GOOD-MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night

In sleep and quiet rest,

And joy to see the cheerful light

That riseth in the east;

Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, Come help me now to sing:

Each willing wight come, bear a part,

To praise the heavenly King.

And

you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,

Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress;

Yet bear a part in doleful wise,

Yea, think it good accord,

And acceptable sacrifice,

Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread the light;
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overpress'd our might:

A glass wherein you may behold

Each storm that stops our breath,

Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last

But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,

Doth show his pleasant face:

So must we hope to see God's face,

At last in heaven on high,

When we have changed this mortal place
For immortality.

And of such haps and heavenly joys
As then we hope to hold,

All earthly sights, and worldly toys,
Are tokens to behold.

The day is like the day of doom,

The sun, the Son of man;

The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb, Wherein we rest till than.

The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedeck'd with sundry hues,

Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:
That as thereby He promised

To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed,
He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime,

And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time,
Which do but dim our eyes.
But as such dews are dried up quite,
When Phoebus shows his face,
So are such fancies put to flight,
Where God doth guide by grace.

The carrion crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,

VOL. I.

Both for her hue, and for the rest,

The devil resembleth plain:
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,

The devil so must we o'erthrow,
With gunshot of belief.

The little birds which sing so sweet,
Are like the angels' voice,
Which renders God His praises meet,
And teach1 us to rejoice:

And as they more esteem that mirth,
Than dread the night's annoy,
So much we deem our days on earth
But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain,
God grant us all His grace,
And send us, after worldly pain,
In heaven to have a place,
When we may still enjoy that light,

Which never shall decay:
Lord, for thy mercy lend us might,
To see that joyful day.

GOOD-NIGHT.

When thou hast spent the ling'ring day

In pleasure and delight,

Or after toil and weary way,
Dost seek to rest at night;

Unto thy pains or pleasures past,
Add this one labour yet,

1 Teach:' for teacheth.

Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast,
Do not thy God forget,

But search within thy secret thoughts,

What deeds did thee befall,
And if thou find amiss in aught,
To God for mercy call.

Yea, though thou findest nought amiss
Which thou canst call to mind,
Yet evermore remember this,
There is the more behind:

And think how well soe'er it be
That thou hast spent the day,
It came of God, and not of thee,
So to direct thy way.

Thus if thou try thy daily deeds,
And pleasure in this pain,

Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds,
And thine shall be the gain:

But if thy sinful, sluggish eye,
Will venture for to wink,
Before thy wading will may try

How far thy soul may sink,
Beware and wake,1 for else thy bed,

Which soft and smooth is made,
May heap more harm upon thy head
Than blows of en'my's blade.

Thus if this pain procure thine ease,
In bed as thou dost lie,

Perhaps it shall not God displease,

To sing thus soberly:

'I see that sleep is lent me here, To ease my weary bones,

1 Wake:' watch.

As death at last shall eke appear,

To ease my grievous groans,

'My daily sports, my paunch full fed,
Have caused my drowsy eye,
As careless life, in quiet led,

Might cause my soul to die:

The stretching arms, the yawning breath,
Which I to bedward use,
Are patterns of the pangs of death,
When life will me refuse;

And of my bed each sundry part,
In shadows, doth resemble

The sundry shapes of death, whose dart

Shall make my flesh to tremble.

My bed it safe is, like the grave,

My sheets the winding-sheet,

My clothes the mould which I must have,

To cover me most meet.

'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh,
To worms I can compare,
Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh,

And leave the bones full bare:
The waking cock that early crows,
To wear the night away,

Puts in my mind the trump that blows
Before the latter day.

And as I rise up lustily,

When sluggish sleep is past,

So hope I to rise joyfully,

To judgment at the last.

Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep,

Thus will I hope to rise,