A mightie spyre, whose toppe dothe pierce the skie,
An ivie greene imbraceth rounde about,
And while it standes, the same doth bloome on highe,
But when it shrinkes, the ivie standes in dowt:
The Piller great, our gratious Princes is:
The braunche, the Churche: whoe speakes unto hir this.
I, that of late with stormes was almost spent,
And brused sore with Tirants bluddie bloes,
Whome fire, and sworde, with persecution rent,
Am nowe sett free, and overlooke my foes,
And whiles thow raignst, oh most renowmed Queene
By thie supporte my blossome shall bee greene.