University of Virginia Library

O lord, sins in my mowght thy myghty name
Sufferth it sellff, my lord to name and call,
Here hath my hert hope taken by the same,
That the repentance wych I have and shall
May at thi hand seke marcy as the thing,
Only confort of wrechid synners all.
Wherby I dare with humble bymonyng
By thy goodnes off the this thing require:
Chastyse me not for my deserving,
Acordyng to thy just conceyvid Ire.
O lord, I dred, and that I did not dred
I me repent, and euermore desyre
The, the to dred. I open here and spred
My fawte to the, but thou, for thi goodnes,
Mesure it not in largenes nor in bred,
Punish it not, as askyth the grettnes
Off thi furour, provokt by my offence.
Tempre, O lord, the harme of my excesse
With mendyng will, that I for recompense
Prepare agayne; and rather pite me,
For I ame wek and clene withowt defence:
More is the nede I have of remede,
For off the hole the lech takyth no cure.
The shepe that strayth the sheperd sekes to se:
I lord ame strayd: I, sek withowt recure,
Fele al my lyms, that have rebelld for fere,
Shake in dispayre, onles thou me assure.
Mye flesshe is troubled, my hart doth feare the speare;
That dread of death, of death that ever lastes,
Threateth of right and draweth neare and neare.
Moche more my sowle is trowbled by the blastes
Of theise assawltes, that come as thick as hayle,
Of worldlye vanytie, that temptacion castes
Agaynst the weyke bulwarke of the flesshe frayle:
Wheare in the sowle in great perplexitie
Ffeelethe the sensis, with them that assayle,
Conspyre, corrupte by vse and vanytie;
Whearby the wretche dothe to the shade resorte
Of hope in the, in this extreamytie.
But thow, O Lord, how long after this sorte
Fforbearest thow to see my myserye?
Suffer me yet, in hope of some comforte,
Ffeare and not feele that thow forgettest me.
Returne, O Lorde, O Lorde, I the beseche,
Vnto thie olde wonted benignitie.
Reduce, revyve my sowle: be thow the Leche,
And reconcyle the great hatred and stryfe
That it hath tane agaynste the flesshe, the wretche
That stirred hathe thie wrathe bye filthie life.
Se how my sowle doth freat it to the bones,
Inward remorce so sharp'the it like a knife;
That but thow helpp the caitife, that bemones
His great offence, it turnes anon to dust.
Heare hath thie mercye matter for the nones,
Ffor if thie rightwise hand that is so iuste
Suffer no Synne or stryke with dampnacion,
Thie infinyte marcye want nedes it must
Subjecte matter for his operacion:
For that in deth there is no memorie
Amonge the Dampnyd, nor yet no mencion
Of thie great name, grownd of all glorye.
Then if I dye and goe wheare as I feare
To thinck thearon, how shall thie great mercye
Sownde in my mowth vnto the worldes eare?
Ffor theare is none than can thee lawde and love,
Ffor that thow wilt no love among them theare.
Suffer my Cryes thie marcye for to move,
That wonted is a hundred yeares offence
In momente of repentaunce to remove.
How ofte have I calde vpp with diligence
This slowthful flesshe longe afore the daye,
Ffor to confesse his faulte and negligence,
That to the done for ought that I coold say
Hath still returnd to shrowde it self from colde;
Whearbye it suffers nowe for suche delaye.
By nightlye playntes in stede of pleasures olde
I wasshe my bed with teares contynuall,
To dull my sight that it be never bolde
To stirr mye hart agayne to suche a fall.
Thus drye I vpp among my foes in woe,
That with my fall do rise and grow with all,
And me bysett evin now where I am so
With secrett trapps to troble my penance.
Sum do present to my weping yes, lo,
The chere, the manere, beaute and countenance
Off her whose loke alas did mak me blynd;
Sum other offer to my remembrans
Those plesant wordes, now bitter to my mynd;
And sum shew me the powre of my armour,
Tryumph, and conquest, and to my hed assind
Dowble diademe: sum shew the favour
Of people frayle, palais, pompe and ryches:
To thes marmaydes and theyre baytes off errour
I stopp myn eris with help of thy goodnes;
And for I fele it comith alone of the
That to my hert thes foes have non acces
I dare them bid: ‘avoyd wreches and fle!
The lord hath hard the voyce off my complaint;
Your engins take no more effect in me.
The lord hath herd, I say, and sen me faynt
Vnder your hand, and pitith my distres.
He shall do mak my sensis by constraint
Obbey the rule that reson shall expres,
Wher the deceyte of yowr glosing baite
Made them vsurp a powre in all exces’.
Shamid be thei all that so ly in whaite
To compas me, by missing of theire pray!
Shame and rebuke redound to suche decayte!
Sodayne confusion's stroke withowt delay
Shall so defface theire craffty sugestion
That they to hurt my helthe no more assay,
Sins I, o Lord, remayne in thi protection.