A10192:156
A tragedy of Abraham's sacrifice, written in frenchA tragedie of Abrahams sacrifice, written in french
A tragedy of Abraham's sacrifice, written in french by Theodore Beza, and translated into English, by A.G. Finished at Powles Belchamp in Essex, the xj. of August. 1575A tragedie of Abrahams sacrifice, written in french by Theodore Beza, and translated into Inglish, by A.G. Finished at Povvles Belchamp in Essex, the xj. of August. 1575
London: printed by Thomas Vautroullier, 1577
Title page typeset from the transcription.
Modern spelling is a reading aid: the words are the author’s, only the spelling is modernized. Original shows the page as printed, with the transcription marks.
Half the Shepherds. Sure I suppose how ere the case doth stand He hath this time some weighty thing in hand.
Halfe the Shepherds. Sure I suppoze how ere the cace doth stand He hath this time some weightie thing in hand.
The song of the Shepherds. As huge as is the world we see With all the things that in it be, ⟨p. 26⟩Yet nothing is so strong and sure, That can for ever here endure. Almighty God which all maintains, Can nothing spy that ay remains, Except him self: all else each one Endure short time, and soon are gone. The sun with bright and burning beams Goes casting forth his cheerful gleams, As long as day in sky doth last. Then darksome night doth over cast, All kind of things both foul and fair, With coal-black wings aloft in air. And of the moon what shall we say, Which never keepeth at a stay? Sometimes with horns she doth appear: Sometime half […]: now thick, now clear: Anon with round and fulsome face The night she fro the sky doth chase. The twinkling stars above on high Run rolling round about the sky, One while with weather fair and clear, Another while with louring cheer. Two days together match, and ye Them like in all points shall not see. The one doth pass more swift away, The other longer while doth stay. The one, as though it did us spite, ⟨p. 27⟩Bereaves us of the cheerful light: The other with his colour bright Doth joy our hart and dim our sight. One burns the world with heat from skies, With frost and cold another dyes. With purple, green, blew, white, and red The earth erewhile is overspread. Anon a blast of nipping cold Makes freshest things look sere and old. The rivers with their waters moist Above their banks are often hoist, And pass their bounds with rage so far, That they the ploughman's hope do mar. And afterward they fall within Their channels, running lank and thin. And therefore whoso doth him ground, On aught that in the world is found, Beneath or in the starry skies, I say I count him nothing wise. What then of him is to be said, Whose hope on man is wholly staid? Each living creature subject is To endless inconveniences: And yet among them all, the sun, In all his course which he doth run, Beholdeth not a feebler wight, Than man is in his chiefest plight.