XLIV. Francis Davison

WITH miserie enclos’d,

By all the world oppos’d,

To thee I lift mine eie,

Oh thou that dwell’st on high;

Assur’d that thou wilt heare,

And me, deiected, cheere.

Lo! as a seruant’s eie

Still lookes regardfully

Vpon his master’s hand,

For gyftes, more than command;

And as a hand-maid still

Attends her mistris’ will;

So we, with sorrow fraight,

Ne’er sunck, vpon thee waite;

Our hopefull eie and heart,

Fix’d on thee neuer start,

Till thou, for thine owne sake,

Some pittie on vs take.

Oh Lord! we doe resort

To thee, our safest port:

With help compassionate

Our healthles, hopeles state;

For we, and we alone,

Are scornd and trampled on.

Our soules are fill’d with vaunts,

And with reproachfull taunts,

From them that wealthie be,

And hate both vs and thee;

And with derisions

From prowd and mightie ones.