Upon a lofty cliff of mould’ring sands;
The sea against the cliffs doth daily beat,
And every tide into the land doth eat.
The town is poor, unable by expense,
Against the raging seas to make defence,
And every day it eateth further in,
Still waiting, washing down the sand doth run.
A goodly church stands on these brittle grounds,
Not many fairer in Great Britain’s bounds;
And if the sea shall swallow it, as some fear,