The Poems of Henry Howard :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh Lorde, vppon whose will dependeth my welfare,
To call vppon thy hollye name syns daye nor night I spare,
Graunt that the iust request of this repentaunt mynd
So perce thyne eares that in thy sight som fauour it may fynd.
My sowle is fraughted full with greif of follies past:
My restles bodye doth consume and death approcheth fast;
Lyke them whose fatall threde thy hand hath cut in twayne,
Of whome ther is no further brewte, which in their graues remayne.
Oh Lorde, thow hast cast me hedling to please my fooe,
Into a pitt all botomeles, whear as I playne my wooe.
The burden of thy wrath it doth me sore oppresse,
And sundrye stormes thow hast me sent of terrour and distresse.
The faithfull frends ar fled and bannyshed from my sight,

112

And such as I haue held full dere haue sett my frendshipp light.
My duraunce doth perswade of fredom such dispaire
That, by the teares that bayne my brest, myne eye sight doth appaire.
Yet did I neuer cease thyne ayde for to desyre,
With humble hart and stretched hands for to appease thy yre.
Wherefore dost thow forbeare, in the defence of thyne,
To shewe such tokens of thy power, in sight of Adams lyne,
Wherby eche feble hart with fayth might so be fedd
That in the mouthe of thy elect thy mercyes might be spredd?
The fleshe that fedeth wormes can not thy loue declare,
Nor suche sett forth thy faith as dwell in the land of dispaire.
In blind endured herts light of thy lively name
Can not appeare, as can not iudge the brightnes of the same.
Nor blazed may thy name be by the mouth of those
Whome death hath shitt in sylence, so as they may not disclose.
The liuelye uoyce of them that in thy word delight
Must be the trumppe that must resound the glorye of thy might.
Wherfore I shall not cease, in chief of my distresse,
To call on the till that the sleape my weryd lymes oppresse.
And in the morning eke, when that the slepe is fledd,
With floods of salt repentaunt teres to washe my restles bedd.
Within this carefull mynd, bourdynd with care and greif,
Why dost thow not appere, Oh Lord, that sholdest be his relief?
My wretched state beholde, whome death shall strait assaile;
Of one from youth afflicted still, that never did but waile.
The dread, loo! of thyne yre hath trod me vnder feet;
The scourgis of thyne angrye hand hath made deth seme full sweet.
Like to the roring waues the sunken shipp surrounde,
Great heaps of care did swallow me and I no succour found.
For they whome no myschaunce could from my loue devyde
Ar forced, for my greater greif, from me their face to hyde.