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Breton Biography |
From silent night,
true Register of mones; |
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From saddest soule, consumed with deepest sinnes; | |
From heart quite rent, with sighes and heavy grones, | |
My wailing Muse her wofull worke beginnes: | |
And to the world brings tunes of sad dispaire, |
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Sounding nought else but sorrow, griefe, and care.
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Sorrow, to see my sorrowes cause augmented, | |
And yet less sorrowfull, were my sorrows more; | |
Griefe, that my griefe, with griefe is not prevented, | |
10 | For griefe it is must ease my grieved sore. |
Thus griefe and sorrow care's but how to grieve, |
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For griefe and sorrow must my cares relieve.
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The wound fresh bleeding
must be stancht with teares, |
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Teares cannot come, unless some griefe proceed; | |
Griefes come but slacke, which doth encrease my feares, | |
Feares, least for want of help I still should bleed. | |
Do what I can to lengthen my lives breath, |
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If teares be wanting, I shall bleed to death.
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Thou deepest searcher of each secret thought, | |
20 | Infuse in me thy all-affecting grace; |
So shall my workes to good effects be brought, | |
While I peruse ugly sinnes a space: | |
Whole staining filth so spotted hath my soule, |
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As nought will waste, but teares of inward dole:
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O that learned Poets of this
time, |
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(Who in a love-sicke line so well endite) | |
Would not consume good wit in hateful Rime, | |
But would with care some better subject write: | |
For if their musicke please in earthly things, |
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30 | Well would it sound if strained with heav'nly strings. |
But woe it is to see fond worldlings use, |
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Who most delight in things that vainest be, | |
And without feare worke Vertues foule abuse, | |
Scorning soules rest, and all true pietie: | |
As if they made account never to part |
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From this fraile life, the pilgrimage of smart.
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Such is the nature of our
foolish kinde, |
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When practiz'd sinne hath deeply taken roote, | |
The way to penance due is hard to finde, | |
40 | Repentance held a thing of litle boote. |
For contrite teares, soules health, and Angels joy, |
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Most men account a meere phantastike toy.
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Ill working Use, devourer of all grace, | |
The fretting moath that wasteth soules chiefe bliss | |
The slie close thiefe that lurkes in every place, | |
Filching by peece-meale, till the whole be his. | |
How many are deceived by thy baite, |
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T'account their sinnes as trifles of no waight?
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Oh cursed custom, causing
mischiefe still, |
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50 Too long thy craft my sences hath misse-led: | |
Too long have I bin slave unto thy will: | |
Too long my soule on bitter sweetes hath fed: | |
Now surfetting with thy hell poisoned cates, |
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In deepe repent, her former folly hates.
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And humbly comes with sorrow-rented hart, | |
With blubbred eies, & hands uprear'd to heaven; | |
To play a poore lamenting Mawdlines part, | |
That would weepe streames of bloud to be forgiven: | |
But (oh) I feare mine eies are drain'd so drie, |
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60 | That though I would, yet now I cannot crie. |
If any eie therefore can spare
a teare, |
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To fill the wel-springs that must wet my cheeks, | |
O let that eye to this sad feast draw neare: | |
Refuse me not, my humble soule beseeks: | |
For all the teares mine eyes have ever wept, |
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Were no too litle had they all bin kept.
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I see my sinnes arraign'd before my face, | |
I see their number passe moathes in sunne, | |
I see that my continuance in this place | |
70 | Cannot be long, and all that I have done. |
I see the Judge before my face hath laid, |
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At whose sterne looks all creatures are afraid.
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If he be just, my soule condemned is, | |
And just he is, what then may be expected, | |
But banishment from everlasting blisse? | |
To live like cursed Caine, base, vile, abjected: | |
He in his rage his brothers bloud did spill, |
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I more unkind, mine owne soules life do kill.
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O could mine eyes send trickling
teares amaine , |
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80 | Never to cease till my eternall night, |
Till this eye-floud his mercie might obtaine, | |
Whom my defaults have banisht from his sight: | |
Then could I blesse my happy time of crying, |
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But ah too soone my barre springs are drying.
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Thrise happie sinner was that blessed Saint, | |
Who though he fell with puffe of womans blast, | |
Went forth and wept with many a bitter plaint, | |
And by his teares obtained grace at last: | |
Wretched I, have falneof mine accord, |
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90 | Ten thousand times against the living Lord. |
Yet cannot straine one true
repentant teare, |
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To gaine the blisse from which my soule is banisht: | |
My flintie heart some sorrowing doth forebeare, | |
And from my sence all true remorce is vanisht: | |
And theres no place for grace to enter in.
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No place (deare Lord) unlesse thy goodness please | |
To pittie him that worst deserves of any, | |
And in thy tender mercie grant him ease, | |
100 | As thou tofore hast mercie shew'd to many: |
Yet none of those do equall me in sinne, |
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Oh how may I hope mercie then to winne? |
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The traitor Judas heire borne
to perdition, |
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Who for a trifle did his Lord betray, | |
In equall doome deserveth more remission, | |
Then my defaults can challenge any way: | |
He sold him once, that once for gaine was done, |
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I oftentimes, yet less then nothing wonne.
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The bloudie minded Jewes in furie mad, | |
110 | Untill on Christ their cruell rage was fed, |
In their fell anger more compassion had | |
Then I, for whom his harmless bloud was shed: | |
Their hellish spite within a day was past, |
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My sinfull fit doth all my lifetime last.
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For ev'ry stripe that he
from them did take, |
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A thousand deadly sinnes have committed; | |
And ev'ry wound as deepe a wound did make, | |
As did the cords wherwith my Christ was whipped: | |
Oh hatefull caitiffe, parricide most vile, | |
120 | Thus (with my sinne) his pure bloud to defile. |
O sinne, first parent of mans ever woe, |
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The distance large that severs hell and heaven; | |
Sences confounder, soules chiefe overthrow, | |
Grafted by men, not by the grafter given; | |
Consuming canker, wasting soules chiefe treasure, | |
Onely to gaine a litle trifling pleasure.
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Happie were man if sinne
had never bin, |
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Thrise happie now, if sinne he would forsake; | |
But happier farre, if for his wicked sinne | |
130 | He would repent, and heartie sorrow make: |
Leaving his drosse and fleshly delectation, | |
To gaine in heav'n a lasting habitation.
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There is the place wherein all sorrows die, | |
Where joy exceeds all joyes that ever were; | |
Where Angels make continuall harmony, | |
The minde set free from care, distrust, or feare: | |
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Now see (alas) the change
we make for sinne, |
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140 | In stead of heav'n, hell is become our lot; |
For blessed Saints, damned fiends we ever win, | |
For rest and freedome, lasting bondage got: | |
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The worme of conscience still attendeth on us, | |
Telling each houre, each instant we shall die; | |
And that our sinnes cannot be parted from us, | |
But where we are, thither they likewise flie: | |
Still urging this, that death we have deserved, | |
150 | Because we fled from him we should have served. |
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What greater sinne can touch
a humane hart? |
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What hellish furie can be worse tormented? | |
What sinner lives that feeleth not a part | |
Of this sharpe plague, unlesse he have repented? | |
And yet Repentance surely is but vaine, | |
Without full purpose, not to sinne againe.
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And is it not then plaine follies error, | |
To covet that that brings with it contempt, | |
And makes us live in feare, distrust, and terror, | |
160 | Hating at last the thing we did attempt? |
For never sinne did yet so pleasing taste, | |
But lustful flesh did loath it when t'was past.
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Witnes my wofull soule which
well can tell, |
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In highest top of sinnes most fresh delight; | |
Although my frailtie suffred me to dwell, | |
Yet being last, I loath'd it with despight. | |
But like the swine, I fed mine owne desire, | |
That being cleane, still coveteth the mire.
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So greedie is mans beastly appetite, | |
170 | To follow after dunghill pleasures still; |
And feed on carrion like the ravening kite, | |
Not caring what his hungry maw dooth fill: | |
But worketh evermore his wills effect, | |
Without restraint, controlement, or respect.
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O, why should man, that beares
the stamp of heaven, |
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So much abase heavens holy will and pleasure? | |
O, why was sence and reason to him given, | |
That in his sinne cannot containe a measure? | |
He knowes, he must account for every sinne, | |
180 | And yet committeth sins that countlesse bin. |
This is to peruse (deare God) doth kill my soule, |
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But that thy mercie quickneth it againe; | |
O, heare me, Lord, in bitternesse of dole, | |
That of my sinnes do prostrate here complaine; | |
And at thy feet, with Mary, knocke for grace, | |
Though wanting Maries tears to wet my face.
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She, happy sinner, saw her
life misse-led, |
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At sight whereof, her inward heart did bleed, | |
To witnes with her, outward teares were shed. | |
190 | O blessed Saint, and o most blessed deed: |
But wretched I, that see more sinnes than she, | |
Nor grieve within, nor yet weepe outwardly.
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When she had lost thy presence but one day, | |
The want was such, her heart could not sustaine; | |
But to thy tombe alone she tooke her way, | |
And there with sighes and teares she did complaine: | |
Nor from her sense, once moov'd or stirr'd was shee, | |
Untill againe she got a sight of thee.
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But I have lost thy presence
all my daies, |
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200 | And still am slacke to see thee as I should; |
My wretched soule in wicked sinne so staies, | |
I am unmeet to see thee, thou I would: | |
Yet, if I could with teares thy comming tend, | |
I know I should (as she) finde thee my frend.
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Teares are the key that ope the way to blisse, | |
The holy water quenching heav'ns quicke fire; | |
The attonement true twixt God and our amisse; | |
The Angels drinke, the blessed Saints desire: | |
The joy of Christ, the balme of grieved hart, | |
210 | The spring of life, the ease of ev'ry smart. |
The second
King of Israel by succession, |
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When with Uriahs wife he had offended, | |
In bitter teares bewaild his great transgression, | |
And by his teares found grace, and so repented: | |
He, night and day in weeping did remaine; | |
I, night or day to shead one teare take paine.
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And yet my sinnes, in greatness, and in number, | |
Farre his exceed; how comes it then to passe, | |
That my repentance should so farre be under; | |
220 | And graces force, deare God, is as it was: |
Truth is, that I, although I have more need, | |
Do not, as he, so truly weepe indeed.
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O wherefore is my steely
heart so hard? |
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Why am I made of mettall unrelenting? | |
Why is all ghostly comfort from me bard? | |
Or, to what end do I deferre repenting? | |
Can lustfull flesh or flattering world perswade me, | |
That I can scape the power of him that made me?
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No, no, the secret Searcher of all hearts, | |
230 | Both sees, & knowes each deed that I have done, |
And for each deed wil pay me home with smart, | |
No place can serve, his will decreed to shunne; | |
I should deceive myself, to thinke that he | |
For sinne would punish others, and not me.
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Our first borne sire, first
breeder of mans thrall, |
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For one bare sinne was of perfection reft, | |
And all makinde were banisht by his fall | |
From Paradise, and unto sorrow left: | |
If he for one, and all for him feele paine, | |
240 | Then, for so many, what should I sustaine? |
The Angels made to attend on God in glorie, |
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Were thrust from heav'n, and only for one sinne, | |
That but in thought (for so records the Storie) | |
For which they still in lasting darknesse bin: | |
If those, once glorious, thus tormented be, | |
I (basest slave) what will become of me?
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What will become of me, that
not in thought, |
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In thought alone, but in each word and deed, | |
A thousand thousand deadly sinnes have wrought, | |
250 | And still do worke, whereat my heart doth bleed: |
For even now, in this my sad complaining, | |
With new made sins, my flesh my soule is staining.
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O that I were remov'd to some close cave, | |
Where all alone retired from delight, | |
I might my sighes and teares untroubled have, | |
And never come in wretched worldlings sight; | |
Whose ill bewitching company still brings | |
Deepe provocation, whence great danger springs.
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Ill company, the cause of
many woes, |
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260 | The sugred baite, that hideth poysoned hooke; |
The rocke unseen, that shipwrackt soules o'rethrowes, | |
The weeping crocodile, that kills with looke, | |
The readiest steppe, to ruine and decay, | |
Graces confounder, and helles nearest way.
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How many soules do perish by thy guile? | |
How many men without feare frequent | |
Thy deadly haunts, where they in pleasure smile, | |
Taking no care such danger to prevent? | |
But live like Belials, unbrideled or untamed, | |
270 | Not looking they shall for their faults be blamed. |
Alas, alas, too wretched do
we live, |
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That carelesly thus worke our owne confusion, | |
And to our wills such libertie do give; | |
Ay me, it is the divels meere illusion, | |
To flatter us with such sense-pleasing traines, | |
That he thereby may take us in his chaines.
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This well foresaw good men of auntient time, | |
Which made them shunne th'occasions of foule sinne, | |
Knowing it was the nurse of every crime, | |
280 | And Syren-like would traine fond worldlings in: |
Alluring them with shewe of musickes sound, | |
Untill on sinnes deepe shelfe their soules be drowned.
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But he is held no sotiable
man |
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In this corrupted age, that shall refuse | |
To keepe the cursed company now and than; | |
Nay but a foole, unless he seeme to chuse | |
Their fellowship, and give them highest place | |
That vildest life, and furthest off from grace.
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But better tis, believe me, in my triall, | |
290 | To shun such hel-hounds, factors of the divell; |
And give them leave to grudge at your deniall, | |
Then to partake such in sinne and evill: | |
For if that God (in justice) then should slay us, | |
From hell & horror, who (alas) could stay us?
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Good God, the Just (as he
himself hath spoken) |
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Should scarce be saved, o terror unremoveable, | |
What then should they that never had a token, | |
Or signe of grace (soules comfort most behoveable) | |
But gracelesse liv'd, and all good deeds did hate, | |
300 | What hope of them that live in such a state? |
O who will give me teares, that I may waile |
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Both nights and daies, the dangers I have past; | |
My soule, my soule, tis much for thy availe, | |
That thou art gotten from these straits at last: | |
O joy, but in thy joy mixe teares withall, | |
That thou haft time to say, Lord, heare me call.
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I might as others (Lord)
have perished, |
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Amid my sinnes and damnable delights; | |
But thou (good God) with care my soule hast cherished, | |
310 | And brought it home, to taste on heav'nly lights: |
Ay me, what thankes, what service can I render | |
To thee, that of my safetie art so tender?
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Now do I curse the time I ever went | |
In sinnes black path, that leadeth to damnation: | |
Now do I hate the houres I have misse-spent | |
In ydle vice, neglecting soules salvation, | |
And to redeeme the time I have misse-worne, | |
I wish this houre, I were againe new borne.
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But vaine it is, as faith
the wisest man, |
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320 | To call againe the day that once is past; |
O let me see what best is for me than, | |
To gaine thy favour whilst my life doth last; | |
That in the next I may but worthy be, | |
Ev'n in the meanest place to wait on thee.
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I will, as did the prodigall sonne sometime, | |
Upon my knees with heartie true contrition, | |
And weeping eyes, confesse my former crime, | |
And humbly begge upon my lowe submission, | |
That thou wilt not of former faults detect me, | |
330 | But like a loving father now respect me. |
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Or, as the wife that hath
her husbande wronged, |
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So will I come with feare and blushing cheeke: | |
For giving others what to thee belonged; | |
And say, my King, my Lord, and Spouse most meeke, | |
I have defil'd the bed that thou didst owe; | |
Forgive me this, it shall no more be so.
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Yet, for the world can witnes mine abuse, | |
Ile hide my face from face that witcht mine eies; | |
These gracelesse eyes that had my bodies use, | |
340 | Till it be withred with my very cries: |
That when my wrinckles shall my sorrowes tell, | |
The world may say, I joy'd not, though I fell.
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Ev'n thus will I, in sorrowing
spend my breath, |
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And spot my face with the never-dying teares, | |
Till aged wrinckles messengers of death | |
Have purchasde mercie, and remov'd my feares: | |
And then the world within my lookes shall read, | |
The piteous wracke unbrideled sinne hath bred.
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And that which was a pleasure to behold, | |
350 | Shall be to me an ever-griping paine; |
All my misdeeds shall one and one be told, | |
That I may see what tyrants have me slaine: | |
And when I have thus mustred them apart, | |
I will display on each a bleeding hart.
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And leaft my teares should
fail me at most need, |
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Before the face of faith Ile fix my Saviours passion, | |
And see how his most pretious side did bleed, | |
And note his death and torments in such fashion, | |
As never man the like did undertake; | |
360 | For freely he hath done it for my sake. |
If this his kindnesse and his mercie showne, |
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Cannot provoke me unto tender crying; | |
Then will I backe againe turne to mine owne, | |
Mine owne sinne cause of this his cruell dying: | |
And if for them no teares mine eyes can find, | |
Sigh shal cause tears, tears make my poore eies blind.
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And leaft my teares should
fail me at most need, |
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Before the face of faith Ile fix my Saviours passion, | |
And see how his most pretious side did bleed, | |
And note his death and torments in such fashion, | |
As never man the like did undertake; | |
360 | For freely he hath done it for my sake. |
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If this his kindnesse and his mercie showne, | |
Cannot provoke me unto tender crying; | |
Then will I backe againe turne to mine owne, | |
Mine owne sinne cause of this his cruell dying: | |
And if for them no teares mine eyes can find, | |
Sigh shal cause tears, tears make my poore eies blind.
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No farre fetcht story have I now brought home, |
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Nor taught to speake more language then his mothers, | |
No long done Poem, is from darknesse come | |
370 | To light againe, it's ill to fetch from others: |
The song I sing, is made of heart-bred sorrow, | |
Which pensive Muse fro pining soule doth borrow.
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I sing not I, of wanton love-sicke laies, | |
Of tickling toyes, to feed fantasticke eares, | |
My Muse respects no flattring tatling praise; | |
A guiltie conscience this sad passion beares: | |
My sinne-sicke soule, with sorrow woe begone, | |
Lamenting thus a wretched deed mis-done.
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FINIS. |
Home |
Breton Biography |
nought:
nothing (OED).
dole: grief, sorrow, mental distress
(OED).
endite: compose (OED).
worldlings: worldly or worldly-minded
persons (OED).
boote: good, advantage, profit, use
(OED)
Filching: stealing (OED).
cates: provisions; dainties (OED).
Mawdline: commonly Maudline; from “Mary
Magdalene,” customarily identified with the penitent woman who washed
Jesus’ feet with her tears (Luke 7:37-50). Associated in art and literature
with the repentant sinner, she is often represented with weeping or swollen
eyes.
Caine: First son of Adam and Eve, he
murdered his brother Abel. (Genesis 4: 7-9); abjected: cast
off, rejected; cast down, dispirited (OED).
amaine: with main force, with all one's
might; vehemently, violently. (OED).
that blessed Saint: A
possible reference to St. Augustine whose life prior to his conversion was one
full of lust and women, and whose Confessions mirror Breton's intention:
“But when a deep consideration had from the secret bottom of my soul drawn
together and heaped up all my misery in the sight of my heart; there arose a
mighty storm, bringing a mighty shower of tears" (Confessions
VIII, xii).
flintie heart: see Ezekiel 3:9
cloyd: clogged, cumbered, burdened
(OED); dregs: sediment (OED).
tofore: heretofore, previously.
caitiffe: A wretched miserable person,
a poor wretch, one in a piteous case (OED); parricide:
the murderer of a father, parent, near relative, or ruler (OED).
drosse: scum or extraneous matter thrown
off from metals in the process of melting; figuratively, refuse, rubbish, worthless,
impure matter. (OED).
kite: a bird of prey
of the falcon family.
maw: the throat or gullet;
the jaws or mouth of a voracious animal or of a gluttonous or insatiably hungry
person (OED).
Mary: Mary Magdelene.
unmeet: unfit.
amisse: n error, fault,
or misdeed;
second King of Israel: King David.
Uriahs wife: Bathsheba, the daughter
of Eliam and the wife of Uriah the Hittite, bore King David a son (2 Samuel
11: 2-4).
thrall: bondage (OED).
Belials: wicked, lawless persons; the
personification of evil according to the Old Testament. A name for Satan in
the New Testament.
divels: devils (OED).
auntient: ancient.
Syren: mythological creature, part
woman, part bird, who lured sailors to destruction by her enchanting songs (OED).
vildest: vilest; most despicable
behoveable: useful, profitable, advantageous
(OED).
tatling: tattling; idle or frivolous
talk; chatter, gossip (OED).
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