What wrathfull mood, what fault

Of ours hath moved thee
Of such a shining light
To leave us destitute?
Thou with benigne aspect
Sometime didst us behold;
Thou hast in Britons valour
Tane delight of old,

And with thy presence oft
Vouchsaft to attribute

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Farre off to others now
Thy favour honour breeds,
And high disdaine doth cause
Thee shun our clime, (I fear,)
For hadst thou not bene wroth,
Or that time neare at hand,

Thou wouldst have heard the cry
That woful England made;
Eke Zealands piteous plaints,
And Hollands toren heare,

Would haply have appeasd

Thy divine angry mynd:

Thou shouldst have seen the trees

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Refuse to yeeld their shade,

If iustice to maintaine,

'That valour I have spent
Which thou me gav'st; or if
'Henceforth I might advaunce
Thy name, thy truth, then spare
'Me (Lord!) if thou think best;
Forbeare these unripe yeares.
But if thy will be bent,

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Cast from the stalke, or like

In field to purple flowre,

Which languisheth, being shred

By culter as it past.

A trembling chilly cold

Ran through their veines, which were

With eies brim full of teares

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