Ïðî÷èòàíèé :  133
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Òâîð÷³ñòü |
Á³îãðàô³ÿ |
Êðèòèêà
Gascoignes good morrow
You that have spent the silent night,
In sleepe and quiet rest,
And joye to see the cheerefull lyght
That ryseth in the East:
Now cleare your voyce, now chere your hart,
Come helpe me nowe to sing:
Eche willing wight come beare a part,
To prayse the heavenly King.
And you whome care in prison keepes,
Or sickenes doth suppresse,
Or secret sorowe breakes your sleepes,
Or dolours doe distresse:
Yet beare a parte in dolfull wise,
Yea thinke it good accorde,
And [ac]ceptable sacrifice,
Eche sprite to prayse the lorde.
The dreadfull night with darkesomnesse,
Had over spread the light,
And sluggish sleepe with drowsynesse,
Had over press our might:
A glasse wherin you may beholde,
Eche storme that stopes our breath,
Our bed the grave, our clothes lyke molde,
And sleepe like dreadfull death.
Yet as this deadly night did laste,
But for a little space,
And heavenly daye nowe night is past,
Doth shewe his pleasaunt face:
So must we hope to see Gods face,
At last in heaven on hie,
When we have chang'd this mortall place,
For Immortalitie.
And of such happes and heavenly joyes,
As then we hope to holde,
All earthly sightes and wor[l]dly toyes,
Are tokens to beholde.
The daye is like the daye of doome,
The sunne, the Sonne of man,
The skyes the heavens, the earth the tombe
Wherein we rest till than.
The Rainbowe bending in the skye,
Bedeckte with sundrye hewes,
Is like the seate of God on hye,
And seemes to tell these newes:
That as thereby he promised,
To drowne the world no more,
So by the bloud which Christ hath shead,
He will our helth restore.
The mistie cloudes that fall somtime,
And overcast the skyes,
Are like to troubles of our time,
Which do but dymme our eyes:
But as suche dewes are dryed up quite,
When Phþbus shewes his face,
So are such fansies put to flighte,
Where God doth guide by grace.
The caryon Crowe, that lothsome beast,
Which cryes agaynst the rayne,
Both for hir hewe and for the rest,
The Devill resembleth playne:
And as with gonnes we kill the Crowe,
For spoyling our releefe,
The Devill so must we overthrowe,
With gonshote of beleefe.
The little byrde[s] which sing so swete,
Are like the angelles voyce,
Which render God his prayses meete,
And teache us to rejoyce:
And as they more esteeme that myrth,
Than dread the nights anoy,
So mu[ste] we deeme our days on earth,
But hell to heavenly joye.
Unto which Joyes for to attayne
God graunt us all his grace,
And sende us after worldly payee,
In heaven to have a place.
Where wee maye still enjoy that light,
Which never shall decaye:
Lorde for thy mercy lend us might,
To see that joyfull daye.
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