University of Virginia Library

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57

Psalm 69.

[Help Lord, and save, a poor distressed wight]

Help Lord, and save, a poor distressed wight;
Not tost with waves, (though seas against me fight,
And beat my soule;) but sinking in the mud,
Where bottom none; and where the surging flud
With furious stream beres doun and whelms my life.
Ah save me, Lord, and end my bootles strife.
I strive, though spent; I cry, when voice is quailĕd;
For God I look, when eys have looking failĕd.
TH'iniurious spĭrits, my not-deserved foes,
Who hunt my life; with numbers me encloze
That pass myn hair; and rizing still in strength,
Press on, til mee (ô wrong!) they force at length
What nevĕr I took, as taken, to restore.
Ah thee my falts, my folies ly before.
BUT not for mee, Eternal Lord of hosts,
Great Israels God, let those, whose humble boasts
Of thee have been, confounded rest in mynd;
Nor shame in face, when him forlorn they fynd,
Who thee with them in patient hope hath sought.
For thy sake, Lord, to this I lo am brought:
For thee, I scorns, and sour rebuke endure.
May service thyn, great Lord, such shame procure?
WHAT should I speak of frends unfrendli face?
My brethren deer, same mothers home-born race,
A stranger mee, an alien mere esteem.
And why? The zele, of which I worthi deem,

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Thy sacred hests, thy House, and glorious name;
(Which godles crues, stil grieving mee, prophane;)
Hath eăten me up: Reproaches throwne at thee
From mouths infernal, light have all on mee.
IN grief, I wept; and fasting, fed on care;
My ioyles lims, rough sacweb clothĕd on bare:
My weed, they proverb; mocks, on fasting pour;
And laugh the tears, which vexed hart dooth shour.
In iudgement place, gainst mee the ancients spake.
Yea balads base, vyld drunkards of me make.
AND I, my Lord, to thee now praying bend;
In needfulst time: Let ô my crys ascend,
And time accepted fynd. O God, my trust;
If right thou seest; and if my plaints be iust;
In plentĕous merci, and for thy saving trueth,
Send ô that help, which life in death renuĕth.
OH free me, Lord, from sinking in this mire,
This groundles mire; and from their fierce desire,
Whose hate my life persuĕth. Draw from these waves
Th' orewhelmed soule, thy hand who drouning craves,
And prays; Forbid this gulf my life t' inglut;
Devouring pit on me hir mouth to shut.
HEAR Lord, with speed; and tender ey reflect,
Thou Goodnes pure: thy servants not neglect,
In case extreme who mercies hand implore.
O spring of grace, I mercies those adore.
Then, Lord, be neer: yea for my insulting foes,
To free my soule once heavĕnli aid discloze.

AH see, and iudge: thou knowĕst my sad reproach;
Fore thee my foes, my shames who shameles broach,
Stand all in sight. Their wrongs have worn my hart.
Full chargĕd with grief; I lookt if yet som part
My frends would bere; no frend condoling found:
If comfort speak; but none least comfort sound.
For strengthning meat, yea poizŏning gall they sent:
And vinĕger tart, my thirst to quench prezent.
THERFORE iust Lord, their owne them home repay:
Their pleazing boord, where ioys before them play,
Let turn a snare, to catch them in their woords:
And (that which foli as lot to fools affoords,)

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Their wishes, hurt; good fortunes, bee their bane:
Mynds sight obscure; their loins rough valure lame.
AND as in furi, man laith lode of blowes:
So let revenge, which from thyn anger flowes,
Ad stripe to stripe; and seaze with raging ire
Their hated heads which mischief sole dezire.
Void stand their castles: dweller none be found
To grace the tents where graceles facts abound.
FOR thow whom, Lord, with hand severe hast smit,
They fierce pursue; and inhumanely sit,
With grievous woords t' encrease thy woundeds pain.
Let sin, so sin; so plague, to plague enchain:
Thy righteŏusnes that still they wretched miss;
Nor way e're fynd that leads to heavĕnli bliss.
Devowd to death, from book of life efface:
Ne write their names, where iust mens names have place.