Whie, holie Mother, whie dothe ruthlesse Honde
Thus smyte thie Gates of hoarie Majestie?
Workynge rude Spoyle, wheere Scyence kepte her Stonde,
Contente to flowte all gawdie Fantasie.
Staie, Holie Mother, staie such Vanitie,
Albe soe trym, this noughte beseemythe thee.
No goodlie Syghte of Bedesman’s connyng Celle,
Wheare Urchyn Wysdome crawlyde forthe thie Lappe;
No sturdie Porche, wheare Valor’s Chylde dyd dwelle,
Swyllyng his Lore from oute thie plenteous Pappe.
Staie, Holie Mother, staie such Vanitie,
Albe soe trym, this noughte beseemythe thee.
Att wontede Noone, thie Trenchermenne unseene,
Att Eve, unhearde thie Chaunte of godlie Tonge.
More godlie farre, soche holie Chaunte I weene,
Than mottrynge Clerke, wyth Masse ne sayde ne songe.
Staie, Holie Mother, staie such Vanitie,
Albe soe trym, this noughte beseemythe thee.
Nyghtes starrie Hoste, mydst steadie Pathe dothe byde,
Ne soffrythe Chaunge thylke Lampe whych rulythe Daie;
Ah lett not Showe of Mortals wytlesse Pryde!
Bedymm thie heavenlie Cowrse, swete Saunte! we praie.
Staie, Holie Mother, staie such Vanitie,
Nor be more trymm, than erste beseemyde thee.
(Henry Harington)
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Based on Topics: Mothers PoemsBased on Keywords: spoyle, dwelle, pryde, wyth, honde, showe, lampe, dyd, dothe, oute, chaunge