Certayne psalmes chosen out of the psalter of Dauid, commonlye called the .vii. penytentiall psalmes, drawen into englyshe meter by Sir Thomas Wyat knyght, wherunto is added a prolage of [the] auctore before euery psalme, very pleasau[n]t [and] profettable to the godly reader Bible. O.T. Psalms. English. Wyatt. 1549 Approx. 45 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 37 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A15968 STC 2726 ESTC S111727 99847005 99847005 12008

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A15968) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 12008) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 66:06) Certayne psalmes chosen out of the psalter of Dauid, commonlye called the .vii. penytentiall psalmes, drawen into englyshe meter by Sir Thomas Wyat knyght, wherunto is added a prolage of [the] auctore before euery psalme, very pleasau[n]t [and] profettable to the godly reader Bible. O.T. Psalms. English. Wyatt. Wyatt, Thomas, Sir, 1503?-1542. Harington, John, d. 1582. [120] p. In Paules Churchyarde, at the sygne of thee Starre, By Thomas Raynald. and [i.e. for] Iohn Harryngton, Imprinted at London : [M.D.XLIX. the last day of December] [1549] Translated by Sir Thomas Wyatt (in part from Pietro Aretino's "Parafrasi" of 1534). Edited by John Harington--STC. Date of publication from colophon. In verse. Signatures: A-D E⁴. Reproduction of the original in the Cambridge University Library.

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Certayne psalmes chosen out of the psalter of Dauid / commonlye called thee .vii. penytentiall psalmes, drawen into englyshe meter by Sir Thomas Wyat Knyght, wherunto is added a prologe of ye auctore before euery psalme, very pleasaūt & profettable to the godly reader.

Imprinted at London in Paules Churchyarde, at the sygne of thee Starre, By Thomas Raynald. and Iohn Harryngton

¶To the right honorable and his singuler good Lord, William, Marqu she of Northampton, Earle of Essex, Barone of K ndal, Lord parre, & knig t of the most noble ordre of the Garter, youre moste bon en orator at commaundement, Iohn Hattington, wysh th helth, & prosperite wyth encrease of v rtue & the mercy of God for euer.

COnsyderyng th manyfolde dueties and aboundant seru ce that I owe vnto your good Lordeshyp (ryghte honorable, & my Singul r good Lord) I cā not, but see infinite causes why I chiefely of all others oughte (wyth all cheref ll and ready endeuoure) to gratifye your good Lordshyp by all meanes possyble, and to applye my selfe wholye too thee same, as one that woulde gladly, but cā by no mean s able to do accordinglye as hys bondē duette requireth: I cānot, I say, but se & acknowledge my selfe boū dē, and not able to doo soche seruice as Iowe, both for the inestimable benefites yt your noble progenito s, and also your good Lordship hath shewed vnto my parentes & pr dycessors: & also to my selfe, as to one least able to do anye acceptable seruice, thoughe the wil be at all tymes most ready, In tokē wherof, youre lordship shal at all tymes perceaue, by simple thinges, that my ittel wit shal be able to inu nt that yf myne harte coulde do you any seruyce: no labour or trauayle shulde witholde me frō doynge my duetie & that yf busy labour & yt hert myght be able to paye the du tye that loue oweth: your lordshyp shulde in no poīt fynde me ingrate or vnthākful. And to declare this my redye wyll: I haue dedicated vnto your name, thys little treatyse, whyche after I had perused and by thaduise of others (better learned then my self) determined to put it in printe, that the noble fame of so worthy a Knighte, as was thee Auctor hereof, Syr Thomas Wyat, shuld not perish but remayne as wel for hys syngul r learnīg, as valiant dedes in ne cyal f ates: I thought that I could not find a more worthy patron for soch a mās worke then your Lordship, whō I haue al wayes knowen to be of so godlye a zeale, to thee furtheraunce of gods holy & a secret gospel, most humbly b sechynge your good Lordeshippe, herin to accepte my good wyll, and too esteme me as one that wissheth vnto the same al honour, healthe, and prosperous successe.

AMEN.

☞ Your good Lordshyppes most humble at cōmaūdemēt Iohn Hartington.
¶ The Prologe of the Auctor LOue to geue lawe vnto hys subiectes hartes Stode in the eyes of Barsabe the bryghte And in a looke anone hym selfes conuertes Cru lly pleasaunt, before King Dauids syght Fyrst dased hys yes, & furder forth he s art s Wyth venemed brethe, as softly as he myghte Touche his senewes, and ouer runnes hys bones Wyth •• epynge fyre, sparkeled for the nones And when he sawe, that kindeled was the flame The noysome poyson, in hys harte he launced So that the soule dyd tremble wyth the same And in hys brawle, as he stode and traunced Yeldynge vn o the fygure, and thee frame That those fayre eyes, hadde in hys pre ens glaun •• d Th tor ••• that loue, had printed in hys reste 〈◊〉 o oreth it, as a thynge of thyng s ves e ☞So that he forgotte, the wysdom a d or caste Wh he woo to realmes, when that 〈…〉 dothe lacke Forg •••• ge ke, goddes Maiestye as 〈◊〉 Y a, a •• hys owne, forthwyth he dothe to make rye to goo, into hee felde in 〈◊〉 Urye I saye: that was hys Ieweles make Under pretence, of certayne victorye For enemyes swordes, a ready pray to be W ereby he may, enioye her out o doubte Whome more th n God, or him self he myn eth And after he hadde broughte thys thynge about And of t at luste, possest hym self he fyndeth That hathe and dothe reuerse, and cl ne turne out Kynges from kyngdomes, and cytyes vndermynd th He blynded thynkes thys trayne, so blynde and close To blynde al thynges, that nothing waye it disclose ☞ But Nathan hath spied, out this trecherye Wyth uful ch are, and settes afore hys face The greate offence, outrage and iniurye That he hathe done too God, as in thys case By murder for too clooke adulterye He shewethe eke from heauen, thee t reates alas So s •• rnly sore, thys Prophete thys Nathan That al am sed was, thys woful aged man ¶Like him that meateth wyth horror and wythe feare The heate doth streyght forsake the lymyttes colde The colour ke droppeth downe frō hys cheare So dothe he feele hys fyre manyfolde Hys heate, hys luste, his pleasure all in scare Consume and waste and streyght hys crowne of gold. Hys purple pauler, hys scepter he le teth fall And to the ground, he throweth him self wyth all ☞ Then pompious pryde, of state and dignite Forth with rebate repentaunt humblenes Thinner vyle clothe, then clothed pouertie Doth scantlye hyde and cladde hys nakednes Hys fayre hoore bearde, of reuerente grauitie Wyth ruffeled heyre, knowyng hys wyckednes More lyke was he, the same repentaunce Then statelye prynce, of worldelye gou rnaunce ys harpe he takethe, in hand to be his guide Wherwyth he offreth, playnts hys soule to saue That from hys harte, dystylleth on euery syde Wythedrawynge hym selfe, into a darke cau Within the ground, wher he might hym yde Flyinge the lyghte, as in pryson or graue In which as sone, as Dauid entred had The darcke horror, dyd make hys faulte a drad But wythout, prolongyng or delaye Of that, whyche myghte hys Lorde hys God appease Falleth on hys knees, and wyth hys harpe I saye Afore hys breste, frawted wythe dysease Of stormye syghes, depe draughtes of hys d caye Dressed vpryghte, sekyng to conterpase Hys songes wythe syghes and touchynge of the stringes Wyth tender harte, too thus to God he synges
Domine ne in furore O Lord syns my mouthe, thy myghtie name Suffereth it selfe my lord, to name & to call Here hathe my harpe, he taken by the same That the repentaunce, whych I haue and shall Maye at thy hande, seke mercy as the thynge Of onely comfort to wretched sinners all Whereby I dare wt humble bemonynge By the goodnes of thee, this thynge requyre Chas yce me not, for my deseruinge Accordynge to thy uste conceaued yre O lorde I dreade, and that I did not dreade I me repente, and euermore d syre Thee to dreade, I open here and sprede My faulte to thee, but thou for thy goodnes Measure it not, in largenes nor in breade. Punishe it not as asketh thee greatnes Of thy furor prouoked by myne offence Temper, o lorde, the harme of my excesse Wyth mendyng wyll that I for recompence Prepare agayne, and rather pytye me For I am weake, and cleane wythout defence More is the nede, I haue of remedye For of the hole, the eche taketh no cure The shepe that trayeth thee sheparde sekes to see I lorde am strayed, and seke without recure Fele al my lymes, that haue rebelled for feare Shake in despayre onelesse thou me assure My flesshe is troubled, my harte doth feare the spe r That drede of deathe, of deathe that euer lastes Threateth of ryghte, and draweth nere and neare Moch more my soule, is troubled by the blastes Of these assautes, that come as thick as hayle Of worldly vanities, that temptacion ca les Agayn •• the bulwerke, of the flesh frayle Wherin thee soule, in greate perple itie Fe leth the senc s, wyth the tha assayd Consp re corrup •• by pleasure and van ie Wherby the wretche, dothe too the shade resorte Of hope in the, in thys extremytie But thou o lorde, howe longe a ter thys sorte Forberest thou, to se my myserye Suffer me yet, in hope of some comfort Feare & not feele, that thou forgettest me Returne (o lorde) I beseche thee o lorde Unto thy olde, wonted benygnitye Reduce reuiue, my soule, be thou the leche And reconcyle, the great hatred and •• ryte That it hathe had, agaynste the fleshe the wretche That styred hathe thy wrath by fylthy lyfe Se howe my soule, doth freate it to the bones Inwarde emorse, so sharpeth it lyke a knyfe T at but thou helpe, the caitife that be o ••• s Hys greate offence, it turneth anon to duste Here hathe thy mercye, matter for the nones For yf thy righteouse hande, that is so iuste Suffre noo synne, or stryke wythe dampnation Thy infynite mercye, wante, nedes it muste Subiecte matter, for hys operatyon For that in deathe, there is no memorye Amonge the dampned, nor yet no mencyon Of thy great name grounde of al glorye Then yf I dye, and goo where as I feare To thynke ther on, howe shall thy great mer ye Sounde in my mouthe, vnto thee worldes care For ther is none that an the laude and loue For that thou wilt no loue, among them there Su fer my cryes, thee mercye too moue That wonted is, a hundred yeares offence In a moment of repentaunce, to remoue Howe ofte haue I called vp with dyligence Thys slouthfull fleshe, longe afore the daye For to confes, hys faulte and negligence That to the denne, for oughte that I coulde saye Hathe styll returned, too shrowde hym selfe from colde Wherby, if suffreth none for soche delaye By myghtye playntes, in stede of pleasures olde I washe my bedde, with teares continuall To dull my syghte, that it be neuer bolde To stere my hart agayne, to soche a fall Thus drye I vp, among my foes in woo That wythe my fall, doo ryse and growe wythall And me be sett euen nowe, where I am so Wyth secrete trappes, to trouble my penaunce Some do presente to me, my wepinge eyes The chere, the manner, bewtye, or countenaunce Of her whose looke alas, dyd make me blynde Some other offer, to my remembraunce These pleasaunt wordes, now bytter to my mynde And some, shewe me the power, of my armoure Triumphe, and conquest, and to my head assynde Doo le dia •• me, some shewe fauoure Of people frayle, palace, pompe and riches To the meremaydes, and theyr baytes of errour I stoppe my eares, wyth helpe of thy goodnes And for I fele, it commeth alone of the That to my harpe, these foes haue none accesse Dare them byd, auoyde wretches and flee The Lorde hath hearde, the voyce of my complaynte Youre engynes, take nomore effect in me The Lorde hathe heard (I saye) and sen me faynte Under your hand, and pytyeth my dystresse He shal do make my sences, by constraynte Obeye thee rule, that reason shall expresse Where that thee disceyte, of youre glosing bayte Made them vsurpe, a power in al excesse Shamed be they all, that so do lye in wayte To compasse me by myssynge of theyr praye Shame and rebuke, redownd to soche dysceyte Soden confusion, as stroke with our delaye Shall so deface, theyr craftye suggestion That they to hurte my helth, noo more assaye Sence I, O Lorde, remayne in thy protection
The Auctor WHo so hathe sene, the sycke in hys feuour After truce taken, wythe the heate or colde And that the fytte is paste, of hys feuour Drawe fayntinge syghes, let hym I saye beholde Sorowefull Dauid, after hys languor The wyth his teares, that from his eyen downe rolled Paused his playnte, and layd down hys harpe Faythfull recorde, of all hys sorowes sharpe Yt semed nowe, that of hys faulte the horrour Dyd make a ferde nomore hy hope of grace Thee threates whereof in horrible te rour Dyd holde hys harte, as in despaire a space Tyll he had wyll, to seke for hys succoure Hym selfe accusynge, beknowynge hys case Thynkynge so bes e, hys lorde to appeace And not yet healed, he fealethe hys dysease ☞ Nowe semeth feareful, no more the darke caue That ers e dyd make hys fault, for to tremble A place deuoute, of refuge for too saue The succurles, it rather dyd res mble For who had sene, so kneeling with in the graue The chiefe pas ure, of the hebrewes assemble Wolde Iudge it, made by teres of penytence A sacred place, worthy of reuerence ☞Wythe vapored eyes, he loked heare, and there And when he hath, a whyle him self bethoughte Gatherynge his spirites, that were disdmayde for feare Hys harpe agayne, vnto hys hand he rought Tunynge accorde, by Iudgemente of hys eare Hys hartes botome for a syghe he soughte And there withall, vpon the holowe tree With strayned voyce, againe thus cryed he
Beati quorum remisse sunt. OH happy are they, that haue forgeuenes gotte Of th ir offēce, not by theyr penitence As by merite which recompenceth not Al thoughe that yet pardon, hathe not offence Wythoute thee same, but by thee goodnesse Of hym that hathe, perfytte intelligence Of harte contrite, and couert thee greatnesse Of synne, wythin a mercyfull discharge And happye are they, that haue the wylfulnesse Of lust restraygned, afore it went at large Prouoked by the drede, of Gods furor Whereby they haue not on their backes thee charge Of other faultes, too suffer thee dolor For that theyr faulte, was neuer execute In open yghte, example o error And happy is he, to whome God doth impute No more hys faulte, by knowledgynge hys synne And clensed nowe, thee lorde dothe hym repure As adder fresshe, newe strypped from hys skynne Nor in hys sprete, is oughte vndi couered I for bycause, I hydde it siylle wythin Thinckinge by state, in fault to be preferred Do fynde by hyding of my fault my harme As he that fyndeth, hys healthe hyndered By secrete wounde, concealed from the charme Of leches cure, that else had, had edresse And fele my bones, consume and waxe vnferme By daylye rage, rorynge in xcesse The heauy hande, on me was so encreaste Both daye and nyght, & hold my harte in presse Wyth prickinge thoughtes, by reuinge me my reste That weth red is my lus ynes awaye As somer heates, that haue thee grayne oppres e. Wherfore I dyd, another waye assaye And soughte forth wyth, to open in thy syght My faulte, my feare, my fylthines I saye And not to hyde, frō the, my great vnryghte I shall quoth I, agaynst my selfe confesse Unto thee Lorde, all my synfull plyghte And thou forth with diddest wash the wyckedn sse Of myne off nce, of truthe ryght thus it is Wherfore they, that haue tas ed thy goo nesse At me, shall take example, as of thys And praye, and s ke i t me, for tyme of grace Th n shall the stormes, and •• uddes of harme And hym to r •• he, shall euer haue the space Thou arte my refuge, and onely auegarde From the troubles that compas me the place Such Ioyes, as he that scapeth his enemyes warde Wyth losed bandes, hath in lybertye Such is my ioye, thou haste to me preparde That as the see man in his Ieopardye By soden syght, perceaued hath the lyghte So by thy great mercyful propertye Within thy boke thus reade I my comforte I shal the teache, and geue vnderstandynge And point to the, what way thou shalte resorte For thy addresse, to kepe the frō wanderynge My eye shall take the charge to be thy guyde I aske therto, of the onelye thys thynge Be not lyke horse or mule that men do ryde That not alone doth his master knowe But for thee good, thou muste hym betide And brideled lest hys guyde he byte or throwe Oh diuerse there are chastesinges of sinne In meat, and drynke, in brethe, that man doth blowe In slepe, and watche, in fretynge styl wyth in That neuer suffer rest vnto the mynde Felde wythe offence, that newe and newe begynne Wyth thousande feares, the harte to strayne and blynd: But for al thys he that in God doth trust Wy he ••• cy , shall hym selfe defended fynde Ioyce, and reioyce, I saye: you that be iuste In hym that mak th, & holdethe you so styll In hym youre glorye, alwayes set you muste All you that be, of vpryght hart and wyll
The Auctor THys songe end d, Dauid dyd sty t hys voyce And in that whyle, he aboute wyth hys eye Dyd seke the darcke caue, with whyche wythoute noyce Hys sylence semed, too argue and ••• lye Uppon hys harpe, hys peace that dyd reioyce The 〈…〉 so dyd call And f ••• d mercye, at plentyfull mercy s hand Neuer denied, but where it was wythstande ☞As the seruaunte, in hys maysters face Fyndynge pardon, of hys passed offence Consyderynge his greate goodnes, and hys grace Gladde teares dystylles, as gladsome recompence Ryghte so Dauid, semed in thee place A marble Image, of synguler reuerence Carued in the rocke, wythe eyes and hande on hygh Made is by craft, to playn, to sobbe, to syghe Thys whyle a beame that bryght sonne forth sendeth That sonne the whyche was neue sonne could hyde Perc th thee caue, and on the harpe descendethe Whose glaunsing lyght, the world dyd ouer glyde And suche luyster vpon the harpe extendethe As lyghte of lampe, vpon the golde cleaue tryed The torne wherof into his eyes did s e te Supprysed wyth ioye, by pennaū ce of the harte ☞He more enflamed, with farre more hote effecte Of God then he was erste of Barsabe Hys lefte foote dyd on thee earthe erec e Iuste thereby remaynethe the other knee To thee lefte syde, hys wayght h dothe dyrecte For hope of helthe, hys harpe agayne taketh he Hys hande, hys tuyne, hys mynde sought hys laye Whyche to the lord, with sober voyce dyd saye
Domine ne in furore tuo. O Lord as I haue ye, both prayed and praye Although in the, be no alteracyon But that we mē, like as our selfes we saye Mesuryng thy Iustyce, by ou mutacyon Chastice me not (oh lorde) in thy furor Nor me correcte, in wrathful castygacyon For that thy arrowes, of feare, of Terror Of sword, of sycknes, of famine, of fyre Stickes depe in me, I (loo) frō myne rrour Am pluck d vp, as horse out of the myre With stroke of spurre, such is thy hande on me That in my flesshe, for terror of thy yre Is not one poynt, of f rme stab lytye Nor in my bones, ther is no stedfastnes Suche is my dreade of mutabylyt e For that I know •• m fraylfull wyckednes For why? my synnes aboue m hed are bounde Lyke heuy weightes, that doth my force oppresse Under the whych I stoupe, and b we to the grounde As wyllow plante, haled by vyolence And of my fles he, eche not well cured wounde That festered is, by folye, and n clygence By secrete luste hath ra k d vnder skynne Not duely cured, by my penytence Perceyuynge thus, the tyrannye of synne That with weyght, hath hūbled and deprest My pryde, by grudgyng of the worme within That neuer dyeth I lyue wyth 〈◊〉 rest So are myne ntrayles I f ••• with feruent ore Fedynge my harme, my wel •• oppreste That in my leshe , is 〈…〉 he therfore So wonderous great, hath ben my vexacyon That it forsced my harte, to cry and rore O lorde thou knowest, thinwa de contemplacyon Of my desire, thou knowest my syghes and plaintes Thou knowest, the teares of my lamentacyon Cānot expresse, my hartes inwarde restrayntes My harte pantethe, my force I feele it quayle My sight, my eyes, my loke decayes and fayntes And when myne enemyes, dyd me most assayle My frendes most sure, wherein I set most trust Myne owne vertues, sonest th dyd fayle And stode aparte, reason & wyt , vniuste As kyn vnkynde, were fardeste gone at nede So had they place, ther venume out to thruste That sought my death, by naughty worde and deade Ther tonges reproche, their wit dyd frawde applye And I lyke deafe & dom, forthe my waye yede Lyke one that heres not, nor hath o replye Not one worde agayne, knowyng that from thyne hande These thynges procede, & thou lorde shalte replye My truste in that, wherein I s ycke and stande Yet haue I had, greate cause to dreade and feare That thou wouldeste geue, my foes the ouer hande For in my fal, they shewed suche pleasaunt chere That there wythal, I alway in the lashe Abyde the stroke, and wythe me euery where I beare my faulte, that greatel doth abashe My dolefull cheare, for I my 〈◊〉 confesse And my de erte, dothe al my cō fort dashe In the m ne while mine enemi •• styll en rease And my prouokers hereby do augmente That without cause to hurt me do no •• ase In euell for good agaynste m they be bente And hynder shal, my good presente of grace Loo nowe my god, that seest my whole entente My lord I am, thou knowest in what case Forsake me not, be not far from me gone Haste to my helpe, haste lorde, & hast apace O lord the lord, of al my helth alone
The Auctor LYke as the pylgrime, yt in a longe way Faintinge for heate, prouoked by some wynde In some fresshe shade lyeth downe t middes of the day So dothe of Dauid, the wery voyce and mynde Ca e breath of syghes, whē he had songe thys laye Under suche shade, as sorowe hath assynde And as thee tone, styll myndes hys vyage ende So dothe the other, to mercye styll pretende ☞On foure cordes, hys fingers he pretendes Without hearyng, or Iudgement of the sounde Downe of hys eyes, a streame of teares discendes Wythout felynge, that tryckell on the grounde Is 〈◊〉 that bledes in vayne ryghte so Intendes Thaltred sences to that that the are bound But lyghe and wepe, he can no •• other thynge And loke vp styll, vnto the heaue kynge ☞But who hath ben w thoute the caue mouthe And earde thee tea es and syghes that hym dyd strayne He wold haue sworne ther had oute of the outh A luke warme wynd, brought forth a moky rayne But that so close the caue was, a d vnkoweth That none but god, was r corde of hys payne •• s hadde the ynde blowen, in all Israell ares Of theyr kynge, the wofull playnte and teares Of why h sonne part whē he vp s pped had Lyke as he, whō hys owne thought affayres He turnes hys loke, hym semed that the hade Of hys offen e, aga ne hys force assayes y vyolente dispayre, on hym too ade St rrynge lyke hym, whom sodayn dispayre dismayde His herte he straynes, and from his harte oute bringes Thys songe that I note, wether he cryeth or synges
Miserere mei deus RUe on me Lord, for thy goodnes and grace That of thy nature arte so bountifull For that goodnes that in thy worde dothe brace Repugnant natures in quiet wō derfull And for thy me cyes, nōber with oute ende In heauen and earth perc aued so plentifull That ouer al, they do them selfe extende For hys mercye, moche more then man can synne Do a way my synne, that thy grace offende Ofte tymes agayne wasshe me but washe me well wythin And from my synnes, that thus makes me afrayde Make thou me cleane, as euer thy wonte hath ben For vnto thee nowe, none can be layde For too prescrybe, emyssyon of synne I harte r tourned, as thou thy selfe has e sayde And I besnowe my faulte, and ny neglygence In my syghte my synnes is fix d fas e Therof too haue more perfecte penytence To the abo e to the haue I tres •• s e For none can cure my fault, but thou alone For in thy syght, I haue not ben agaste For to offend, iudging thy sight as none So that my faulte, were hydde from syghte of man Thy maiestye, so from my sight was gone Thys knowe I, and r pent, pardon thou then Wherby thou shalte kepe stylle thy worde stable Thy iustyce pure and cleane, because that when I pardoned am, then forth with iusticiable Iuste I am iudged, by iustice of thy grace For I my selfe, loo, thinge moste vnstable Formed in offence, conceaued in lyke case Am nought but synne from m natyuytie Be not these sayde, for myne excuse, ah alas But of thy helpe, to shewe necessitie inwarde For loo, thou louest the truthe of the harte Whych yet dothe lyue, in mooste fydelite Thoughe I haue fallē, by frayle ouertha rte For wylfull malyce, leade me not the way So moche, as hathe thee flesshe, dr •• en me aparte Wherfore (O Lord ) as thou hast one alwaye Teache me, the hydden wysdom of thy lore Since that my faythe, dothe not •• t decaye And as the Iewes, to heale thee •• pper ore Wythe Isoppe clense, clense me and I am cleane Thou shalte me washe, and more then snowe therfore I shalbe whyte, howe fowle my faulte hath bene Thou of my health, shall gladsome tydinges bringe When from aboue, remissiō shalbe sene Discende on earth, thou shal e for ioye vpspringe The bones, that were before •••• sumed to duste Loke not, oh Lorde, vppon my •• offendynge But do awaye my dedes, that are vniu •• e Make a cleane hart in the middell of my bres •• Wyth spyryt v r •• g t, oyded from ylthy lus •• From thyne eyes •• re ast me not in v res e Nor take from me, thee spyryte of holynesse Render to me ioye of thy helpe & h ste My wylle confyrme, wyth the spirite of stedfastnesse And by thys, shall these godlye thynges ensue Synners I shall, into thy wayes addresse They shall returne to the, and thy grace sue My tongue shall prayse, thy iustification My mouth shal spreade, thy glorious prayse true But of thy selfe, o God, thys operation It muste procede by purgynge me from bloode Amonge the uste tha I m y haue relatyon And of thy la des for to let ut the floode Thou muste, oh lord my lyppes yrste vnlose For yf thou haddeste, es emed pleasaunt good The outwarde dedes, that outewarde men disclose I wold haue offered, vnto the sacrifice But thou delytest not, in no soche glose Of outeward dede, as men dr ame and d uyse The acrifice, that the lorde lyketh moste Is spirite contryte, lowe harte in humble wyse Thou do ste acc pte, o God, for pleasaunt hoste Make Syon, Lorde, accordynge to thy wyll Inward Syon the Syon of the hoste Of hartes, Ieru alem strengthe thy walles stylle Then shalte thou take for good the outwarde dedes Of a sacrifice, thy pleasure too fulfyll
The Auctor OF deape secretes, that Dauid ther dyd synge Of mercye, or fayth, of frayltie of grace Of goddes goodnesse, and of iusty yinge Thy goodnesse dyd so, astony hym 〈◊〉 •• who myght sa e, who hath x ••• ssed thys thynge synner, I what haue I saide a 〈◊〉 That gods goodnesse, wold with 〈◊〉 onge entr a L •• me agayne, consyder and repeate ☞ And so he doth but expressed by worde But in hys harte he turnethe and payseth 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 Eche worde that hys lyppes, myght foorde abrode He poīteth, he pawseth, he wōdreth, he prayseth The mercy that hydethe, of iustyce the sworde The iustyce that so, hys promyse accomplysheth For hys wordes sake, to worthyles deserte That gratis, hys grace, to mē dothe departe Here hath he comfort, when he doth measure Measureles mercye, to measureles fautes To prodygalle synners, Infinytye treasure Treasure celestyall, that neuer shal efaulte Ye, when that synne shall fayle, and may not endure Mercy shal reigne agayne, whome shal not assaute Of hell preuayle, by whome loe, at thys daye Of heauen gates, remyssyon is thee kaye And when Dauid, had pondered wel and tryed A d seeth hym selfe, not outterly depryued For lyght of grace, that dar ke of synne dyd hyde He fyndeth hys hoope moche, there with reuyued He importeth on the lorde, on euery syde For he knowethe wel, that to mercy is ascribed Respecteles labor, importune, crye, and call And thus begynneth hys sōg, there wythall
Domine exaudi orationem meam. LOrd heare my praier, & let my crye passe Unto the, lord, without Impedyments Do not frō me, tourne thy mercyful face Unto my selfe, le uynge my gouernement In tyme of trouble, and aduersytye Enclyne vnto me, thyne eare & thyne entente And when I call, helpe myne necessytye Redely graunte, theffecte of my desyre Boldelye too please thy Maiestye And eke my case, soch haste doth well requyre For lyke a synke, my dayes are past awaye My bones dryed vp, as a fornace with the fyre My harte, my mynde, is wythered vp lyke haye But I haue forgott, to take 〈◊〉 breade My breade of lyfe, thee worde o truthe I saye And for my paynfull syghes, & my dreade My bones my strength, my very force of mynde Cleued to the fleshe, and from ye spirite were fledde As desperate, thy mercye for to fynde So made I am, the soden pellycane And lyke the owle, that flyeth by proper kynde Lyght of the day, and hath herself betane To ruyne lyfe, oute of all companye Wyth waker care, that wt this woo beganne Lyke thee sparrowe, was I Solytarye That syttes alone, vnder y houses aues This whyle my foes, conspyred contynually And dyd prouoke, the harme of my dysease Wherefore lyke ashes, my bread dyd me sauor Of thy iust word, the tast might not me please Wherfore my drinke, I tempered wyth lycor Of wepynge teares, that from myne eyes dyd rayne Because I knowe, the wrath of thy furour Prouoked by ryghte, had of my pryde dysdayne For thou dyddest lyfte me vp, to throwe me downe To teache me, howe to know my selfe agayne Wherby I knowe, that helpeles I shuld drowne My dayes l ke shadow declyne, and I doo crye A d the foreuer, eterniti dothe drowne Worlde wythoute ende, dothe last thy memory For thys frayltie, that yoketh al man kynde Thou shalt awake, and rue this myserye Rue on Syon, Syon, that as I fynde Is thee people, that lyue vnder the lawe For now is tyme, the tyme at hā de assynde The tyme so long , that thy seruauntes drawe In greate desyre, to se that pleasaunte daye Daye of redemynge Syon, frō synnes awe For they haue Ruthe, to see in suche decaye In duste and s ones, thys wretched Syon lore Then the gentiles, shall dreade thy name alwaye All earthely kynges, thy glorye shall honour Then when thy grace, thy Syō thus redemeth When thus thou hast declared, thy myghtie power The lorde his seruauntes, wysshes and so estemeth That hym turnethe, vnto y power request To our dyscente, this to be written semeth Of all compfortes, as consolacyon beste And they, that then shalbe regenerate Shall prayse the Lord, therfore bothe moste and leste For he hath loked, from the high of hys estate The Lord from heaue , n e rth hath loked on vs To heare thee mone of them, that are algate In soche bondage, to lose and o discus The sonnes of death, oute frome theyr deadlye bonde Too gyue, thereby occasion glorious In thys Syon, thys holye name to stonde And in Ierusalem, hys laud s lastynge aye When in one churche, thee people of the lande And realmes, ben gathered to s rue, to laude, to praye, The Lorde that is aboue, so ius e and mercyfull But these feble, runninge in thee waye My strength fayleth, to reache it at the full He hath abredged, my dayes they re not sure To se that terme, that tyme so wonderfull All though I haue, with hart, wil and cure Prayed to the Lorde, take me not awaye In the middes of my yeares, thoughe thyne eu r sure Remayne ete •• e, whom tyme can not decaye Thou wroughteste the earthe, thy handes the heauens dyd make They shall perysshe, & thou shalt laste alwaye And all thynges aye, shall were and ouertake Lyke clothe, and thou shalt chaunge thē lyke apparell Tourne, and translate, and they in worthe it take But thou thy selfe, thy selfe remayneste hole That thou was erste, and shall thy yeare extende Then se s to thys, there maye nothynge rebelle The greateste compforte, that I can pretende Is, that the chyldren, of thy seruauntes deare That in the world are gotte, shall wythoute ende Before thy face, be stablyshed all in feare
The Auctor WHen Dauid, hadde perceaued in hys breste The spyryte of God retourne, that was exyled Because he knewe, he hath alone expreste These greate thynges, that grea er spyryte compyled As shawme or pipe, lettes out the sounde impreste By musyke arte forged, to fore & fyled I saye, when Dauid hadde perceaued that, I wys The spirite of compforte, in hym reuyued is For ther vpon, he maketh argumente Of reconsylyng, vnto the Lordes grace Al thoughe somtyme, to prophecy hathe lente Bothe brute, beastes, and wycked hartes a place But oure Dauid, iudgeth in hys entente Hym selfe by penaunce, cleane oute of thys case Whereby he hathe, remissyon of offence And begynneth to alowe, hys payne and penitence ☞But wh n he weyt , the fa ••• and recompense He dampneth hys dede, and fyndeth playne Attwene them two, no what equiualence Whereby he takethe, all outwarde dedes in vayne To beare the name, of ryghtfull penitence Whych is alone, the harte returned agayne And sore contryte hart, that doth his faulte bemone And outward dede, the synne or ••• te alone Wyth thys he dothe defende, the slye assaulte Of vayne aloweance, of hys owne deserte And all the glorye, of hys forgeuen faulte To God alone, he dothe it hole conuerte Hys owne meryte, he fyndeth in defaulte And whyles he pondered, these thing s in hys harte Hys knee, hys arme, hys hande susteyned hys chinne When he hys songe, agayne thus dyd begynne
Deprofundis clamaui ad te domine. FRom depth of synne, & from depe dispayre Frō depth of deeth, frō depth of hart s sorowe Frō this depe caue, of darken s, depe repayre The haue I called (O Lorde) to be my borowe Thou in my voyce, O Lorde, perceaue and heare My harte, my hope, my playnte, my ouerthrowe My wyll to ryse, and let by graunt appeare That to my voyce, t yne ••• es do well attende No place so farre, that to the is not neare Noo depthe so depe, that thou ne mays e extende Thyne eare sett therto, heare thē my wofull playnte For Lord, yf thou doo obserue, what men doo offende And putte the natyue mercye, in restreynte Yf iuste exactyon, demaunde recompence Who maye endure, O Lorde, who shall not faynte At soche accompte, dede, and no reuerence Shoulde so runne at large, but thou sekest rather loue For in thy hande, is mercyes resydence By hope, wher of thou doeste oure hartes moue I in the Lorde, haue sette my confydence My soule soche trueth, dothe uermore approue Thy holye worde, of eterne exc ll nce Thy mercyes promyse that is all wa e iu •• e Haue b n my staye, my piller and pr t nce My soule in God hath mor desyrous ru •• Then ha h t e wa ••• m •• loking for 〈…〉 By 〈…〉 •• pe 〈…〉 〈1 line〉 Fo gr •••••• •• uor re hys pr pet ••• Pl ••• eou •• ansome shall com wyth hym I a •• And shall redeme all oure iniquitie
The Auctor THys worde, redeme, that in his mouthe dyd sounde Dyd putte Dauid, it semeth vnto me As in a traunce, to stare vppon thee g ounde And wyth hys thoughte, the hyghte of heauen to see Where he beholdes, thee worde that shulde confounde The worde of death, by humilite here to be In mortall mayde, in mortal habite made Eternallye, in mortall vayle too shade ☞He seyth that worde, whē ful rype tyme shulde come Doo awaye that vayle, by feruente aff ction Tourne of wyth deathe, for deathe shulde haue her dome And lepeth lyghter, frome soche corruption The glute of lyghte, that in the ayre dothe lome Man redemeth, death hathe h r destruction That mortall vayle hathe immortalyt e Too Dauid, assuraunce of hys iniquitie ☞Wherby he frames, thys reason in hys harte That goodnes, whych doth not forbeare hys sonne From d ath for m •• and can therby conuerte My death to lyf •• m synne to saluation Bothe can, and wyll a smaller grac departe To hym that sueth, by humble supplication And syns, I haue thys larger grace assayde To aske thys thinge, why am I thē affrayde ☞ He graunteth moste, to them that moste do craue And he delyghtes, in suit wythoute r •• p cte Alas, my sonne pu sues me to the graue Suffered by God, my synnes for to orr c e Bu of my synnes, syns I may pardon hau My sonnes suyte, shall shortelye be reiec e Then wyll I craue, wyth sute confydence And thus b gynne the sucte of hys pretence
Domine x •• di orationem meam. HEar my prayer, o lord, heare my requeste Complyshe my bone, supply thou my desyre Not for my desert, but for thyne owne behest In whose firme truth, thou promist myne empyre To stande stable, and after thy iustyce Performe, o Lorde, that thynge that I requyre But of law, after the forme and guise To enter iudgement, wythe thee thrall bonde slaue To plede hys right, for in soch maner wyse Before thy syghte, noo man hys ryghte shall saue For o my self, lo, thys my righteousnesse By scorge and whyppe, and priekynge spurr s I haue Scant rysē vp, such is my beas lynes For that, myne enemyes hath put sued my lyfe And in the duste, hathe soyled my lustynes Forreyn r almes to fl •• hys rage o ry e Be hath 〈…〉 hyde my 〈◊〉 And for bycaus 〈…〉 at st y e My har e 〈…〉 orce war s •••• I had recoue ••• to 〈…〉 paste And dyd rememb •• t •• ea •• s in al my drede And dyd peru e thy or k s euer last Wherby I knowe a •• ue the wonders al Thy mercyes were th n lyfte I vp in hast My handes to the •• 〈◊〉 soule o the dyd call Lyke bare soyle for moyster o hy grace Haste to my helpe O lord a or I fall For euer I fele, my spiryte doth fainte apace Turne not thy face from me yt I be layede In compt of them, that headlinge downe doo passe Into the pyt, shewe me be tunes thyne ayde For on thy grace, I holly do depende And in thy handes, since all my helth is stayed Do me to know, what way thou wylte, I bende For vnto the, I haue raysed vp my mynde Rydde me (oh lorde) from them that do entende My foes to be, for I haue me assigned Alwaye wythin, thy secrete protectyon Teache me thy wyl, that I by yt may fynde The way to worke, the same in a fectyon For thou my god, thy blessed spirite vpryght In laude of truthe, shall be my dyr ctyon Thou for thy name shal reuiue my spiryte Wythin the ryght that I receiue by the Wh reby my l ••• , of daunger shalbe quyte T ou haste fo done the greate iniquy ye T a v •• r 〈…〉 ou shalt also c n o n •• •• y foes 〈◊〉 or thy be ignitt For thyne am I thy seruaun •• moste bounde
FINIS.

um Preuil gio ad imprimendum S lum.

M.T.XLIX. The last day of December.