QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN,

Born 1507, died 1536.

To this ill-fated queen the following verses have been ascribed. See the History of Music, vol. iii. p. 30. by Sir John Hawkins, who says, they were communicated to him by "a very judicious antiquary, lately deceased."

DEFILED is my name full sore,

Through cruel spyte and false report,
That I may say for evermore,

Farewell, my joy! adiewe, comfort!
For wrongfully ye judge of me,

Unto my fame a mortall wounde;

Say what ye lyst, it will not be,

Ye seek for that can not be found.

O death! rocke me on slepe,

Bringe me on quiet reste;

Let passe my verye guiltless goste
Out of my careful brest:
Toll on the passinge bell,
Ringe out the doleful knell,
Let the sounde my dethe tell,

For I must dye,

There is no remedy,
For now I dye.

My paynes who can expres?

Alas! they are so stronge, My dolor will not suffer strength My lyfe for to prolonge : Toll on the passinge bell, &c.

Alone, in prison stronge,

I wayle my destenye; Wo worth this cruel hap that I Should taste this miserye. Toll on the passinge bell, &c.

Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcum my present payne;
I fele my torments so increse,
That lyfe cannot remayne.
Cease now the passinge bell,
Rong is my doleful knell,

For the sound my deth doth tell;

Death doth draw nye,

Sound my end dolefully,
For now I dye.

ANNE ASKEWE,

Born about 1520, died 1546.

This glorious martyr, on account of the following production, is numbered among writers of poetry, by Phillips, in the Theatrum Poetarum; and by Ritson, in the Bibliographia Poetica.

The Balade whych Anne Askewe made and sange whan she was in Newgate. (At the end of "The lattre examinacyon of Anne Askewe, latelye martyred in Smythfelde, by the wycked Synagoge of Antichrist, with the Elucydacyon of Johan Bale." B. L.)

LYKE as the armed knyght
Appoynted to the fielde,
With thys world wyll I fyght,

And fayth shall be my shielde.

Faythe is that weapon stronge
Whych wyll not fayle at nede;
My foes therfor amonge

Therwith wyll I procede.

As it is had in strengthe

And force of Christes waye, It wyll prevayle at lengthe,

Though all the devyls saye naye.

Faythe in the fathers olde

Obtayned ryghtwysnesse,
Whych make me verye bolde
To feare no worldes dystresse.

I now rejoyce in hart,

And hope byd me do so, For Christ wyll take my part, And ease me of my wo.

Thu sayst, Lorde, whoso knocke, To them wylt thou attende; Undo therfor the locke,

And thy stronge power sende.

More enmyes now I have

Than heeres upon my heed;
Lete them not me deprave,
But fyght thu in my steed.

On the my care I cast,

For all their cruell spyght,

I sett not by their hast,

For thu art my delyght.

I am not she that lyst
My anker to lete fall,
For everye dryslynge myst,
My shyppe substancyall.

Not oft use I to wryght

In prose nor yet in ryme, Yet wyll I shewe one syght That I sawe in my tyme.

I saw a ryall trone

Where Justyce shuld have sytt, But in her stede was one

Of modye cruell wytt.

Absorpt was rygtwysnesse

As of the ragynge floude; Sathan in hys excesse

Sucte up the gyltelesse bloude.

Then thought I, Jesus, Lorde,
Whan thu shalt judge us all,
Harde is it to recorde

On these men what wyll fall.