 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 20.
Vouchsafe (great God) to turne thy tender eyes
On me poore wretch: Oh, let my midnight cries
(That never cease, if never stopt with teares)
Procure audience from thy gracious eares;
Behold thy creature, made by change of griefe,
The barest wretch, that ever beg'd reliefe;
See, see, my soule is tortur'd on thy rack
My bowels tremble, and my heart-strings crack;
Abroad, the sword with open ruine frights me;
At home, the secret hand of Famine smites me;
Strange fires of griefe! How is my soule opprest,
That findes abroad, no peace, at home, no rest!
| Divine poems
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