Thomas Chatterton

Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care; We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.

Liste! now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd, Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; …

The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott …

Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde, Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

Happy (if mortals can be) is the man, Who, not by priest but Reason, rules his span: Reason, to its possessor a sure guide, Reason, a thorn in Revelation’s side.

How shall we celebrate the day, When God appeared in mortal clay, The mark of worldly scorn; When the Archangel's heavenly Lays, Attempted the Redeemer's Praise, And hail'd Salvation's Morn!

Almighty Framer of the Skies! O let our pure devotion rise, Like Incense in thy Sight! Wrapt in impenetrable Shade, The Texture of our Souls were made, Till thy Command gave Light.

Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.