Speaks the last watch, but with the dawne dost rise To worke, but first to sacrifice: Makinge thy peace with Heaven for some late fault, With holy meale and cracklinge salt. That done, thy painfull thumbe this sentence tells us, God for our labour all thinges sells us. Nor are thy daylye and devout affayres Attended with those desperate cares Th’ industriouse marchant hath, who for to finde Gold, runneth to the furthest Inde[118], And home againe tortur’d with fear doth hye, Untaught to suffer povertye. But you at home blest with securest ease, Sitt’st and beleev’st that there are seas, And watrye dangers; but thy better hap But sees these thinges within thy mapp, And viewinge them with a more safe survaye, Makst easy Feare unto thee say, A heart thrice wall’d with oake and brass that man Had, first durst plough the ocean. But thou at home, without or tyde or gale, Canst in thy mapp securely sayle, Viewinge the parted countryes, and so guesse By their shades their substances; And from their compasse borrowing advise, Buy’st travayle at the lowest price. Nor are thy eares so seald but thou canst heare Far more with wonder than with feare. —_Cætera desiderantur._ ROBERT WISDOM Was rector of Settrington in Yorkshire, and was presented to the archdeaconry of Ely by Elizabeth the 27th of February 1559-60. In bishop Cox’s Certificatorium (MS. Bennet Col. Lib.) he is returned to the archbishop as “a priest and B. D. usually residing upon his living of Wilberton, appropriated to the archdeaconry, was qualified for preaching, and licensed thereunto by the Queen’s majesty.” He died, and was buried at Wilberton the 20th of September, 1568. He is chiefly memorable for his metrical prayer intended to be sung in the church against the Pope and the Turk, of whom he seems to have had the most alarming apprehensions; and in consequence of which he has been ridiculed by sir John Denham, Corbet, Butler, and others. TO THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME[119]. Thou, once a body, now but aire, Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer, From Carfax come; And patch mee up a zealous lay, With an old _ever and for ay_, Or, _all and some_. Or such a spirit lend mee, As may a hymne downe send mee, To purge my braine: So, Robert, looke behind thee, Least Turke or Pope doe find thee, And goe to bed againe. THOMAS JONCE. The name of this man, (Jones,) which Corbet, for the sake of the rhyme, has corrupted, sufficiently denotes his extraction; and I would have ascertained the time of his death, but the register was not to be found upon application for that purpose.