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22

PSALME VII. Cogitabam stare.

1

While I was falne, I thought to rise,
And stand, presuming on my thies:
But thighes, and knees, were too much broken.
My haire stood vp to see such bane
Depresse presumption so prophane:
I tremble but to heare it spoken.

2

Yet in my strength, my hope was such,
Since I conceiu'd, thou vow'dst as much:
I fain'd dreames, and reioyc't to faine them:
But weighing awake, thy vowes profound,
Their depth, my lead came short to sound:
And now, aye me, my teares containe them.

3

For calmes, I into stormes did stere,
And look't through clouds, to see things cleare,
Thy waies shew'd crook't, like speares in water;
23

When mine went trauerse, and no Snake
Could winde with that course, I did take:
No Courtier could so grosly flatter.

4

But which way I soeuer bend,
Thou meet'st me euer in the end:
Thy finger strikes my ioynts with terrors;
Yet no more strikes, then points the way:
Which, weighing weeping, straight I stay,
And with my teares cleanse feete and errors.

5

But of my selfe, when I beleeue
To make my steps, thy waies atchieue,
I turne head, and am treading mazes:
I feele sinnes ambush; and am vext
To be in error so perplext,
Nor yet can finde rests holy places.

6

I loath my selfe, and all my deeds,
Like Rubarbe taste, or Colchean weeds:
I flie them, with their throwes vpon me.
24

In each new purpose, customes old,
So checke it, that the stone I rold
Neuer so oft, againe fals on me.

7

No step in mans trust should be trod,
Vnlesse in mans, as his in God:
Of which trust, make good life the founder:
Without which, trust no forme, nor art;
Faiths loadstarre is a guiltlesse heart;
Good life is truths most learn'd expounder.

8

With which, Lord, euer rule my skill;
In which, as I ioyne powre with will,
So let me trust, my truth in learning,
To such minds, thou all truth setst ope:
The rest are rapt with stormes past hope;
The lesse, for more deepe arts discerning.

9

Blesse, Lord, who thus their arts employ,
Their sure truth, celebrate with ioy,
And teare the maskes from others faces;
25

That make thy Name, a cloake for sinne;
Learning but termes to iangle in,
And so disgrace thy best of Graces.

10

Whereof since I haue onely this,
That learnes me what thy true will is,
Which thou, in comforts still concludest;
My poore Muse still shall sit, and sing,
In that sweete shadow of thy wing,
Which thou to all earths state obtrudest.

11

As oft as I my fraile foote moue,
From this pure fortresse of thy loue:
So oft let my glad foes deride me.
I know my weakenesse yet, and feare,
By triall, to build comforts there,
It doth so like a ruine hide me.

12

My worth is all, but shade, I finde,
And like a fume, before the winde;
I gaspe with sloth, thy waies applying:
26

Lie tumbling in corrupted blood;
Loue onely, but can do no good:
Helpe, Lord, lest I amend not dying.
All glorie to the Father be,
And to the Sonne as great as he,
With the coequall sacred Spirit:
Who all beginnings were before:
Are, and shall be euermore.
Glorie, all glorie to their merit,
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