XLIV. Francis Davison

WITH sobbing voice, with drowned eies,

With ioyned hands raised to the skies,

With humble soule, and bended knee,

I crie, O Lord, I pray to thee.

As my dym eies a bryney showre

Of teares into my bosome powre,

So I into thy sacred eares

Poure out my heart, vnload my feares.

Though dangers, me besieging round,

My mazed senses quight confound,

Thou canst giue me a thrid, wherby

I from this labourinth may fly.

My harmeles feete can walke no way,

But priuy snares my foes fore-lay:

And looking round about for aid,

My frends to know me are afraid.

No humane succour now is left

To me, of help and hope bereft:

My life is sought by many a one,

But, ah! protected is by none.

To thee, O Lord, my cries I send,

My certaine hope, my surest frend;

I haue, in this false worlde’s wide scope,

None other helpe, none other hope.

Oh heare my cries; for faint I grow,

Opprest with endles waight of woe:

Me from my persecutors free,

Too great, too strong, for poore weake me.

Bring me from out this hell-black caue,

My prison, nay, my liuing graue;

Whose rocks and rocky-hearted foes

My flight on euery side enclose.

So shall my thankful mouth alwaies

Powre fourth a fountaine of thy praise;

And this thine aid shall teach the just

On thee, their rock, to build their trust.