Petrarchs seven penitentiall psalms paraphrastically translated: With other Philosophicall Poems, and a Hymne to Christ vpon the Crosse. Written by George Chapman |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IIII. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | PSALME VII. Cogitabam stare. |
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 | Petrarchs seven penitentiall psalms |  |
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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;
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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 beleeueTo 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.
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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;
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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:
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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,
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,
| Petrarchs seven penitentiall psalms | |