 | The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet |  |
[52] The Burthen
While on my self I doe reflect,
I spy a brittle House of clay,
With many imperfections deck't,
Which while I labour to correct,
To these I new additions lay:
So fraile, so vaine am I, in each respect:
(Oh God) teach mee thy way.
I spy a brittle House of clay,
With many imperfections deck't,
Which while I labour to correct,
To these I new additions lay:
So fraile, so vaine am I, in each respect:
(Oh God) teach mee thy way.
I beare a Burthen on my backe,
And lay it downe to lessen it,
Bicause it makes my shoulders cracke;
But I so much discretion lacke,
Am so devoyde of sense, and witt,
That I more weight still on the same doe packe:
(Oh God) my Sinne remitt.
And lay it downe to lessen it,
Bicause it makes my shoulders cracke;
But I so much discretion lacke,
Am so devoyde of sense, and witt,
That I more weight still on the same doe packe:
(Oh God) my Sinne remitt.
365
Thou dos't (oh Lord) poore Soules invite,
That are surcharg'd with burthens great,
To seeke for succour, from thy might,
Who wilt their heavy loades make light:
My soule doth therefore Thee intreate,
That Thou woulds't please to ease me of my weight;
(Lord) doe mee not forgett.
That are surcharg'd with burthens great,
To seeke for succour, from thy might,
Who wilt their heavy loades make light:
My soule doth therefore Thee intreate,
That Thou woulds't please to ease me of my weight;
(Lord) doe mee not forgett.
| The Shorter Poems of Ralph Knevet | |