A Medicinable Morall that is, the two Bookes of Horace his Satyres, Englyshed accordyng to the prescription of saint Hierome. The Wailynges of the Prophet Hieremiah, done into Englyshe verse. Also Epigrammes. T. Drant |
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The wailynges of Hieremie, done into Englishe Uerse. |
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 | A Medicinable Morall |  |
The wailynges of Hieremie, done into Englishe Uerse.
The argument tendyng moste to the ruine of the citie, as it was destroyed by Uespatian and Titus Romaynes, and theyr souldiours.
Ierusalem , is iustly plagude,and lefte disconsolate,
The dame of towns the prince of realms
deuested from her state,
The sheene and glosyng paragone,
that blased as the sonne,
With wreakefull hande of iuste Iehoue,
for synne is quite vndone.
Synne, synne, vpturneth towne and tower,
though it be stronge and hye,
Great Babell fell with hautie toppe,
that menaced the skye:
Ierusalem tormented sore,
and bruised in her walles,
Remedylesse is ruinous,
and therfore downe she falles.
And holdyng vp her broyled lymmes,
and gastfull scorched face,
Woulde nowe fayne flee to God for healpe,
and call vppon his grace,
Good Hieremie with sobbes and syghes,
that all the Citie heares,
Dothe waile and wayle, the ruthfull case,
his penne full fraight with teares.
The fyrste Chapter.
Howe sytts the Citie desolate,so populous a place?
The ladye of so many landes,
Becumde in wydowes case.
The Princes of the prouinces,
her tribute nowe muste paye,
Full sore wepte she, full sore wepte she,
all nyght her longe decaye.
Alongst her cheekes, the furrowyng teares,
from watrishe eyes dyd rayne:
Of all her louers, nowe not one,
to comforte her in payne,
Her frendes thynke muche to visite her,
her frendes are turnde to foes,
Iehoudah, captiue ledde away
a captiue for the woes.
And slauerie she brought men to)
she takes no kynde of reste:
Mongste pagans, where she makes her bode,
with foes she is oppreste.
The stretes of Syon mourne and wayle,
Because there nowe is none,
That cums and goes to see their feast,
as heretofore haue gone.
The gates deuoyde of folke, the priestes
doo sygh in sorowes keene,
The damsels drent, in moyste of teares,
the dame her selfe in teene.
Her enemies rule, and who but they?
in wealthe surcreasyng faste,
The Lorde hathe shente her greuouslye,
for heapes of lewdnes paste.
Theyr younge, wente captiuate before,
her muche dysdaynfull foe,
and noble hue dydde goe.
The Potentates lyke strayinge rambes,
not fyndyng where to feede,
Without all courage, went with those,
that dyd them dryue or leede.
Hierusalem bethought her selfe,
vpon the dismall daye:
Of scourge, and of her rebell heart,
of all delytefull gay
Thynges, whiche she had in alder age,
what tyme her folkes so coy,
Fell into foyshe hande, and none,
woulde succour their annoy.
Her enmies hauyng throughly seene,
and noted her at will.
Dyd scorne her sacred sabboth day,
and gyggle out theyr fyll.
Ierusalem, outragingly
was dedicate to vyce.
Therefore is she a mockynge stocke,
all those in aufull guyse,
That honourde her, and dyd to her,
theyr homage heretofore,
Doo clepe her, as a fylthy drabbe,
and sette by her no more.
What shoulde she doo? she gaue a sighe,
and lookde askaunce awrye,
Polluted foule within her skirtes,
Her ende she woulde not eye:
And therfore lushed downe at once.
All comfortlesse was she:
Rue O lorde, rue vppon my panges,
the foe is prowde at me.
The foe hath stretched foorthe his arme
at all her thynges of pleasure.
rushe in, without all measure:
Unto thy sacred holy house,
that route, whiche thou (O Lorde)
Forboddste, that they, ne shoulde come in,
the mansion of thy worde.
Her numbrous folke (a syghyng flocke)
and seekyng after foode,
Dyd geue for meate, what so they had,
thynges precious or good.
To cheryshe theyr so needie sowles.
Marke Lorde, and weye on this,
Howe vile I am, howe beggerly,
My caytife plight it is.
O all wayfaryng passengers,
for Gods loue, locke and see,
If euer griefe were lyke my grefe:
for he hath scourged me.
The Lorde (I say) hathe spoke the worde,
in daye of furye fell
From hye, he flonge the fyre adowne,
my mortall bones to quell.
It tamed me: Before my feete,
a trappynge nette he layde,
And turnde me backe, to captiue yoke,
He, he, (alacke) hath made
Me desolate: in gulfes of grefes,
all day longe dydde I wade.
My heynous synnes, my swarming crimes,
to Gods dyre hande are tyde,
And thence amayne vppon my necke,
from tyme to tyme dyd glyde.
Empired I: The Lorde hath put
me in suche straynyng clawes,
That neuer shall I wrinche me from,
the pressyng of their pawes.
he trode them vnder feete,
Within my selfe, agaynst my selfe,
he made assembles meete,
To slay my youthe, was neuer yet,
Wynepresse bestamped so,
On one virgin Iehoudahs chylde,
the Lorde hath stamped (lo.)
Therefore wepe I, and from myne eye,
as from a water spoute,
A flowyng streame, of gushyng teares,
eftsoones doothe issue out.
My comforter, he kepte aloofe,
that shoulde my sowle relieue,
My broode berefte of hope, and those
preuaylde, that dyd me greue:
Ofte proferde Tsyon, foorthe her hande,
but none woulde healpe her tho.
Great Iacobs rase, the Lorde had plasde
amydde her enemies so.
Ierusalem, mydst all her foes,
is lyke a drabbishe queane,
Foule steynd with fylth of mouthly floures
a strompet muche vncleane.
The Lorde is iuste, disloyall I,
haue forsde hym vnto ire,
Hearken O worlde, hearken all worldes,
once harke at my desyre.
And viewe and viewe my thyrlyng throwes
what plunges me assaye:
My virgins, and my yonge men eeke,
are captiues gone away.
I calde my louers, one by one,
but they begyled me.
My priestes and elders in the towne,
throughe famyne peryshde be.
longe soughte they farre and neare,
See Lorde, and see, because that I
am troubled in eche where:
Myne intrayles swollne: my hearte yturnde
(suche is my strugglynge paine,)
The swoorde deuoures abrode: our home
a slaughter house of bayne.
Full well knewe they, howe sadde I was,
but none woulde solace me,
My foes pursewde my harmes, and ioyde,
to see them sente from the.
But as for sinne, thou broughste on me,
a wreakefull vengaunce day:
Deale iustlye (Lorde): and as to me,
to them their guardon paye,
Surueye their mischeefes all in mynde,
and deale with them as sore,
As thou haste dealte with me pore wretche,
for trespasse heretofore.
They made the surgyes of my sighes,
to multiplie eche daye,
They made my heart a well of woes,
wearyng it selfe away.
The seconde Chapter.
Howe hath the Lord in furie fell,beduskde his daughter dere,
Tsyon his chylde of Israell,
The glory bryght and cleare
From heauen, to earthe translated lyes:
and in his vengefull day,
To batter downe his owne footestole,
the irefull would not stay.
He flung it headlonge, neyther sparde,
Iacobs fayre blasyng bowers.
her fortresses and towers.
Through glowyng furye, to the soyle:
the kyngdome he prophainde,
And wreakde for state, the royall wyghtes,
that ouer it had raignde.
What so was in all Israell,
of passynge price and grace,
He marde it quite, turnyng his hande
backe, from the enmies face,
He kyndled vp in Iacobs sonns,
a wastefull flashe of fyre,
Which consumde all thynges rounde about,
as it were in a gyre.
He bent his bowe in foyshe guyse,
and further, lyke a foe,
He stretchde his arme, what so was fayre,
or of muche beautie (lo)
In tabernacle of Tsyon,
he dyd it all deuoure,
And slockmeale lyke to many flames,
his wrathes he dyd out powre.
The Lorde hymselfe was nowe a foe,
he flonge great Iacob downe,
Flung strong wals down, huge rāpirs down
and bulwarkes of the towne.
Fylde Syon full of heartie griefe,
appallynge all her ioye:
His tente, as it a gardeyne were,
tramplynge he dyd destroye.
He stroyde his folke, he rasde theyr feastes,
and sabbothes out of mynde
In Tsyon: To their kynges and priestes,
through Ire he is vnkynde.
The Lorde hath lefte his altar, and
hath cursde, whiche ones he bleste,
suche houldes as were the beste.
The prophane flocke, within Gods house,
in mockerye dyd crye,
As in theyr sacred Sabboth, once,
thelecte dydde synge on hye.
Resolude was he, to thwacke downe walles,
to euen theim with the flore,
And not to turne his hande from waste,
theyr rampyre mournde therfore:
The battred wall, prostrate dyd fall,
flatte leuelde to the grounde,
The earthe supte vp the gorgious gates:
their yron barres so sounde,
He knapte in twayne: mongste Heathens are
her Kynges, and puissant peares:
The lawe is not: the Prophetes nowe,
from Goddes mouthe nothynge heares.
Fayre Tsyons elders, in the lande
sytte downe in silence deepe.
Theyr heade yrubde with ashes pale,
theyr corps styll dydde they kepe
In sackeclothe wrapte. Hierusalem,
thy virgins freshe and fayre
Doo hange theyr heades with poutynge lookes,
(as caste away with care.)
My streamyng eyes, dissolue to naught,
my belchyng bowels rumble,
My lyuer pyckte vp, through great force,
tremblyng on grounde dyd tumble.
Suche was my pitie towardes myne,
because my babes dyd faynt,
And sucklynges tawmed in the streetes,
through pyne dyd them attaynt.
Ofte cryed they to theyr mothers sadde,
where is theyr wyne or breade?
they sounded in eche stede:
Unbodyinge theyr sely soules,
vppon theyr mothers lappes.
What should I name? to what should I
resemble thy myshappes?
O daughter of Hierusalem?
what myght I beste compare,
To thee, O myne, O Tsyons chylde,
to mitigate thy care?
Lyke droppes, in hougie tomblyng waues
thy flockynge troubles greue the.
Aime, myne owne good gyrle,
(dere God) who shall releue thee?
False prophetes blearde thyn eies with lies
who woulde not playnly tell,
Thy synnes to thee, to penitence,
that they myght thee compell.
They scanned theyr lewde prophecies,
and reasons false woulde geue,
Why, thou shouldste draw in captiue yoke
and longe in bondage lyue.
At the (chylde of Hierusalem)
all those that passed by,
Dyd clap theyr handes, and nod their heades
and tauntyngly say: Why?
Is this the towne so perfecte buylt,
the Paragon of hewe,
The ioye of all the worlde so wyde,
that gaue the gladsome shewe?
Gaynst the all foes dyd ope theyr mouthes,
with vyle reproches fraight,
And hyssde, and gnashde, and cryed marche on,
Lette vs deuoure her straight.
This is the daye, the wyshed daye,
we haue her found and sene:
of longe tyme erste hath bene.
Fulfilde hath he, his greate beheste,
forspoken long before,
Hauoke made he in all excesse,
of nothinge made he store.
He stirde thy foes, to laughe at the,
and thy yll willers all,
By his sole meanes, did mounte aloofe,
as thou from hye didste fall.
Theire hartes abrayded to the lorde:
O wall of Syon towne,
Forthe of the fludgates of thyne eyes,
let fluddes of teares run downe.
Unceassauntlye. do way all reste,
the apple of thyne eye
Applye it still, with moister still,
take heede, it neuer drye.
Aryse, praise him in silente nighte,
prayse him in earlye day,
Power oute thyne harte, to him as thou.
wouldste water power awaye.
Lifte vp thyne handes, to god, that sittes,
in empyre, and in seate,
That he maye helpe thy babee for faynte,
with pyne in euerye streate.
See, o lorde, see, consyder well,
with home thou hast delte: O,
And shall the mothers eate their yonge
why lorde, and shall they so?
Shall they thus grinde with teeth the fleshe,
that from their fleshe did ryse,
(Their children scase a full span longe?)
the preistes, and prophetes wyse,
Be murdered (yea) in thyne owne house
alas, and shall they dye?
Uppon the could grounde lye.
My virgins and my youthfull Brutes,
are fallen with stroke of sworde.
Thou haste them kilde, and sparde not one,
in day of moodye worde.
Thou calste as in a solemne day,
my terrors rounde about,
And in that day such was thy ire,
not one on lyue got oute
Those that by me were choyslye fed,
and tenderlye vp broughte,
Are all consumde: (woes me) consumde,
and vanishde all to naughte.
The third Chap.
I am that wighte, that abiecte wighte,whiche mine owne neade haue seene,
Whilste that, the massie rod of God,
vppon my backe hath bene.
He tooke me and conducted me,
to darknes, not to lighte,
Turnde gainste my quite, all daye his hāde,
he turnde againste me righte.
He filde my skin, and fleshe with eelde,
and brusde my bones in small,
He buylte in gyre and compaste me,
with trauaile and with gall.
Bestowinge me in darkesum shades,
(as one forlorne for aye)
Inuironing me rounde about,
leste I shoulde scape awaye.
And pressinge downe with pondrouse gyues,
my feete whiche els mighte flye,
He will not heare me when to him,
besechinglye I crye.
He hath forestopde my pathes with stone,
and crokde my wayes a syde,
a Lyon dyre, vnspyde,
My waies he staied and nie dismaide,
of hope he made me bare,
He bente his bow, and for his shaftes,
a marke he set me fare.
He causde his quyuer arrowes keen,
my raynes for to assay,
I was a mocke to all my folke.
their sonnett all the daye.
Woormewood my drincke he ballasde me,
with balefull bitternes,
He brake my teethe, and ashes gaue,
to feede me in distresse.
All reste disharboured from my soule,
my wealthe, slipte out of minde,
My strengthe is gone in god (quod I
no further hope I fynde.
I beare in mynde the stertlinge panges,
the woormewood, and the gall,
Freshe, freshe, ingraued in my soule,
my courage downe doth fall.
Nathlesse, this vnderpropte my soule
that truste coulde neuer quaile,
Goddes grace makes vs not to reuelte,
his mercy cannot faile.
A wounder woorker is our God,
beleue in him, will I
God is my part, (so sayde my soule)
I looke for him from hye.
The lorde is good to those in him,
that put esperaunce woulde,
Good to that soule, that seekes for him,
as for an anchor houlde.
Its good to truste vppon the lorde,
his sauinge health tabyde:
his preceptes doe not slyde.
He that was proude and bare him hye,
muste syt in hushte alone,
And humble him vnto the duste
(If all hope be not gone.)
And lende his cheeke vnto the stroke,
nor recke at wordes of spite,
This man the lorde will not forsake,
he will not leaue him quite.
Though smartingly he visit him,
and bitterlie him beate,
Yet, can he not but rue on him,
suche is his mercie greate.
For, man because he will not stoupe,
nor bannishe pryde from harte,
Therfore such men God tryes and makes,
them feele such netlinge smarte.
He treadeth vnderneath his feete,
the captiues of all landes,
Who so doth iniurie the pore,
before the lorde he standes,
Wronge iudgement and iniustice all
the lorde he vnderstandes.
Who now can say but all thinges cum,
by goddes mere prouidence?
Frō his sole mouth, things sweete or sharpe
do they not flowe from thence?
Why is man loth for lawlesse lyfe,
by law to suffer paine,
Let vs insearche and trye our selues,
and turne to God againe.
Let vs arreare our handes and hearts
to God on hye alone,
Declynde haue we, rebelde haue we,
therefore thou spareste none.
and bet vs to too sore,
Slaine, and dispatchde, dispatched all,
with none lorde haste thou bore.
Thou haste inwrapte the, so in cloudes,
our prayers can not perse,
We are like roges, and runagates
amid the pagans fearse.
Our enmies gainste vs in despite,
did ope their gapinge chappes,
Our feare, and eeke our snare is cumde,
deepe daunger, and mishappes.
Myne eye, doth sende out goulfes of teares,
to mourne my folke oppreste,
Mine eye, lyke stillitorie runs,
and weepes, and knowes no reste,
Mine eye doth melte mine hearte, for all
my daughters of the Citie,
Whilste that the lord throw down his lookes,
and from aboue take pittie.
My foes pursude me as a birde,
Yet iuste cause had they none,
They thruste me downe, in dungen darke,
and stopte it with a stone.
The water surgies wet my heade,
I am forlorne (quod I)
Therfore lorde from mine erksom den,
vppon the did I crye.
Thou hardste my voyce, shit not thine eare,
but heare my dryrie plainte,
Thou stoodste nye me when I did crye
and badste me not to fainte.
Thou waste the proctor of my soule,
and didste my lyfe restore,
(O Lorde) thou didste perceaue my wronge,
adiudge my cause therfore
their damnable intente,
Thou hardste their wordes of villanie,
their thoughtes how they were bente.
Their bablynge lippes, that rose at me
their corner muttrings see,
At downe sittynge, and vprisinge
they make a songe of me.
Accordinge to their dealyngs lorde,
rewarde to them disburse,
Geue them for agonie of soule,
thy greeuouse shendfull curse.
Pursue, pursue them in thy mode,
confounde them by and by.
Where so (O lorde) they make abode,
vnder the shrowdinge skye.
The forth Chap.
How is the gould bedimmed so?the gold moste pure and fyne
Is chaungde. The stones and glittring perles,
of holy house deuine.
Flocke meale, to corners of eche streete
are scatered, and roulde:
The peares, and nobles of Tsion,
compared well to goulde,
How are they now adnihilate,
accoumpted in the lande,
Lyke earthen, vessels woorkemanship,
of potters mortall hande?
The dragons, (beastes of famouse feare)
and dreadefull, with their tonge,
With propper brestes, (as kynde hath taughte,)
do nurse theyr cresyue yonge:
But mine, the daughters of my folke,
(wightes cruell, and vnkynde)
and leue their fruite behinde.
My sucklings tounges, cleaue to their roufe,
they were so clammie drye:
They calde for breade but none was broughte,
therfore in vaine mighte crye.
Those whiche had fed so sumptuouse,
did pyne in streetes for meate
Babes wrapte in scarlet mantles once,
their ordure glad did eate.
My peoples crymes so manifolde,
were more innormouse vyle
Then Sodom sinne, Sodom, that suncke
in such a sodein whyle.
No enmie ought his tente at it,
it felte no mortall blow,
My straite lyuers whyter then milke,
whyter, then driuen snow,
And rosall ruddish reade within
clare rede as preciouse stones,
And pollishde lyke the Saphyre gay,
cleane pollishde for the nones:
Their visage vernagde all with blacke,
yblackte with colishe smeare
Go now vnknowne, that once in streetes,
so admirable were.
Their ryueled skinnes, clongde to their bones,
vnseparable be:
Their cracklinge hydes, britle and brashe,
as dryed barke of tree,
Better to dide vppon the bladde,
then perste with pyne to lye,
In lingringe languour, and at lengthe
for lacke of foode to dye.
The mothers (els much pittifull)
did boyle their sucklings small,
my doulfull peoples fal.
The lorde hath wroughte his wrathe at full,
and powred out his ire,
And brente Tsion downe to the grounde,
with eger grypinge fyer.
Not kinges, or any man els wheare,
did euer thincke it so,
That through Ierusalems stronge gates,
coulde entre anie foe.
Not sole Prophets, but preists haue set
God, in this chafinge moode,
Preists seruisable to Idols,
and gorde in blessed blood.
The blynde bloodmungers, blynde with bleed,
did straie the streets aboute,
And when they coulde not see the pathe,
beholde they trode it out.
Hence, blooddie wightes, hence (quod the foes)
fye, fye, awaye, awaie.
Touche nothing hence ye currishe bruits
and make no more delaye.
Both parties chid, both parties stormde,
some of the heathen sayed,
This people shall dwell here no more
the lorde will keepe them stayed,
The aufull countinaunce of God,
hath scattred them in sundre,
Nor euer meanes to mynde them more,
pardye, it is no woundre:
For they vnto the roiall preists,
woulde yeue none honor due,
Nor on the grisled horye syers,
the retchlesse woulde not rue.
Whilste, that we lookde for our vaine hope,
our eye sighte gan to dase,
nor ride vs from the maze.
They hunte, our steppes and trase vs, that
in streetes we can not go,
Our race is run, our dayes are don,
and death will proue it so.
Our persecutours, swifter then
the Egles of the skye,
Chaste vs on mounts, and in deserts,
in wayte for vs did lye.
Our vitall stay, and steddie aide,
Iosiah nointed Kynge,
Our payze of sinne, and plage of payze,
did vnto bondage bringe.
Childe of Edom, that in Husse dwels
thou needes not carcke nor care:
For thou shalte pledge vs on this cup,
thou shalte be druncke, and bare.
Tsion, that scourge of thyne is paste,
God will no more exyle the,
But Edoms chylde hath plague thy sonnes,
and shewde what did defyle the.
The fyfth Chapter Ieremies prayer.
Remembre Lorde what hath betydeto vs beholde and see
Our opprobryes, and what they are,
and eeke are lyke to be.
Our heritaunce is cut of quyte,
and turnde to folke prophaine,
Our houses by the aliauntes
the barberouse is tayne.
Our mothers (sillie as they be)
like wydowes, sytt alone,
and father haue we none.
We boughte the water whiche we druncke,
for wood our coyne we payde,
Our neckes were hamperde vnder yoke,
restlesse fainte, and ill stayde.
To Egipte, and Assiria,
our hande of league we lente:
That we might haue a smal of bred,
our carcas to contente.
Our parentes they transgreste thy law,
and now they are no more,
And we their burthynouse offence,
and masse of trespasse bore.
Slaues ruled vs, and none woulde ryd
vs, from their handes, and gyues
We earnde our bread with extreme toyle,
and hasarde of our lyues:
Because of wastefull sworde that from,
the deserte did issue.
Our skinne is blacke throughe pauling pyne,
and lyke to soote in hue.
The wedded wyfes in Tsion towne,
were wickedlie defeilde,
And Iudas virgins, were deflourde
(all chastitie exilde?
The princes and the potentates,
are hanged by the handes,
No man in feare, or reuerence,
of elders vysage standes.
Our yonge men, lyke to vylaine thrawles,
in drudgerie did grinde,
Our children, (babes infortunate)
to gallowes were assignde.
The elders rauishte from the genets,
the yonge men from their songes,
is whyninge at our wronges.
Our glittringe crowne, our temple braue,
the lorde did quyte fordoe,
Woe euer woe, and out alas,
that we haue sinned so.
Our hearte with sadnesse is surchargde,
our eyes can see no whit,
Because mounte Tsion is forsakte,
and foxes run on it.
But thou, O Lorde for euer standes,
Aye duringe is thy throne,
Why doste thou stil forsake vs, (Lorde)
still leauinge vs alone?
Turne, O Lorde, turne thee vnto vs,
that we maye turne to thee,
And make our dayes as at the firste,
from sinne, and mischiefes free.
But thou haste clearely caste vs of,
and mells with vs no more,
Thou arte no doubte (Lorde) throughlie chafte,
and angerde verye sore.
FINIS.
| A Medicinable Morall | |