Dia Poemata Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys] |
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[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!] |
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[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]
Have pity upon me, have pity upon me, O ye my
Friends, for the hand of God hath touched me.
Job. 19. 21.
On me, my Friends, ô pity take!
My Bowels quake!
The hand of God hath touched me
Most terriblie:
Within, without from top, to Toe,
I'm closely girt about with woe.
My Bowels quake!
The hand of God hath touched me
Most terriblie:
Within, without from top, to Toe,
I'm closely girt about with woe.
A wounded Spirit I must bear,
O'rewhelm'd with Fear:
Gods Terrours (ah me!) have Confin'd
My troubled Mind
(Shrunk from the Hope of all relief)
Within the straits of restlesse Griefe.
O'rewhelm'd with Fear:
Gods Terrours (ah me!) have Confin'd
My troubled Mind
(Shrunk from the Hope of all relief)
Within the straits of restlesse Griefe.
My flesh is all beset with sores,
Its very Pores
Are Block'd up by this Siege of Death.
I can't vent breath,
But 'tis so loathsome, that you'd think,
'Twere a Dead Bodie's odious stink.
Its very Pores
Are Block'd up by this Siege of Death.
I can't vent breath,
But 'tis so loathsome, that you'd think,
'Twere a Dead Bodie's odious stink.
My Goods, my Health, my Friends, and All
Together fall:
I've onely Life enough to Cry
When shall I die?
Clothed with Clods of Dust, e're dead,
My Flesh in't self is Buried.
Together fall:
I've onely Life enough to Cry
When shall I die?
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My Flesh in't self is Buried.
Mine eye is dim, can only see
My miserie:
My breath's left but to frame my Moans,
And waft out Groans.
To Pity now, my Friends, incline!
Your hearts if Stony, will break mine.
My miserie:
My breath's left but to frame my Moans,
And waft out Groans.
To Pity now, my Friends, incline!
Your hearts if Stony, will break mine.
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