XLIX. George Whetstone

BEFORE the world I here recant my life;

I doe renounce both lingering loue and lust;

My wanton will, with wisdome once at strife,

Hath lost the fielde, the type of fansie’s trust.

My sugred toung, bepoudred all with teares,

To chase mistrust from my sweet maistresse’ mynde,

With simple speach from humble sprite now weares

That fauour I with my sweet Christe may finde.

My scattered sighes, which I on earth did strowe,

I gather vp, and sende them to the starres,

As messengers of my lamenting woe,

Twixt sine and soule: so mortall is the warres.

Sith I repent, no shame it is to wray

My former life; how farre from grace it sweru’d;

Although from truth I, silly sheepe, did stray;

As good men God, so I my goddesse seru’d.

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Thus I, vile wretche, led on by wanton lust,

A triumphe made within my wicked thought,

How I by hap the harmelesse threw to dust,

Ere I escapt, or had the mischiefe wrought.

But oh, sweete Christ, thy grace this folly stay’d;

Thou cleardst my sight which mistes of loue did bleare:

Vnto whose praise my conscience hath bewrayd

My former life, deuoyde of godly feare.

Thou crau’st, good Lord, no other aduocate,

But prayer mine, to purchase heauenly grace;

The which thou sayst doth neuer come too late,

If I repent, when prayer pleades my case.

A contrite heart is the sweet sacrifice

That thou dost seeke, ere we thy fauour winne;

The which, deare God, with sighes and weeping eyes

I offer vp in recompence of sinne:

Attending still when triall of my fayth

Shall treade downe death, and Sathan force to reele;

And boldly say, Till latter gaspe of breath,

My soule, through faith, the ioyes of heauen doth feele.