XCIV. Bartholomew Chappell

THE ROARING sea doth fret and fume,

Her waues she flings aboue the land;

She shewes all things are out of tune;

She cries, ‘God’s day is nigh at hand.’

The earth of late hath shakt herself,

As wearie of her sinfull burne;

Which is ourselues with worldly pelfe;

But oh! thereby we are forlorne.

Of late she swallowed in her gulfe

Twelue thousand out of London towne

By sudden plague, like rauening wolfe;

Yet are our hearts not once pluckt downe.

O man! to thee now must I call,

The end where first I did begin,

That joyes, that blisse, that paine and thrall

May keep thy soule and mind from sin.

Thy heart will melt on them to thinke,

If any grace in thee remaine;

And from all filthy sinfull sinke

Thy heart and hand thou wilt refraine.

When grisly death doth thee assault,

It is too late for to amend:

Wherefore in time confesse thy fault,

And God to please see thou intend.

For when this life is gone and past,

There is no cure for any sinne:

Then as we are, so shall we last,

In joy, or paine, as we begin.