LIX. Edward Hake

DROOPING and dying in depth of dispaire;

Wasted and wearied with sorrow and smart;

Pinched and pained in pencifull chaire,

Yet dare not discouer the thoughts of my heart:

To keepe them or shew them brings griefe alike to me,

To keepe them or to shew them alike doth vndo me.

O dayes full of dolour! O nights of vnrest!

O times full of trouble! O seasons vnkind

If aught could be added, or aught be decreast,

Then might there be hope some comfort to find:

But resolute ruine still standing at doore,

Death cannot haue entrance, nor life be secure.

O God, if thou dost it to punish my sinne,

I am thy poore seruant, the worke of thy hand,

All fraile and vnstable without and within,

Vnable without thee one houre to stand:

But sith thou hast promist to helpe where is need,

Lord, keepe then thy promise, and helpe me with speed.

Thou know’st what I lacke, thou know’st what I aile,

O Father of mercy, O Fountaine of grace:

Sith none that hath sought thee did euer yet faile,

Lord, let not me onely be thrust out of place:

But looke thou on me as thou lookest on all,

And helpe thy poore seruant that lyeth in thrall.

I graunt of my merites I may be ashamed;

Not mercy but iudgement doth fit my desert:

My life hath bene loose, my thoughts all vntamed,

And whatso was holy, that did I peruert.

Not therefore for me, but for thy name sake,

Vouchsaue me thy mercy, my sorrow to slake.