ETERNAL rest on him bestowe, O Lord, and everlastynge light, Who lacked withal for sup or bite, Shorn close on scalp and chin and browe, Who was scrap't bare and smooth, I trowe As any turnip round, poor wighte: Eternal rest on him bestowe. Hard doome befell him here belowe, Drove forth and smote him in sore spite, Though "I appeal!" he cried with mighte, A form of speech that's playne enowe: Eternal rest on him bestowe. |