¶ The .xiij. Psalme of Dauid, called, Dixit insipiens, touched afore of my lady Elizabeth.

Fooles that true fayth, yet neuer hod, Sayth in their hartes, there is no God. Fylthy they are, in their practyse, Of them not one, is godly wyse. From heauen the lorde, on man ded loke, The knowe what wayes, he vndertoke, All they were vayne, and went a straye, Not one he founde, in the ryght waye, In harte and tunge, haue they deceyte, Their lyppes throwe fourth, a poysened beyte. Their myndes are mad, their mouthes are wode. And swyft they be, in shedynge blode. So blynde they are, no truth they knowe, No feare of God, in them wyll growe. How can that cruell sort be good? Of Gods dere folcke, whych sucke the blood? On hym ryghtly, shall they not call, Dyspayre wyll so, their hartes appall. At all tymes God, is with the iust, Bycause they put, in hym their trust. Who shall therfor, from Syon geue, That helthe whych hāgeth, in our beleue. Whan God shall take, frō hys the smart, Than wyll Iacob, reioyce in hart. Prayse to God.