The Lamentation of Follie:
To the tune of New Rogero.
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ALas what meaneth man,
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with care and greedy paine:
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To wrest to win a worldly fame
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which is but vile and vaine.
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As though he had no cause to doubt,
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the drift of his desire,
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Not pleased though he rule the route,
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but still to covet higher.
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And wander after will,
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farre passing his degree:
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Not so contented still,
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but a king himselfe to be.
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Subverting law and right,
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detecting triall true:
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Wringing every wight,
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that all the realme dooth rue.
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Whose deed and ill desart,
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compact and false consent:
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I thinke no Christen heart,
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can choose but needs lament.
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Alas it seemed strange,
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such thraldome in a realme:
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Which wealthie was to wast away,
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by will that was extreame.
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Sith vertue was profest,
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most famous franke and free:
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Yet men transposed cleane,
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more vile and worse to be.
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And such as did pretend
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to shew themselfe most holie:
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Have swarved in the end,
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and fawned after follie.
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Whose wordes so disagree,
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as waters come and go:
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Their livings to be contrary,
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that should examples showe.
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And fawning after fame,
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pursue their owne decay:
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As though there were no God,
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to call their life away.
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What surety is in man,
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what truth or trust at all:
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Which frameth what he can,
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to worke unworthy thrall.
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Oppression hath beene free,
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the poore alas be spoyled:
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Maides and wives be ravished,
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the simple are beguiled.
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Lawe is made a libertie,
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and right is overthrowne:
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Faith is but a foolish thing,
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falsehood is alone.
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Pride is counted clenlinesse,
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and theft is but a slight.
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Whoredome is but wantonnesse,
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and waste is but delight.
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Spoiling is but pleasure,
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riot is but youth:
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Slaunder is a laughing game,
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and lying counted trueth.
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Mariage is but mockage,
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the children counted base:
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Thus right is wronged every way,
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in our accursed case.
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Flatterie is the Forte of Fame,
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and trueth is troden downe:
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The innocent do beare the blame,
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the wicked winne renowne.
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Thus Sathan hath prevailed long,
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and we for want of grace:
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Have troden vertue under foote,
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and vice hath taken place.
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But God that is most righteous,
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hath seene our fatall fall:
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And spred his mercie over us,
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to shield us from the thrall.
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Whose mercy is so infinite,
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to such as were oppressed:
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He hath restored them to right,
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and hath their care redressed.
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And though that our unworthinesse,
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hath not deserved so:
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Now let us cease our wickednesse,
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and graft where grace may grow.
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And let us pray for our defence,
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our worthy Queene elect:
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That God may worke his will in her,
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our thraldome to correct.
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That God be chiefely served so,
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as dooth to him belong:
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That right may have his course againe,
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and vanquish wicked wrong.
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That we may live in feare and awe,
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and truly to intend:
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And have the justice of the lawe,
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our causes to defend.
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That truth may take his wonted place,
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and faith be fast againe:
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And then repent and call for grace,
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that wrought our care and paine.
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That God send us a short redresse,
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with wealth and great increase:
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And to our Queene, to reigne and rule,
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in honour, health, and peace.
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