When hoyling wrath perturbs mas troubled brest,
Outraging will bids reasons lore adue:
Turmoyling cares bereaue all quiet rest,
And hastie yre makes harmefull happes ensue,
Great stormes of strife are raisd, through dire debate,
But golden peace preserues the quiet state.
A gift diuine, than precious pearle more worth,
Is blessed peace, to discord deadly foe.
Most plenteous fruits this blooming tree brings forth
When warre and strife yeeld crops of care and woe.
Rash rancours rage procures fond furious fightes,
Peace makes men swim in seaes of sweet delights.
If that this peace bee such a passing thing,
That it by right may challenge worthy prayse:
What thankes owe wee vnto our heauenly king,
Through whome we haue enioyde such happy dayes?
Next to our Queene, how deepely are wee bound,
Whose like on earth, before was neuer found?
If England would perpend the bloody broyles,
And slaughters huge that foraine realmes haue tried,
It should me seemes, by warnd by their turmoyles,
In perfect loue and concord to abide.
But (out alas) my heart doeth rue to tell)
Small feare of God, amongst vs now doth dwell.
And where that wantes, what hope doth els remayne,
But dire reuenge for rash committed crimes?
Heapes of mishaps will fall on vs amayne,
If we doe not lament our sinnes betimes.
Unlesse with speede, to God for grace we call,
I feare, I feare, great plagues on vs will fall.
England therefore, in time conuert from vice,
The pleasant spring abides not all the yeere.
Let foraine ylls, forewarne thee to be wise,
Stormes may ensue, though now the coastes be cleere.
I say no more, but onely doe request,
That God will turne all things vnto the best.