 | The Countesse of Pembrokes Emanuel |  |
The eyght and thirtith Psalme.
Scourge mee not, my God, whylst thy wrath's kyndled against mee,
Put mee not to rebuke, in thyne vnspeakable anger.
Put mee not to rebuke, in thyne vnspeakable anger.
For, thy darts, ô God, dead darts, and dangerus arrowes
Stick fast, fast to my hart, ô Lord, stick fast to my hartroote,
And thy hands, sore hands presse and oppresse mee with anguish.
Stick fast, fast to my hart, ô Lord, stick fast to my hartroote,
And thy hands, sore hands presse and oppresse mee with anguish.
In my flesh noe health; in bones noe rest is abyding,
Thy wrath plagues my flesh, my syns to my bones be a poyson.
My syns, woefull wretch, my syns now growne to a fullnes
Ouergrow my head, curst head, and keepe mee stil vnder,
Lyke to a burden alas, my back too heauyly loading.
Thy wrath plagues my flesh, my syns to my bones be a poyson.
My syns, woefull wretch, my syns now growne to a fullnes
Ouergrow my head, curst head, and keepe mee stil vnder,
Lyke to a burden alas, my back too heauyly loading.
My carefull carkas with sores lyes all to be wounded
Festring sores with grosse corruption euer abounding,
Festring sores and wounds fro my synfull folly proceeding.
Festring sores with grosse corruption euer abounding,
Festring sores and wounds fro my synfull folly proceeding.
My pain's soe greeuous, my griefe soe greate, that it vrgeth
Mee wyth a pale dead face, and crooked lyms to be creeping.
Myne inflamed loynes are filld with filthy diseases,
And noe part vntutcht, noe peece vnwounded apeareth.
Faynt and feeble I am; sore bruysed, soe that I can not
But roare out for griese of sowle, and horrible anguish.
Mee wyth a pale dead face, and crooked lyms to be creeping.
Myne inflamed loynes are filld with filthy diseases,
And noe part vntutcht, noe peece vnwounded apeareth.
Faynt and feeble I am; sore bruysed, soe that I can not
But roare out for griese of sowle, and horrible anguish.
Lord, thou knowst my desyre, thou seest my dayly bewaylings;
Hart hartles doth pant, and strengthles strength is abated,
Sightles sight is gone, and fryends vnfryendly departed,
And vnkynde kynsinch my wounded carkas abhorring
Looke; but a greate way of; but come not neare to my comfort,
Thus forsaken I am, forlorne, contemptible abiect.
Hart hartles doth pant, and strengthles strength is abated,
Sightles sight is gone, and fryends vnfryendly departed,
And vnkynde kynsinch my wounded carkas abhorring
Looke; but a greate way of; but come not neare to my comfort,
Thus forsaken I am, forlorne, contemptible abiect.
They that sought my life, layd secrete snares to betray mee,
And, to deuoure my blood, conspyred dayly togeather.
And I, for all this, alas, poore foole, stood seellyly sylent,
Lyke to a man that's deaf, and seem's not a woord to be hearing,
Lyke to a man that's dumbe, and fear's his mouth to be op'nyng:
For, my fayth and trust in thee, my Lord, I reposed,
Thou must pleade my cause, and by thee I must be defended.
And, to deuoure my blood, conspyred dayly togeather.
And I, for all this, alas, poore foole, stood seellyly sylent,
Lyke to a man that's deaf, and seem's not a woord to be hearing,
Lyke to a man that's dumbe, and fear's his mouth to be op'nyng:
Thou must pleade my cause, and by thee I must be defended.
Lord, I desyre that these my foes may not be triumphing
Ouer a contryte sowle: for when my foote was a slipping,
Then they laught and scornd, and seem'd to be greatly reioycing.
And in truth, my God, my plagues are dayly renued,
And my bleeding wounds lye always open afore mee,
Alwayes in my sight; for I must and will my detested,
Fylthy detested lyfe confesse, with an heauy remembryng
Harty repentyng sowle. But, alas, my deadly malignyng
Foes are much increaste, in might and number abounding.
These men alas, for that my sowle theyr fylthynes hated,
Life with death, ô Lord, and good with bad be requyting.
Helpe, ô Lord my God, make haste, draw neare to the needy,
Help, ô God my Lord, and my saluation only.
Ouer a contryte sowle: for when my foote was a slipping,
Then they laught and scornd, and seem'd to be greatly reioycing.
And in truth, my God, my plagues are dayly renued,
And my bleeding wounds lye always open afore mee,
Alwayes in my sight; for I must and will my detested,
Fylthy detested lyfe confesse, with an heauy remembryng
Harty repentyng sowle. But, alas, my deadly malignyng
Foes are much increaste, in might and number abounding.
These men alas, for that my sowle theyr fylthynes hated,
Life with death, ô Lord, and good with bad be requyting.
Helpe, ô Lord my God, make haste, draw neare to the needy,
Help, ô God my Lord, and my saluation only.
| The Countesse of Pembrokes Emanuel | |