A new ballade of the Marigolde.
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THe God above, for mans delight,
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Hath heere ordaynde, every thing,
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Sonne, Moone and Sterres, shinyng so bright,
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with all kinde fruites, that here doth spring,
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And Flowres that are, so flourishyng:
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Amonges all which, that I beholde,
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(As to my minde, best contentyng)
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I doo commende, the Marigolde,
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In Veare, first springeth the Violet:
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The Primerose then, also doth spred:
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The Couslip sweete, abroade doth get:
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The Daisye gaye, sheweth forth her hed:
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The Medowes greene, so garnished,
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Most goodly (truly) to beholde,
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For which, God is to be Praised:
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Yet I commende, the Marigolde.
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The Rose, that chearfully doth showe,
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At Midsomer, her course hath shee:
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The Lilye white, after doth growe:
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The Columbine, then see may yee:
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The Joliflowre, in fresh degree,
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with sundrie mo, then can be tolde,
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Though they, never so pleasaunt bee,
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Yet I commende, the Marigolde.
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Though these, which here are mencioned,
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Bee delectable to the iye,
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By whom sweete smelles, are ministred,
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The sense of man, to satisfye,
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Yet, each as serveth his fantasye:
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wherfore to say, I wyll be bolde,
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And to advoide, all flaterye,
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I doo commende the Marigolde.
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All these, but for a time doth serve,
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Soone come, soone gone, so doth they fare,
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At fervent heates and stormes thei sterve,
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Fadyng away, their staulkes left bare,
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Of that I praise, thus say I dare,
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Shee sheweth glad cheare, in heate and colde,
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Moche profityng, to hertes in care,
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Such is this floure, the Marigolde.
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This Marigolde Floure, marke it well,
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with Sonne dooth open, and also shut,
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which (in a meanyng) to us doth tell,
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To Christ Gods Sonne, our willes to put,
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And by his woorde, to set our futte,
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Stiffly to stande, as Champions bolde,
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From the truthe to stagger nor stutte,
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For which I praise the Marigolde.
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To Marie our Queene, that Floure so sweete,
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This Marigolde, I doo apply,
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For that the Name, doth serve so meete,
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And propertee, in eache partie,
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For her enduryng paciently,
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The stormes of such, as list to scolde
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At her dooynges, without cause why,
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Loth to see spring, this Marigolde.
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Shee may be calde, Marigolde well,
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Of Marie (chiefe) Christes mother deere,
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That as in heaven, shee doth excell,
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And Golde in earth, to have no peere:
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So (certainly) shee shineth cleere,
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In Grace and honour double folde,
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The like was never earst seene heere,
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Suche is this floure, the Marigolde,
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Her education well is knowne,
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From her first age, how it hath wrought,
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In singler Vertue shee hath growne,
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And servyng God, as she well ought,
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For which he had her, in his thought,
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And shewed her, Graces many folde,
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In her estate, to see her brought,
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Though some dyd spite this Marigolde.
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Yf she (in faith) had erred amisse,
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whiche God, most sure, doth understande,
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wolde hee have doone, as proved is,
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Her Enmies so, to bring to hande:
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No, be ye sure, I make a bande,
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For servyng him, he needes so wolde,
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Make her to Reigne over Englande.
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So loveth hee this Marigolde.
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Her conversacion, note who list,
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It is more heavenly, then terraine,
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For which, God doth her Actes assist:
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All meekenesse doth, in her remaine:
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All is her care, how to ordayne,
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To have Gods Glorie here extolde,
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Of Poore and Riche, shee is most fayne,
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Christ save therfore this Marigolde.
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Sith so it is, God loveth her,
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And shee, His Grace, as doth appeare:
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Ye may be bolde, as to referre,
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All doubtfulnesse, to her most cleare,
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That, as her owne, in like maneare,
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She wilth your welthes, both yong & olde,
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Obey her then, as your Queene deare,
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And say: Christ save this Marigolde.
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Christ save her, in her High Estate,
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Therin (in rest) long to endure:
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Christ so all wronges, heere mitigate.
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That all may be, to his pleasure,
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The high, the lowe, in due measure,
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As membres true, with her to holde,
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So, eache to be, thothers treasure,
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In cherishyng, the Marigolde.
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Be thou (O God) so good as thus:
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Thy Perfect Fayth, to see take place:
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Thy Peace thou plant, here among us,
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That Errour may, go hide his face,
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So to concorde us in eache case.
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As in thy Courte, it is enrolde:
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wee all (as one) to love her Grace,
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That is our Queene, this Marigolde.
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