LORD, grant, oh grant me thy compassion;
For I in thee my trust haue placed;
Display thy wings for my saluation,
Until my greefs are over-passed.
To thee I sue, Oh God most high,
To thee that canst all want supplie.
From their despights who seek to rend mee,
Let help, O Lord! from heaven be daigned,
And let thy truth and loue defend me;
For I with lions am detained :
With men inflam'd, whose biting words
Are shafts, and speares, and naked swords.
Let over heauen God's praise be reared,
And through the world his glorie showed;
For they who netts for mee prepared,
(They who my soul to ground had bowed,) Eu'n they within those trapps are caught, Which for my fall their hands had wrought. Oh God! my hart now ready maketh,
My hart is for thy praise preparing; My tongue, my harpe, my lute awaketh, And I myselfe betimes vprearing,
Will speak and sing in praise of thee,
Where greatest throngs of people be.
For, Lord, thy mercies forth are stretched,
As farr as are the sphears extended;
Thy truth unto the clouds hath reached,
And thou thyself art high ascended.
Let still, thy fame and praise, Oh God!
Through heauen and earth be spread abrode.
WHO hath not walkt astray
In wicked men's aduise,
Nor stood in sinners' way,
Nor in their companies
That scorners are,
As their fit mate,
In scoffing chayre
Hath euer sate;
But in thy lawes diuine,
O Lord, sets his delight,
And in those lawes of thine
Studies all day and night.
Oh how that man
Thrice blessed is !
And sure shall gaine
Eternall blisse.
He shall be like the tree
Set by the water-springs,
Which when his seasons
Most pleasant fruite forth brings,
Whose boughes so greene
Shall neuer fade,
But couered bene
With comely shade.
So to this happy wight
All his designes shall thriue,
Whereas the man vnright,
As chaffe which windes do driue,
With euery blast
Is tost on hy,
Nor can at last
In safety lie.
Wherefore in that sad doome
They dare not rise from dust,
Nor shall no sinner come
To glory of the iust.
For God will giue
The iust man's way,
While sinner's race
Run to decay.
ON thee, O Lord my God, relies
My onely trust from bloudy spight;
Of all my raging enemies
Oh let thy mercy me acquite;
Lest they, like greedy lyons, rend
My soule, while none shall it defend.
O Lord, if I this thing have wrought;
If in my hands be found such ill;
If I with mischief ever sought
To pay good turnes, or did not still
Doe good unto my causeless foe
That thirsted for my overthrow;
Then let my foe in eager chase
O'ertake my soule, and proudly tread
My life below, and with disgrace
In dust laye downe mine honour dead.
Rise up in rage, O Lord, eft soone
Advance thine arm against my fo'ne.
And wake for me, till thou fulfill
My promis'd right: so shall glad throngs
Of people flock unto this hill.
For their sakes then reuenge my wrongs
And rouse thyself. Thy judgments be
O'er all the world: Lord, judge thou me.
As truth and honest innocence
Thou find'st in me, Lord, judge thou me;
Settle the just with sure defence:
Let me the wicked's malice see
Brought to an end: for thy just eye
Doth heart and inward reines descry.
My safety stands in God, who shields
The sound in heart, whose doome, each day,
To just men and contemners yeelds
Their due. Except he change his way,
His sword is whet, to blood intended;
His murdering bow is ready bended.
Weapons of death he hath addrest,
And arrowes keene to pierce my foe,
Who late bred mischiefe in his breast;
But when he doth on travell goe,
Brings forth a lye; deep pits doth delve,
And falls into his pits himselve.
Back to his own head shall rebound
His plotted mischiefe; and his wrongs
His crowne shall craze: but I shall sound
Jehouah's praise with thankful songs,
And with his glorious name expresse,
And tell of all his righteousnesse.
From "Lachrymæ Lachrymarum.”
(Of the rainbowe, that was reported to be seen in the night over St. James's, before the Prince's death; and of the unseasonable winter since.)
WAS ever nightly rainbowe seen?
Did ever winter mourne in greene?
Had that long bowe been bent by day
That chased all our clouds away;
But now that it by night appeares,
It tells the deluge of our teares:
No marvell rainbowes shine by night,
When suns yshorne do lose their light.
Iris was wont to be, of old,
Heauen's messenger to earthly mold;
And now she came to bring us down
Sad news of Henry's better crowne.
And as the eastern star did tell
The Persian sages of that cell
Where Sion's King was borne and lay,
And over that same house did stay;
So did this western breeze descry
Where Henry, prince of men, should die.
Lo! there this arch of heavenly state
Rais'd to the triumph of his fate;
Yet rais'd in dark of night, to showe
His glory should be with our woe.
And now, for that men's mourning weed,
Reports a griefe not felt indeed;
The winter weepes and mournes indeed,
Though clothed in a summer-weed.
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