LXXII. Elizabeth Melvill

UPON a day as I did morne full sore

For sundrie things wherewith my soull was grieved,

My grieff increased, and grew more and more,

I comfort fled, and could not be relieved;

With heaviness myne heart was sore mischieved,

I loath’d my lyfe, I could not eat or drink;

I might not speak, nor look to none that lived,

But mused alone, and divers things did think.

This wretched world did so molest my mynd,

I thought upon this fals and yron age,

And how our hearts were so to vyce inclyn’d,

That Satan seem’d most frightfully to rage.

Nothing on earth my sorrow could asswadge,

I felt my sinne most stronglie to increase;

I greiv’d the Sprite had want to be my pledge,

My soull was plunged in most deep distress.

All merriness did aggravate my payn,

All earthlie joyes did still increase my wo;

In companie I could no way remayn,

But fled resort, and still alone did go.

My sillie soull was tossed to and fro

With sundrie thoughts, which troubled me full sore;

I preass’d to pray, but sighs ore set me so,

I could do nought but groan, and say no more.

The trickling tears most abundantlye ran down,

Myne heart was eas’d when I had mourn’d my fill:

Then I began my lamantation,

And said, “O Lord! how long is it thy will

That my poor sayncts shall be afflicted still?

Alace! how long shall subtle Satan rage?

Make haste, O Lord, thy promise to fulfill;

Make haste to end my paynfull pilgrimage.”