GOOD-MORROW.
You that have spent the silent night
In sleep and quiet rest,
And joy 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
Had overspread the light;
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overpress'd 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.
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 toys,
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 than.
The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedcck'd with sundry hues,
Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these 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.
But as such dews are dried up quite,
When Phoebus shows his face,
So are such fancies put to flight,
Where God doth guide by grace.
The carrion crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,
Both for her hue, and for the rest,
The devil resembleth plain:
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,
The devil so must we o'erthrow,
With gunshot of belief.
The little birds which sing so sweet,
Are like the angels' voice,
Which renders God His praises meet,
And teach[1] us to rejoice:
And as they more esteem that mirth,
Than dread the night's annoy,
So much we deem our days on earth
But hell to heavenly joy.
Unto which joys for to attain,
God grant us all His grace,
And send us, after worldly pain,
In heaven to have a place,
When we may still enjoy that light,
Which never shall decay:
Lord, for thy mercy lend us might,
To see that joyful day.
[1] 'Teach:' for teacheth.