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FromA small Handfull of Frugrant Flowers, gathered out of

the Lovely Garden of Sacred Scriptures, fit for any honorable or worshippfull Gentlewomen to smell to.DEARE dames, your sences to revive,

Accept these flowers in order heare:
Then, for the time you are alive,

Renowne your golden dayes shall beare.
Marke therefore what they have to name,
And learne to imitate the same.
The first resembleth Constancie,

A worthie budde of passing fame;
Which every gentle certeinlie

Delightes to chuse of, for the name.
The cause is, that, the truth to tell,
It sents and savours passing well.


This pleasaunt braunche in Sarae's brest

Was dayly used for a showe; So that her fayth among the rest

Thereby did bountifullie growe: And she extolled was therefore, As noble matrone evermore.

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The second budde is Modestie,

Which Triata did much delight,

And furnished the companie

Of many a Roman matrone bright; So that no blemish there did growe, As long as they the same could showe. The third is vertuous Exercise ;

The fourth is called Humilitie; The fifth, to set before your eyes

The feare of God most reverently ; The sixth, obedience to the crowne, And princes' lawes, with great renowne. The seventh is Pacience, for to beare

The crosse of Christe continually ; The eyght is liberall talke to heare,

And use the same indifferently ; The ninth is called Chastitie; The tenth to put up injurie. The eleventh is, to sustayne the poore ;

The twelfth to aide the comfortlesse, And to endeavour more and more

To trayne your steppes to godlynes : The thirtenth, that is cheefest skill, Which we doo call-do good for ill. The fourtenth is, to love the trouth,

And flatterie wholy for to shunne ; The feftenth, barre the chaire of slouth,

Whereby full many are undoune:
For idleness doth shame but wynne,
And is the entraunce unto sinne.
The sixtenth flower is willing zeale

Unto the sacred veritie,
Which is a lanterne to your feete,

To leade you to sinceritie :
The sevententh blossom fresh of hue,
In wordes and deedes for to be true.

The eyghtenth is, for to restore

That by oppression hath ben gotte; The niententh, for to cure that sore

Which careless conscience makes to rotte : The twenteth is sweet Charitie, The fruites whereof begin to dye. There are, besides these, godly love;

Whose leaves though they be not so greene, Yet who to plucke thereof wyl prove,

Shall with Lucrecia soone be seene To shine in wordes and deedes as bright As when the moone doth yeelde her lyght. Loe, gentles! this small bunch of Flowres

It is that may encrease your fame; For they be watered with the showres

That Sacred Scriptures have to name: You may discerne them by the seedes, Full much vnlike to worldly weedes.


AND OTHER TO USE, Whereby, through the helpe of the devine grace, they may

attayne the right sente of this Posie of Godly Flowres. VOUCHSAFE, O Lord! to be our guide ; The Spirit of grace

into us powre! Defende our cause on every side,

That we may pass into the bowre, Where as those heavenly flowres do growe By Christ that garden first dyd sowe. Illuminate our inwarde minde

To seeke to Thee continually; From worldly errours that be blind

Preserve us for thy majestie.

Teach us, as we in wordes professe,
In deedes each one to do no lesse.
Assist us dayly to beginne

Spiritually to enter fight
Agaynst the worlde, the flesh, and sinne;

That we may shunne the duskie night,
In whiche our enemie, the devill,
Doth watche to worke each Christian evyll.
Arm us with fayth, to beare the shielde,

And sworde of heavenlie puritie;
Crowne us with helmet in the fielde

Of thy surpassing veritie.
Graunt this, o bounteous Jesu sweete,
That we with Thee at last may meete.


Oh heavenly Lord! who plain doost see

The thoughts of ech man's heart;
Who sendest some continuall plague,

And some relief of smart;
Pittie, O Lorde! the wofuil state

Wherein I dayly stand;
And onely for thy mercies’ sake

Now helpe me out of hande.
And as it was thy pleasure fyrst,

To plague me thus with greefe ;
So canst thou, Lorde, if thee it please,

With speede send me releefe.
I must of force confesse, O Lorde !

I can it not denye,
That I deserve these plagues, and worse,

And that continually.

Yet doo not Thou therefore on me

Thy judgments just extend; But pardon me, and graunt me grace

My life for to amend. And banish, Lord! from me delights

Of worldly vanitie,
And lend me helpe to pace the pathes

Of perfect pietie;
And truly so to tread the pathes,

And in such godly wise,
That they may bring me to the place

Of perfect Paradice.
And not to wander up and downe

In wayes of weary wo,
Where wicked, wily, wanton toyes

Do leade me too and fro.
The sap of Sapience likes me not,

That pleaseth not my taste ;
But fond delight, that wicked weede,

Was all my chief repaste :
Wherein, as hooke within the baight,

So doo I plainly finde
Some hidden poyson lurking lyes

For to infect my minde.
But wherefore doo I finde it now?

Because I now do see
That, wanting smart, I wanted grace
For to acknowledge thee.

O Lord, that I so sore
Doo feele thy punishment,
I doo lament my folly great,

And all my sinnes repent.

But now,

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