LIX. Edward Hake

NOW blessed be these dayes of thine;

Thrise blessed be our God,

By whom our Queene Elizabeth

Those vertuous steppes hath trod.

Not force of fleshe hath held her vp,

Not sharp devise of man:

Not crafte, not skill, not worldly thrifte,

Her blessed state began.

Before her raigne bereft of peace,

Bereft of outwarde joy;

Pursued to death by Romishe beastes,

Still seeking her annoy:

Whose foamy, frothy, murthrous jawes,

With stomacks stuft with guile,

Each day devised her grace’s death,

And sacred state to foyle.

Whom high Jehove preserved hath,

In spite of Sathan’s rage,

To live a queen in blessed peace,

To lyve an happy age.

*****

No drift, devise, no devill’s deede,

No falshood fetcht from hell,

Hath yet tane place: in safetie yet

Her noble grace doth dwell.

Thine hand, Jehove, hath found them out;

Thine owne right hand hath brought

Each darke deuise to open view,

And treason’s guile to nought.

Thine hand hath held her kingdome fast;

Thine owne right hand hath stay’d

The running rage of rancour bent,

And made her foes afrayde.

Of wisdome hast thou lent her store,

To guide thy folke aright:

What giftes of grace have princes more

Obtayned in thy sight?

Graue counsaile. guiding all by truth,

Thou, Lorde, with her hast plaste:

Whose careful workes for commonwealth

Can never be defaste.