QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN, Born 1507, died 1536. To this ill-fated queen the following verses have been ascribed. See the History of Music, vol. iii. p. 30. by Sir John Hawkins, who says, they were communicated to him by "a very judicious antiquary, lately deceased." DEFILED is my name full sore, Through cruel spyte and false report, Farewell, my joy! adiewe, comfort! Unto my fame a mortall wounde; Say what ye lyst, it will not be, Ye seek for that can not be found. O death! rocke me on slepe, Bringe me on quiet reste; Let passe my verye guiltless goste For I must dye, There is no remedy, My paynes who can expres? Alas! they are so stronge, My dolor will not suffer strength My lyfe for to prolonge : Toll on the passinge bell, &c. Alone, in prison stronge, I wayle my destenye; Wo worth this cruel hap that I Should taste this miserye. Toll on the passinge bell, &c. Farewell my pleasures past, For the sound my deth doth tell; Death doth draw nye, Sound my end dolefully, ANNE ASKEWE, Born about 1520, died 1546. This glorious martyr, on account of the following production, is numbered among writers of poetry, by Phillips, in the Theatrum Poetarum; and by Ritson, in the Bibliographia Poetica. The Balade whych Anne Askewe made and sange whan she was in Newgate. (At the end of "The lattre examinacyon of Anne Askewe, latelye martyred in Smythfelde, by the wycked Synagoge of Antichrist, with the Elucydacyon of Johan Bale." B. L.) LYKE as the armed knyght And fayth shall be my shielde. Faythe is that weapon stronge Therwith wyll I procede. As it is had in strengthe And force of Christes waye, It wyll prevayle at lengthe, Though all the devyls saye naye. Faythe in the fathers olde Obtayned ryghtwysnesse, I now rejoyce in hart, And hope byd me do so, For Christ wyll take my part, And ease me of my wo. Thu sayst, Lorde, whoso knocke, To them wylt thou attende; Undo therfor the locke, And thy stronge power sende. More enmyes now I have Than heeres upon my heed; On the my care I cast, For all their cruell spyght, I sett not by their hast, For thu art my delyght. I am not she that lyst Not oft use I to wryght In prose nor yet in ryme, Yet wyll I shewe one syght That I sawe in my tyme. I saw a ryall trone Where Justyce shuld have sytt, But in her stede was one Of modye cruell wytt. Absorpt was rygtwysnesse As of the ragynge floude; Sathan in hys excesse Sucte up the gyltelesse bloude. Then thought I, Jesus, Lorde, On these men what wyll fall. |