Classic Poem

No hungr[y] Hawke poore Patridge to devoure
More eager is, then Prelates Nimrod power
Thomas to hunt, my Shephard sweet pursue
To seas brinke, but Christ saves his soule for you;
Sending thee Shepheard, safe through Seas awaie,
To feede his flock unto thy ending day.
Where sheepe seek wolves, thy bosome lambs would catch;
But night and day thou ceasest not to watch.
And warne with teares thy flock of cheaters vile,
Who in sheepes cloathing would the weak beguile,
With dropping dewes from thy lips Christ hath made
Thy hearers eyes oft water springing blade.
With pierced hearts they cry aloud and say,
Shew us sweet Shepheard our salvations way,
Thy lovely speech such ravishment doth bring;
Christ gives thee power to heale as well as sting.
Thou gates sets ope for Christ thy King to enter,
In hearts of many spirits joy to center,
But mourne my Muse, hang downe thy head with woe,
With teares, sighs, sobs lament thy Shepheard so.
(Why?) hee's in Heaven, but I one Earth am left:
More Earthly, 'cause of him I am bereft.
Oh Christ, why dost thou Shepheard take away,
In erring times when sheepe most apt to stray.