Consydre yet how strongly that sprete in Anne Askewe, set them all at nought with all their artyllery and mynysters of myschefe both vpon the racke and also in the fyre. Whose memory is now in benedyccyon (as Iesus Syrach reporteth of Moses) and shall neuer be forgotten of the ryghteouse. She as Christes myghty membre, hath strongly troden downe the head of the serpent, and gone hence with most noble vyctory ouer the pestyferouse seede of that vyperouse worme of Rome, the gates of helle not preuaylynge agaynst her. What other noble women haue, it doth now, and wyll yet herafter apere more largely by their godly doctryne and dedes of fayth. Marke thys present boke for one, whose translacyon was the worke of her, whych was but a babe at the doynge therof. Marke also the graue sentences, whych she geueth fourth to the worlde, & laude that lyuynge father of our lorde Iesus Christ, whych hath thus taken hys heauenly wysdome from the great graue senyours, that only are wyse in their owne consaytes, and geuen it so largely to chyldrē, Math. 11. That heauenly lorde graūt her and other noble women longe contynuaūce in the same to hys hygh pleasure. That lyke as they are become gloryouse to the worlde by the stody of good letters, so maye they also apere gloryouse ī hys syght by dayle exercyse in hys dyuyne scriptures, Whose nature is in processe of tyme to kyndle their myndes and inflame their hartes in the loue of Christ their eternall spouse, as thys present boke requyreth, So be it. * * * * * Thus endeth thys godly Medytacyon of the christen sowle concernynge a loue towardes God and hys Christ, aptely translated into Englysh by the ryght vertuouse lady Elyzabeth doughter to our late souerayne Kynge Henry the .viij. ¶ 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. [Illustration] Imprented in the yeare of our lorde 1548, in Apryll.