In wast of wynde I rede-
Vowe nought unto the Lord,
Wherto thy hart, to bynd thy will,
Freely doth not accord;
For humble vowes fullfilld,

By grace right swetely smoks,
But bold behests, broken by lusts,
The wrath of God provoks :

Yet bett with humble hert

Thy frayltye to confesse,

Then to bost of suche perfitnes, Whose works suche fraud expresse.

With fayned words and othes

Contract with God no gyle;

Suche craft returns to thyn own harme,
And doth thy self defile.
And thoughe the myst of sinne

Perswad such error light,

Therby yet ar thy owtward works

All dampned in his sight. As sondry broken dreames

Us dyverslye abuse, So ar his errors manifold

That many words dothe use.
With humble secret playnt,

Fewe wordes of hotte effect,
Honor thy Lord, alowance vaine
Of voyd desart neglect.
Thoughe wronge at tymes the right,

And welthe eke nede oppresse,
Thinke not the hand of justice slowe
To followe the redresse.

For suche unrightius folke
As rule withouten dred,
By some abuse our secret lust
He suffereth to be led.

The cheif blisse that in earth
To living man is lent,
Is moderat welth to nourishe lief,
Yf he can be content.

He that hath but one felde,

And gredely sekethe nought
To fence the tillers hand from nede,
Is king within his thought.
But suche as of ther golde
Ther only idoll make,
Noe treasure may the raven of
Theire hungry hands asslake.

For he that gapes for good,

And hordeth all his gayne, Travells in vayne to hyde the sweet That showld releve his payne. Wher is gret welth, there showld Be many a nedy wight

To spend the same, and that should be

The riche mans cheif delight.

The sweet and quiet slepes

That weryd limmes oppresse,

Begile the night in diet thynne,

And feasts of great excesse: But wakerly the riche,

Whose lyvely heat with rest

Their charged boolks with change of meats

Cannot so sone dygest.

An other righteous dome

I sawe of gredy gayne,
With busye cares suche treasures oft
Preservyd to their bayne:

The plenteus howsses sackt,

The owners end with shame,

Their sparkelid goods, their nedy heyres,

That showld rejoyce the same;

From welthe dyspoyled bare,

From whence they came they went, Clad in the clothes of poverte,

As nature fyrst them sent. Naked as from the wombe

We came yf we depart,

With toyle to seeke that wee must leve,
What boote to vexe the hart?

What lyef leede testeye men,
They that consume their dayes
In inwarde freets, untempred hates,
At stryef with sum alwaies.
Then gan I prayce all those,

In suche a world of stryffe,
As take the profitt of ther goods,
That may be had in lyffe;

For sure the liberall hand

That hath no hart to spare

This fading welthe, but powres it forthe,

It is a vertu rare:

That maks welthe slave to nede,

And gold becom his thrall,

Clings not his gutts with niggishe fare,

To heape his chest withall;

But feeds the lusts of kynde
With costely meats and wyne,

And slacks the hunger and the thurst
Of nedy folke that pyne:
No gluttons feast I meane

In wast of 'spence to stryve,

But temprat mealles the dulled spryts

With joye thus to revive.

No care may perce where myrth

Hath tempred such a brest;

The bitter gaull, seasond with swete,
Such wysdome may digest.

Finis.

Three Psalms versified by Lord Surrey'.

PROEM.

WHER recheles youthe in a unquiet brest,
Set on by wrath, revenge, and crueltye,
After long warr, pacyens had opprest,

And justice wrought by pryncelye equitie,
My devy then, myne errour depe imprest,

Began to worke dispaire of libertye;
Had not David, the perfyt warriour, tought—
That of my fault thus pardon should be sought.

* As these Psalms follow Lord Surrey's version of Ecclesiastes in the same MS. they are presumed (from Mr. Warton's intimation at p. 340) to have been the production of his lordship, probably during his imprisonment in Windsor-Castle, when his devy or deviation from the king's religious injunctions, began to work despair of liberty.'

Domine Deus salutis. Psal. lxxxviij.

OH Lorde! uppon whose will
Dependeth my welfare,

To call uppon thy hollye name,
Syns day nor night I spare;
Graunt that the just request
Of this repentaunt mynd,
So perce thyne eares, that in thy sight
Som favour it may fynd.

My sowle is fraughted full
With greif of follies past,
My restles bodye doth consume
And death approcheth fast;
Lyke them whose fatall threde

Thy hand hath cut in twayne,
Of whome ther is no further brewte,
Which in their graves remayne.
Oh, Lorde! thou hast cast me

Hedlong, to please my fooe,
Into a pitt all botomeles,

Whear as I playne my wooe, The burden of thy wrath

It doth me sore oppresse;

And sundrye stormes thou hast me sent Of terrour and distresse :

The faithfull frends ar fled

And bannyshed from my sight: And such as I have held full dere,

Have sett my frendshipp light.