May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head,
    Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,
    Made rich and great by others’ poverty;
    How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed! 
    Nest of all treachery, in which is bred
    Whate’er of sin now through the world doth fly;
    Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;
    With sensuality’s excesses fed! 
    Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;
    Then in the midst see Belzebub advance
    With mirrors and provocatives obscene. 
    Erewhile thou wert not shelter’d, nursed on down;
    But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown: 
    Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.

    NOTT.

SONNET CVI.

L’ avara Babilonia ha colmo ’l sacco.

HE PREDICTS TO ROME THE ARRIVAL OF SOME GREAT PERSONAGE WHO WILL BRING HER BACK TO HER OLD VIRTUE.

      Covetous Babylon of wrath divine
    By its worst crimes has drain’d the full cup now,
    And for its future Gods to whom to bow
    Not Pow’r nor Wisdom ta’en, but Love and Wine. 
    Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,
    Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan’s brow,
    Who shall again build up, and we avow
    One faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine. 
    Her idols shall be shatter’d, in the dust
    Her proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl’d,
    Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,
    Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the world
    Possess in peace; and we shall see it made
    All gold, and fully its old works display’d.

    MACGREGOR.

SONNET CVII.

Fontana di dolore, albergo d’ ira.

HE ATTRIBUTES THE WICKEDNESS OF THE COURT OF ROME TO ITS GREAT WEALTH.

      Spring of all woe, O den of curssed ire,
    Scoole of errour, temple of heresye;
    Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye,
    Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre,
    Have all the world filled full of myserye;
    Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre,
    That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie. 
    Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer,
    Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye;
    Thye first founder was gentill povertie,
    But there against is all thow dost requyre. 
    Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust,
    In thie whoredome, or in thie riche attyre? 
    Loe!  Constantyne, that is turned into dust,
    Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie lust;
    But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher,
    For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder,
    And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.

    (?) WYATT.[U]

[Footnote U:  Harrington’s Nugae Antiquae.]