The heads waxed sick, the members were amiss,  
The notes were nought, the song was out of tune,  
And bad is best, where such rude music is.  
Blood was so sought, that butchery boar the sway,  
A man and beast, were weighed both a like:  
The sheep must die, the wolf would have his pray,  
The rich would rule, the poor must pass the pike,  
The house must burn, that could not make defence,  
The head must of, that had more wit than needs,  
The fullest gabs, were searched for their pence.  
The veins were sought, that most the humour feeds,  
The good might starve, the bad found all the grace,  
The wise might walk abroad, and tell the trees,  
The fawning fools, were most preferred in place:  
The wasps would suck, the honey from the Bees,  
And to be plain, abuse in all degrees,  
Bred nought but war, and nourished such debate,  
That all to torn, did lie that noble state.  
And when one race, or noble house did rise,  
With force of arms, to make revolt or stoer,  
Ten thousand flocked, as thick as stars in skies.  
About the streets, before the Prince's door,  
No words might serve, nor reason could prevail:  
The people waxed, as wild as chafed deer,  
Yea though they heard, their wives both weep & wail,  
Their children cry, their friends make mourning cheer  
To bloody fight, in fury fell they all,  
And though on heaps, dead corpses lay in vieu,  
The people made, account thereof but small.  
For battle did, but malice still renew.  
A great man's death, cost many small men's lives,  
A small offence, did make a great ado,  
When men forget, their children and their wives,  
And madly faulls, to hate their country too.  
A little spark, will make a marvelous fire,  
And then both Prince, and law is out of mind:  
Good rule is drowned, and children do conspire,  
Their father's deaths, and kinsmen out of kind,  
Do turn and change, as weather Cock with wind.  
O France, who looks, upon thy bloody ways,  
And notes but half, the pageant thou hast played:  
Will be therefore, the wiser all their days,  
Or at the least, will hourly be afraid.  
To play such pranks, as thou poor France hast done  
Thou hadst a time, and wretched race to run.  
For others weal, that can good warning take,  
Thy neighbours have, had leisure to regard,  
The harms of thee, and so a mirror make:  
Of thy great dole, and dulfull destiny hard.  
Can greater plagues, be seen in any soil?  
Then, revel rage, and havoc every way,  
A civil war, with wicked waste and spoil.  
A deadly botch, that strikes stout heart by day.  
And kills by night, the harmless in his bed,  
O civil war, thou hast a hydra's head:  
A vipers kind, a serpent's nature throw,  
A spider's shape, a form of ugly toad:  
A devilish face, a shameless blotted brow,  
A bloody hand, at home and eke abroad.  
And if a man, would paint a monster right,  
Set out in shape, but evil war to sight:  
Paint all the harms, that cruel murder brings,  
And sure that Snake, will show ten thousand stings.  
A man may not, in colours set forth well,  
A rude revolt, a wretched civil brawll:  
He were as good, assay to paint out hell,  
And seek to show, the sorts of torments all,  
That silly souls, do feel with damned spreetts.  
Who sees revolt, in field or civil streets,  
Will think he meetts, mad dogs disgisde like men,  
Or else wild wolves, that lives in savage wood:  
It passeth wit, and cunning art of pen,  
To blaze out wars, began on mortal food.  
And namely broils, that breeds in public state,  
The cause whereof, both God and man doth hate.  
O France the flower, and garden of the earth,  
The soil of wealth, and top of triumph all:  
Where is become, thy pastime and thy mirth,  
Thy glory great, that worldly joys we call.  
Hath wild revolt, made tame thy gallants gay,  
Fie on that brawl, that breeds so great a fray.  
Fie on that war, that brings rich people bare.  
And foul befaule, the birds that files their neaste,  
Revolt brings realms, and mighty Kings in care,  
And roots up peace, and plants discord in breast.  
Though wilful heads, in haste revenge will take,  
And for some shrewed, devise draws out the blade,  
Beware through heat, how civil war you make:  
It wounds the state, and mars all honest trade,  
It rots sound hearts, and spoils each common weal,  
A cureless sore, that no sweet salve can heal.  
The sour mischance, that France hath self thereby,  
(And slaughters great, which lasted many a year)  
Doth stand so fresh, and full before your eye,  
That world may see, men bought that war full dear:  
The flood of strife, did run so through the realm,  
Some dregs must needs, be left behind the stream.  
In which deep dross, may lie more harm then good  
God shield each land, that loves and fears the Lord,  
From such abuse, and thirsting after blood,  
And plant therein, sweet peace and mild accord:  
From which pure tree, there springs a precious balm,  
That keeps of storms, and brings a quiet calm.  
FINIS.   

THE misfortune of Portugal.  
AS France did smart, through rage of civil war,  
And Flaunders is, not free from such like foil:  
So other soils, by mean of wicked jar,  
When least is thought, are offered to the spoil.  
Whose wretched ruin, the wise doth daily rue,  
To make the fond, reform their life a new:  
But where was peace, and love long linked fast,  
And people waxed, both rich and stout of mind,  
If their mishap, and mischief come at last,  
What heart in breast, or man is so unkind:  
That will not wail, the woe of such a land,  
Who God alone, hath touched with mighty hand.  
In Portugal, befell a doleful case,  
The strangest chance, that hath been heard of late,  
There was a King, who had great gifts of grace,  
A Princely spark, of goodly port and state:  
And as his shape, was seemly to the sight,  
So lo within, his mind was shaped a right.  
For form of face, and other outward shoes,  
Were answered full, with greatness of the heart:  
And in that Prince, as now report there goes,  
Of special points, was many a noble part.  
Among the rest, was one full much to note,  
He sought no will, nor would of women dote,  
Desired renown, and yet despised delight,  
And loathed lust, yet loud a merry mean,  
To pastime bend, yet banished pleasure quite,  
And glad to lead, a life most pure and clean.  
And always meant, to do some mighty deed,  
Against the Turks, such noble mind he bore:  
That of the like, a man may hardly reed,  
And in our days, was seldom seen before,  
Well, what avails, to blaze his virtues more.  
His mind was such, he would not idle sit,  
He held good fame, more worth than heaps of gold:  
And to maintain, his courage and his wit,  
Against the Mores, a power prepare he would.  
So with his friends, and such as wished him well,  
He shipping took, and spread the seas with sails,  
But now I have, a woeful tale to tell.  
And now in deed, my muse both weeps and wails,  
And I myself, of right ought be full sad,  
To show at large, what ill success he had,  
Both he and his, full safely set on shore,  
On enemy's ground, and ranging where they would:  
His foes him met, and fought with him so sore:  
(Whose strength and force, were stronger triple fold.)  
That he was slain, and all his people lost:  
And few of them, returned home again,  
Such was their fate, that sought that cursed cost.  
To make us muse, that doth a live remain,  
And make us know, by this great fought field:  
There is no life, but must to Fortune yield.  
For at one time, three Kings made there their end,  
But none of them, may christian men lament:  
Save this good King, to whom the Lord did send,  
A sudden fall, to our great discontent.  
Yea, way the loss, and worth of Christian blood,  
An let the case, be thoroughly understood.  
There was not such, a loss these hundredth years,  
Be judge thereof, that knows what Princes are:  
And of the state, and rule of kingdoms heers,  
And Portugal, thou luckless land of care,  
Be thou the judge, if I speak troth or Noah,  
Look how thou wilt, thou canst not hide thy woe:  
In mourning black, let all thy people go:  
Proclaim a fast, and stretehe your hands on high,  
And in the streets, for sorrow howl and cry.  
For since thy King, is taken from thee thus,  
That was before, sent thee to thy great joy:  
There is behind, a sorer plague iwis,  
If careless heads, of earnest make a toy.  
Can more mishap, to any soil befall,  
Then lose the lamp, that gave the country light:  
(And in the dark, can find no torch at all,  
Nor candle clear, to walk in winter's night,)  
Can Fortune work, to men a worse despite:  
Then take a way, their hope and comfort quite.  
Can people lose, a pearl of greater price:  
Then such a Gem, as world conscarcly show.  
Can Heathen men, wish any worse device,  
To us, then give, so great an overthrow.  
I fear the baebs, that learns their Christ's cross row,  
Will quail for this, when we are in our grave.  
The loss is yet, like fruit that is but green,  
On goodly trees, that blasted is with wind:  
But when the want, of apples shallbe seen,  
With more regard, the matter shall we mind.  
Leave that to him, that gius and takes away,  
Who can at length, his secrte will bewray.  
Now sheep from fold, may run and meet the wolf,  
Now guide is gone, the flock to ruen must fall:  
Now grief passed cure, comes in through gushing golf,  
Now Prince is dead, adieu poor Portugal.  
Thy date is done, except for destiny strange,  
God send some chance, to counterpoise the change.  
In Skies of late, was seen a blazing star,  
A comet bright, that threatened plagues at hand,  
Which did presage, perhaps this bloody war,  
And Plags that are, a brotche in many a land.  
God is displeased, and sure his wrath is great,  
When Turcks do scourge, and plague the chrsten kings:  
This angry sign, and fearful sudden heat,  
Makes wisemen way, the weight of further things.  
Where mighty trees, are rend with thunder crack,  
With trembling fear, the people homeward run:  
The tempests rage, that bringeth ruin and wrack,  
Where danger is, each living thing will shun:  
So such as see, where plague or wars increase,  
Will seek for health, and pray to live in peace.  
FINIS.   

THE VNQVIETNES of Ireland.  
TO treat of Ireland's toil,  
and tell the troubles now,  
(and paint you out in prose or verse,  
the country's sorrow thorough)  
Would sure contain more time  
and earnest matter both,  
Than easily men would spare to spend  
or world would think a troth.  
For there these many years,  
hath strife in state been stored,  
And seldom in the quiet sheath,  
can rest the trenching sword.  
The soldiers that are sent,  
to keep the land in awe:  
Are feign to March through thick and thin,  
and after lie in straw,  
And feed on what they find,  
but lo plain countrymen,  
Doth say our horse, eats up their corn,  
and Coignie now and then.  
Makes wife and children cry,  
and leaus the land full bare:  
'tis hard to know if commons poor,  
or soldiers feels most care.  
The grief so common is,  
that each one bears a piece,  
And God he knows who licks the fat,  
or shears away the fleece.  
But now to tell the toil,  
and travail soldiers take,  
To those that knows not what it means,  
it would a wonder make.  
For who that there can serve,  
and suffer what doth fall,  
May bide the bront of any war,  
in Christian kingdoms all:  
The strength and straits are such,  
that men must pass sometime.  
The rocks and mountains are so strange,  
whereon the soldiers climb:  
They can not well be told,  
nor numbered here a right.  
And touching mighty woods and bogs,  
I could name such a sight:  
As would you weary make,  
to read or look upon,  
And who demands the troth of those,  
that hath the journeys gone.  
Shall hear a thousand things,  
which worthy is the note,  
The labour, pain, and proof thereof,  
will never be forgot.  
Some feels it in their joints,  
and shall whiels lives they bear,  
And so be bold, who tries that soil,  
may venture any where:  
For toil doth daily grow,  
amid that troubled land,  
But how the cause thereof doth rise,  
with wisdom be it scanned.  
To hear the people cry,  
and see their bare estate,  
Would sure move tears in any eye,  
that doth the country hate.  
I can but wish them well,  
my duty claims the same,  
For that they are our neighbours near  
and aught with equal name,  
Like subjects live with us,  
for since one, Prince we have,  
One mind & manner should we show,  
good order that doth crave.  
The hand doth love the arm,  
and arm with legs agree,  
And all the joints the body bears,  
in perfit peace must be:  
So head shall well be served,  
but where those members jar,  
There will burst out some bold abuse  
some brawl, or irksome war.  
Though Ireland hath been long,  
in most unquiet case,  
It will be well, when God shall plant,  
in people's hearts his grace:  
I hope to see that day,  
and that in season short,  
That my plain pen shall find great cause,  
to yield them good report.  
FINIS.   

THE troubles of scotland.  
IF Flaunders, France, or Portugal compare,  
With scotland now, for troubles, strange it were:  
For that is soil, of sorrow and of care,  
And chiefest seat, of sadness any where.  
That oft hath had, within itself such store,  
As spoiled the land, and kept the country poor:  
And when that wars, awhile had taken leave,  
(And woe bade want, to lay down spear and shield:)  
The one by sleight, the other would deceive,  
And than sharp sword, should plead the case in field.  
Yea in the house, short dagger did the deed,  
When murder might, serve time or turn for need:  
And nuzzled thus, they were God wots in blood,  
In rage they would, not spare, ne high nor low:  
Not one might buy, his life for worldly good,  
If murdering hands, were bend to give the blow:  
Their heinous acts, sufficient proof doth show,  
I need not name, the persons they have slain:  
For slaughters cry, through highest clouds doth go,  
And daily craves, of God redress again.  
The murdering mind, is never free from foe.  
Nor sure of friend, nor yet of life in fine,  
But dwells in doubt, and lives like cursed Cain:  
O happy wight, that hath such grace divine,  
That never will, his heart nor conscience stain,  
With brother's blood: and blessed is that head,  
And hand withal, that never blood did shed.  
Both beasts and birds, will fall out sundry ways,  
And strive awhile, and yet at length agree:  
But as they waste, their collar so decay,  
And clean forgot, the quarrels are you see.  
Shall man, that hath, the reason to forbear,  
Be worse than beast? O God that fault forbidden,  
Shall malice find, a place and secure there,  
Where Gods great gifts, ought lie like treasure hid?  
Shall hearts of men, (the temple of the Lord)  
Lodge murder vile, and nourish foul discord?  
Shall those that knows, what law & peace is worth,  
Break law and Peace, and breed dissension still?  
The tree is bad, that brings such branches forth:  
The heads are vain, that shows no deeper skill,  
The ground is nought, that breeds but scratting brers  
And soil not good, where murder still appers.  
And yet the ground can bear no blame of this,  
men's hearts unsound, turns many things amiss.  
Or else the fate, that is from heaven sent,  
And cruel course of planets may be cause:  
That people are, to troubles daily bend,  
And so forgetts, good rule and wholesome laws.  
If planets could, work that effect in man,  
Where should Gods grace, have force and virtue then?  
It were a fault, and error wonders great,  
To trust or think, that planets could do aught,  
In man who takes, his force and kindly heat,  
His form and shape, his sense and feeling thought,  
From him that sits, above the stars and sees,  
How planets move, and how the world agrees.  
Would God those soils, where greatest jars have been,  
And all the sorts, and people of the same:  
Would from henceforth, such trade of life begin,  
As in our world, might purchase endless fame.  
For bloody brawls, that hurly-burly breeds,  
With murders foul, and treasons void of fear,  
Comes out of vice, and springs from wicked seeds.  
They are a dross, and darnel in good corn:  
A graceless grain, that poisons man and beast:  
An open plague, a privy pricking thorn:  
A bankette fine, to grace a filthy feast:  
A dish of swill, dressed up like dainty cheer:  
A mess of broth, that mars the Dinner quite:  
A cold conceit, of Cookrie boughtfull dear:  
A cunning knack, of knavery spiced with spite:  
A trick new learned, beyond the Alps I trow:  
A toy brought home, by those that travels far:  
A simple Snake; a smiling subtle shrew:  
A sign of Peace, but ground of grievous war.  
What can be named, of all vile earthly things,  
But murders reach, and monstrons' treason brings:  
The land that hath, amid his bowels bred,  
This sore disease, and will no medson take:  
Is sure not well, and sick from feet to head,  
And of itself, but small account doth make.  
No state can stand, where justice bears no sway,  
The legs are lame, that full of humours are:  
The man must fall, that hath no certain stay,  
Where virtue wants, vice walks but thin and bare.  
A patched wall, is shaked a sunder straight:  
It lasts no while, that is set up by sleight:  
Our Nature haets, the thing that is not good:  
And such as halt, are spied by upright seuce:  
And kind abhors, the blade imbrued in blood:  
Who strikes the weak, that can not make defence,  
Dare not in field, a point to meet his foe.  
Who makes a band, to murder one alone,  
loves neither Prince, nor commonwealth I know:  
And who delights, to here the guiltless groan,  
Doth bear man's shape, and tigers nature show:  
Well, let that pass, great troubles may a rise,  
In angry world, that is displeased for nought:  
But such as fall, to murder are not wife,  
Their wits can not, conceive how man was wrought  
Nor who regards, the wrongs good people have:  
Whils' guiltless blood, a right revenge doth crave.  
FINIS.   

THE BLESSED state of England.  
WHat blessed hap, and happy days,  
our kingdom doth possess,  
the wealth & peace that here abounds  
to world may well express:  
What greater joy can people have  
than rest and riches both?  
And many other fruitful things,  
that on those branches groweth.  
What earthly fame, is like to this?  
what wisdom can be more?  
Than shun the broiels, that folly brings,  
and lay up wealth in store.  
For wars when cause commands the same,  
what can we wish so well  
Than, at a time of troubles great,  
in quiet house to dwell.  
But way a while with judging wit;  
what woe our neighbours taste:  
What wealth goes out, what world's unrest  
comes in with war and waste,  
A lusty brute, cries all for war,  
and such as little have:  
With Prince's pay, or poor men's goods,  
would feign go gay and brave,  
But tasting wars, both he and more,  
that buys their knowledge dear,  
That goes out well, comes home with loss,  
and than rests quiet here.  
Cries out of wars, finds fault with toil,  
and trusts to that will last,  
And so with sad and heavy mind,  
forgetts the labours passed:  
And faulls to take the ease we here  
enjoy, with peace at home.  
A jewel which full sea we shall find,  
that lists abroad to roam.  
For round about us every where,  
the world so runs on wheels:  
That we are blest that here no part,  
of their affliction feels.  
Here have we scope to skip or walk,  
to run and play at base:  
Still void of fear, and free of mind,  
in every point and case.  
Here friends may meet and talk at will,  
the Prince and law obeyed:  
And neither strange, nor home borne child,  
of Fortune stands afraid.  
Here hands do reap the seeds they so we,  
and heads have quiet sleeps:  
And wisdom governs so the world,  
that reason order keeps.  
Here mercy rules, and mildness reigns,  
and peace great plenty brings:  
And solace in his sweetest voice,  
the Christmas carrowle sings.  
Here friends may feast, and triumph too,  
in surety void of ill:  
And one the other welcome make,  
with mirth and warm good will.  
The ground it brings such blessing forth,  
that glad are forrains all:  
Amid their want, and hard exstreems,  
in favour here to fall.  
Heer wounded staets do heal their harms,  
and strangers still repair;  
When mischief makes them March abroad,  
and drive them in despair.  
Heer thousands haunt and find relief,  
that are in heavy case:  
And friendly folk with open arms,  
doth silly souls embrace.  
Here things are cheap, and easily had,  
no soil the like can show:  
No state nor kingdom at this day,  
doth in such plenty flow.  
The trau'lar that hath passed the world,  
and gone through many a land:  
When he comes home, and notes these things,  
to heaven holds up hand:  
And museth how this little plot,  
can yield such pleasures great:  
It argues where such graces grow,  
that God hath blest the seat.  
Both Prince and people every one,  
and where his blessing is,  
There neither wants no earthly joy,  
nor hope of heavens bliss.  
This I'll, is kernel of the nut,  
and those that near us dwell,  
(Our foreign neighbours round about,)  
I Count them but the shell:  
That holdeth in this kernel sweet,  
as Nature hath a ssiende.  
And as some shells worm eaten are,  
yet kernel sound we find:  
So sundry soils, about this isle,  
are cracked, and croshte ye know:  
With fury's rage, and force that fills  
their country full of woe.  
Which force of men, or rage of war,  
makes calm the lookers on:  
And bids wise heads, to quench hot fire,  
and stand as cold as stone.  
When strife would storre up quiet state,  
to strive for feeble straws:  
And leave the love of country's zeal,  
and hold with foreign cause.  
O England, thou art blest in deed,  
thy neck is free from yoke:  
Thy arms are strong, thy body sound,  
and in good hour be spoke,  
Thy youth and age have able joints,  
to try thy cause in field:  
And as that now in troublous times,  
the Lord hath been thy shield.  
So look when comes in, cunning knacks,  
thy whole account is made,  
That plainness shall make fineness feel,  
the weight of bilbo blade.  
More blessed than thy neighbours all,  
by proof thou art as yet:  
More likely art thou by that cause,  
in peace and rest to sit.  
More good in season hast thou done,  
than thousands well can way:  
Most happy is thy state therefore,  
and surer stands thy stay.  
Than Mayest thou be the kernel sweet,  
that many wish to have:  
But none can spoil, nor scarce dare touch,  
such grace great God thee gave.  
That guard shall keep the kernel long,  
from worm and wicked foil:  
And send good fortune sundry ways,  
unto this blessed soil.  
FINIS.