ANNE ASKEWE

Lyke as the armed knyght Appoynted to the fielde, With thys world wyll I fyght, And fayth shall be my shielde. Faythe is that weapon stronge Whych wyll not fayle at nede; My foes therfor amonge Therwith wyll I procede. As it is had in strengthe And force of Christes waye, It wyll prevayle at lengthe, Though all the devyls saye naye. Faythe in the fathers olde Obtayned ryghtwysnesse, Whych make me verye bolde To feare no worldes dystresse. I now rejoyce in hart, And hope byd me do so, For Christ wyll take my part, And ease me of my wo. Thu sayst, Lorde, whoso knocke, To them wylt thou attende; Undo therfor the locke, And thy stronge power sende. More enmyes now I have Than heeres upon my heed; Lete them not me deprave, But fyght thu in my steed. On the my care I cast, For all their cruell spyght, I sett not by their hast, For thu art my delyght. I am not she that lyst My anker to lete fall, For everye dryslynge myst, My shyppe substancyall. Not oft use I to wryght In prose nor yet in ryme, Yet wyll I shewe one syght That I sawe in my tyme. I saw a ryall trone Where Justyce shuld have sytt, But in her stede was one Of modye cruell wytt. Absorpt was ryghtwysnesse As of the ragynge floude; Sathan in hys excesse Sucre up the gyltelesse bloude. Then thought I, Jesus, Lorde, Whan thee shalt judge us all, Harde is it to recorde On these men what wyll fall. Yet, Lorde, I the desyre, For that they do to me: Lete them not taste the hyre Of their inyquyte.