On a small Building in the Gothic Taste

O You that hathe in courtly blysse! Or tayle in fortune's giddye sphere! Doo not too rashly deeme amysse Of him, that hydes contentid here.

Nor yet disdeigne the russet stoole, Whyche o'er each carelesse lymbe he flyngs. Nor yet deryde the beechen bowle, In which he quaffs the lympid spryngs.

Forgyve him, if, at eve or dawne, Devoyde of wordlye carke he stray: Or all besyde some flowerye lawne, He waste his inoffensive day.

So may He pardonne fraud and strife, If such in courtlye haunt he see: For faults there beene in busye lyfe, From whyth these peaceful glennes are free.