Me seemes the world is runne quite out of square, From the first point of his appointed sourse, And being… — Edmund Spenser
Me seemes the world is runne quite out of square,
From the first point of his appointed sourse,
And being once amisse growes daily wourse and wourse.
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As withered weed through cruell winters tine,
That feeles the warmth of sunny beames reflection,
Liftes up his head, that did before decline
And gins to spread his leafe before the faire sunshine.
A monster, which the Blatant beast men call,
A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad.
Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercy ever hope to have?
