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The same in old English.
As a sweete Rose in pleasant spring,
Of heauenly Lambe Spouse louely faire
And Martyr deare of Christ our King
S. Wenefrede did flourish heere.
Descended well of Brittish race,
In Fayth now firme, and Hope secure,
With workes Holy, and Soule in Grace,
From worldly filth perseuered pure.
This sacred Mayd did Cradocke kill,
And him Hell swallowed presently,
Where teares in vayne do run downe still
And Sathan burnes incessantly.
A Token sure of this strang thing,
Bespotted all with blouddy red,
A Well by Gods command doth spring
Where Tyrant fierce cut off her head.
Heere wōders great Gods hand doth worke
The blind do see, the dumbe do speake,
Diseases which in bodies lurke
Are cured, when Fayth is not weake.
O glorious Virgin Wenefrede,
To vs the raging sea appease,
And free vs so from Sathans dread
That he on vs may neuer seize. Amen.