hys doe;
    For aye shall lyve hys heaven-recorded name,
    Ne shall yt dye whanne tyme shalle bee no moe;
    Whanne Mychael’s trumpe shall sounde to rise the solle,
  He’ll wynge to heavn wyth kynne, and happie bee hys dolle.

THE STORIE OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.

  Anent a brooklette as I laie reclynd,
  Listeynge to heare the water glyde alonge,
  Myndeynge how thorowe the grene mees yt twynd,
  Awhilst the cavys respons’d yts mottring songe,
  At dystaunt rysyng Avonne to be sped, 5
  Amenged wyth rysyng hylles dyd shewe yts head;

  Engarlanded wyth crownes of osyer weedes
  And wraytes of alders of a bercie scent,
  And stickeynge out wyth clowde agested reedes,
  The hoarie Avonne show’d dyre semblamente, 10
  Whylest blataunt Severne, from Sabryna clepde,
  Rores flemie o’er the sandes that she hepde.

  These eynegears swythyn bringethe to mie thowghte
  Of hardie champyons knowen to the floude,
  How onne the bankes thereof brave AElle foughte, 15
  AElle descended from Merce kynglie bloude,
  Warden of Brystowe towne and castel stede,
  Who ever and anon made Danes to blede.

  Methoughte such doughtie menn must have a sprighte
  Dote yn the armour brace that Mychael bore, 20
  Whan he wyth Satan kynge of helle dyd fyghte,
  And earthe was drented yn a mere of gore;
  Orr, soone as theie dyd see the worldis lyghte,
  Fate had wrott downe, thys mann ys borne to fyghte.

  AElle, I sayd, or els my mynde dyd saie, 25
  Whie ys thy actyons left so spare yn storie? 
  Were I toe dispone, there should lyvven aie
  In erthe and hevenis rolles thie tale of glorie;
  Thie actes soe doughtie should for aie abyde,
  And bie theyre teste all after actes be tryde. 30

  Next holie Wareburghus fylld mie mynde,
  As fayre a sayncte as anie towne can boaste,
  Or bee the erthe wyth lyghte or merke ywrynde,
  I see hys ymage waulkeyng throwe the coaste: 
  Fitz Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twentie moe 35
  Ynn visyonn fore mie phantasie dyd goe.

  Thus all mie wandrynge faytour thynkeynge strayde,
  And eche dygne buylder dequac’d onn mie mynde,
  Whan from the distaunt streeme arose a mayde,
  Whose gentle tresses mov’d not to the wynde; 40
  Lyche to the sylver moone yn frostie neete,
  The damoiselle dyd come soe blythe and sweete.

  Ne browded mantell of a scarlette hue,
  Ne shoone pykes plaited o’er wyth ribbande geere,
  Ne costlie paraments of woden blue, 45
  Noughte of a dresse, but bewtie dyd shee weere;
  Naked shee was, and loked swete of youthe,
  All dyd bewryen that her name was Trouthe.