CXX.
1
To God, in my distresse,
With cryes I did addresse
My sute; He favor shew.
2
From lipps enclin'd to ly,
From tongs that double bee,
My soule, O Lord, rescue.
3
What shall to thee be given,
Or retribute that eavin
Wnto thy venome wer,
O thow deceatfull tonge?
4
Sharp arows of the strong,
With coals of juniper.
5
Ah woes me! for why,
A wearie pilgrime I
In Meshech mourneing stray.
Ah woes me, so long
That Kedar's tents among,
A stranger I do stay!
6
My soule hath haunted much,
And duelt with such
As peace did highlie hate.
7
Of peace whil I did speek,
And quietnes did seek,
Thē streght they vrg'd debate.