Fons Lachrymarum or a fountain of tears: From whence doth flow Englands Complaint, Jeremiahs Lamentations paraphras'd with Divine Meditations and an elegy Upon that Son of Valor Sir Charles Lucas. Written by John Quarles |
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 | Fons Lachrymarum |  |
Remember, Lord, what's come upon us; see,
Ponder the greatness of our infamie.
Strangers inherit that which is our due,
Our habitation's turn'd to aliens too.
For we are Orphanes, and all fatherless,
Our Mothers are as Widows in distress.
We buy our water, (O unhappy fate!)
And purchase fewel at too dear a rate.
Our necks are persecuted and unblest,
And still we labor, but obtain no rest.
Unto the Egyptians we our hand have spread,
Desiring to be satisfied with bread.
Our buried fathers sin'd in former times,
And we have born the burthen of their crimes.
Servants have rul'd us, and there's none that will
Deliver us, but let them rule us still.
VVith peril of our lives, we have obtain'd
Our bread, because the sword was unrestrain'd.
Our skins are black, like to an oven, and dry,
Because the Famine caus'd a Tyranny.
[illeg.]ion and Judahs daughters have been led
Away, and violently ravished.
Princes are hang'd up by the hands; the faces
Of Elders have no honor, but disgraces.
They made the young men grinde; the childrens blood
Fainted beneath the burthen of their wood.
The Elders at their gates did not abide,
The young mens musick too is layd aside.
The joy is ceas'd which was our hearts relief,
Our active dancing's turn'd to passive grief.
The crown is fallen from our heads; and wo,
Wo be to us that have offended so.
Our hearts are faint, and our suffused eyes
Are dim, because of these calamities.
Because that Sions mountain's desolate,
The foxes walk thereon to recreate
Themselves: But thou O Lord shalt sit on high,
Upon thy throne, unto Eternity.
Wherefore dost thou forsake us, and demure
Thy self so long from us that seem secure?
Turn thou, and we are turn'd; Lord we implore,
Renew our days, as thou hast done before.
But thou hast quite rejected us, and thou
Beholdst thy servants with an angry brow.
Ponder the greatness of our infamie.
Strangers inherit that which is our due,
Our habitation's turn'd to aliens too.
For we are Orphanes, and all fatherless,
Our Mothers are as Widows in distress.
We buy our water, (O unhappy fate!)
And purchase fewel at too dear a rate.
Our necks are persecuted and unblest,
And still we labor, but obtain no rest.
Unto the Egyptians we our hand have spread,
Desiring to be satisfied with bread.
Our buried fathers sin'd in former times,
And we have born the burthen of their crimes.
Servants have rul'd us, and there's none that will
Deliver us, but let them rule us still.
VVith peril of our lives, we have obtain'd
Our bread, because the sword was unrestrain'd.
Our skins are black, like to an oven, and dry,
Because the Famine caus'd a Tyranny.
[illeg.]ion and Judahs daughters have been led
Away, and violently ravished.
Princes are hang'd up by the hands; the faces
Of Elders have no honor, but disgraces.
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Fainted beneath the burthen of their wood.
The Elders at their gates did not abide,
The young mens musick too is layd aside.
The joy is ceas'd which was our hearts relief,
Our active dancing's turn'd to passive grief.
The crown is fallen from our heads; and wo,
Wo be to us that have offended so.
Our hearts are faint, and our suffused eyes
Are dim, because of these calamities.
Because that Sions mountain's desolate,
The foxes walk thereon to recreate
Themselves: But thou O Lord shalt sit on high,
Upon thy throne, unto Eternity.
Wherefore dost thou forsake us, and demure
Thy self so long from us that seem secure?
Turn thou, and we are turn'd; Lord we implore,
Renew our days, as thou hast done before.
But thou hast quite rejected us, and thou
Beholdst thy servants with an angry brow.
| Fons Lachrymarum | |