IX. Sir John Harington

WHO feare the Lord are trewly blest,

That dewly worke to doe his will:

Great lands are by his seed possesst;

His howse, his heires, shall prosper still.

With plenty God shall blesse his store,

And stay his state, that loveth right:

Yf darkenes come, yet evermore

The Lord shall lend him happy light.

His love, his mercie, hee bestowes

On him that saves the poore from wrong,

And gives, and lends, and kindnes shewes,

Yet still discreetly guides his tongue.

His memorie shall ever bide;

Yea, though in grave his bones be layd,

His foote shall never fayle or slyde;

No news shall make his hart affrayd.

He putts in God assured trust;

And trusting so, hee doth suppose

They need not shrink whose cause is just—

He shall prevayle against his foes.

Hee doth in hast, but not in wast,

His goods disperse to such as need;

His righteousness shall ever last,

His praise and honor shall exceed.

The wicked man, when he this seeth,

That God the good doth love and cherish,

Shall pyne for griefe and gnash his teeth—

His wicked thoughts with him shall perish.