Let God's pure word thy line and compass be;
And steadfast faith weigh thou in anchor's stead:
Lament thy sins; then shalt thou shortly see

That power divine will help thee forth at need.
Fell Satan is chief ruler of these seas-

He seeks our wreck; he doth these tempests raise.

In what we may, let us alway repress

The furious waves of lust and strong desire ;
A quiet calm our conscience shall possess,
If we do that which duty doth require:

By godly life, in fine, obtain we shall

The port of bliss: to which God send us all!

A PRAYER.

O MIGHTY God! which for us men didst suffer on the cross
The painful pangs of bitter death, to save our souls from loss,
I yield Thee here most hearty thanks, in that Thou dost vouchsafe
Of me, most vile and sinful wretch, so great regard to have.

Alas! none ever had more cause to magnify Thy name
Than I, to whom Thy mercies shown do witness well the same:
So many brunts of fretting foes who ever could withstand,
If Thou hadst not protected me with Thy most holy hand?

When as the Fiend had led my soul e'en to the gates of hell, Thou call'dst me back and dost me choose in heaven with Thee to dwell.

Let Furies now fret on their fill, let Satan rage and roar,

As long as Thou art on my side what need I care for more?

D

GASCOIGNE was the son of Sir John Gascoigne, of Walthamstow. In his early life he was guilty of many excesses, for which he is said to have been disinherited by his father. He studied at Cambridge, and was subsequently entered at Gray's Inn; but he soon abandoned the law and went abroad as a soldier. He received a commission

from the Prince of Orange, but a quarrel with his superior officer caused him to return to England, and he entered the service of Queen Elizabeth. In his later years he displayed true and deep sorrow for his early follies, and retired to Walthamstow, where he died peacefully in 1577.

GOOD MORROW."

You that have spent the silent night

In sleep and quiet rest,

And love 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
Hath overspread the light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness

Hath overprest 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.

1

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 joys

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 then.

The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedecked with sundry hues,

Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell this 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: