[THeyr dedes in effecte, my lyfe wolde have]
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THeyr dedes in effecte, my lyfe wolde have
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Theyr wordes do pretende, my lyvynge to crave
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Theyr dedes I drede not, theyr wordes beynge suche
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I drede and regarde, in maner as moche.
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My lyfe is but vyle, I esteme as lyght
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Then shulde I in gooddes or lyvynge delyght
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Whom matters and dedes, nought moveth at all
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Shulde wynde and vayne wordes, his courage appall.
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Not man unto man, can threaten I wote
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More grevous then death, the horryble lote
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And be it that death, by sentence of man
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I suffre and that, well suffre I can.
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What shulde I regarde, this transytorie state
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Regarde and thynke on, both early and late
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I muste a newe lyfe, that ever shall laste
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Subjecte to no death, no syckenesse, no waste.
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Than welcome be death, the entrye of lyfe
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And dewe to the worlde, the stage of all stryfe
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Lyfe lost in this wyse, relevyth agayne
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For ever in blysse, to lyve without payne.
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From hence and herein, my comforte and staye
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Reposed I have, that can not decaye
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God graunt me suche losse, that rayseth this gayne
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God graunt me that death, suche lyfe to retayne.
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In meanetyme and space, saye properly this
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I maye and in place, Vana salus hominis.
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Stephen Wynton.
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[YOur dedes in effecte, that made your lyfe brave]
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YOur dedes in effecte, that made your lyfe brave
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Hath caused your wordes, the truth to deprave
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Your dedes ye forget not, your wordes beynge suche
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You dryve on and drede not, all men se to moche.
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Your lyfe hath ben lewde, whiche ye esteme lyght
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Of force to leave gooddes, no thanke to go quyght
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Thoughe matters and dedes, nought move you at all
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Let God and his threates, your stowtenes appall.
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For man unto man, can nought threate ye wote
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More grevous then death, that horryble lote
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But yf ye have death, that Justyce gyve can
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Drede then your desertes, and blame ye not man.
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Amende and repente, your stobourne estate
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That truthe hath neare tryed, but almosse to late
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A patarne moste popysshe, from fyrste to the laste
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As wylfull, as wyttie, whiche wante worketh waste.
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I doubte the welcome of death, to that lyfe
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Plased for Popes pageantes, in stage of moche stryfe
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Lyfe lost in this wyse, relevyth agayne
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As he that from blysse, returneth to payne.
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From hence and herein, your comforte and staye
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Reposed you have, whiche nedes muste decaye
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If God for this losse, do graunt ye dewe gayne
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God shylde ye from death, suche lyfe to retayne.
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In meane and space, our prayer is this
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As we maye in place, God tourne to his.
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H.S.
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