15

But thou Lord art the God most mild

Readiest thy grace to shew,

Slow to be angry, and art stil'd
Most mercifull, most true.

16 O turn to me thy face at length,
And me bave mercy on,
Unto thy servant give thy Strength,
And save thy band-maids Son.

17

Some sign of good to me afford,

And let my foes then see

And be asham'd, because thou Lord

Do'st belp and comfort me.

PSALM LXXXVII

1 Among the boly Mountains high
Is bis foundation fast,

There Seated in his Sanctuary,
His Temple there is plac't.
2 Sions fair Gates the Lord loves more
Then all the dwellings faire

Of Jacobs Land, though there be store,
And all within his care.

3 City of God, most glorious things
Óf thee abroad are spoke;

4 I mention Egypt, where proud Kings Did our forefathers yoke,

I mention Babel to my friends,

Philistia full of scorn,

And Tyre with Ethiops utmost ends,
Lo this man there was born:

5 But twise that praise shall in our ear
Be said of Sion last

This and this man was born in her,
High God shall fix ber fast.

6 The Lord shall write it in a Scrowle
That ne're shall be out-worn
When be the Nations doth enrowle
That this man there was born.
7 Both they who sing, and they who dance
With sacred Songs are there,

In thee fresh brooks, and soft streams glance
And all my fountains clear.

PSALM LXXXVIII

1 Lord God that dost me save and keep,
All day to thee I cry;
And all night long, before thee weep
Before thee prostrate lie.
2 Into thy presence let my praier
With sighs devout ascend
And to my cries, that ceaseless are,
Thine ear with favour bend.
For cloy'd with woes and trouble store
Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,
My life at death's uncherful dore
Unto the grave draws nigh.

3

4 Reck'n'd I am with them that pass
Down to the dismal pit
I am a man, but weak alas
And for that name unfit.

5 From life discharg'd and parted quite
Among the dead to sleep,
And like the slain in bloody fight
That in the grave lie deep.
Whom thou rememberest no more,

Dost never more regard,

Them from thy band deliver'd o're

Deaths hideous house hath barr'd.

6 Thou in the lowest pit profound
Hast set me all forlorn,

Where thickest darkness hovers round,
In borrid deeps to mourn.

7 Thy wrath from which no shelter saves Full sore doth press on me;

Thou break'st upon me all thy waves,
And all thy waves break me.

8 Thou dost my friends from me estrange,
And mak'st me odious,

Me to them odious, for they change,
And I bere pent up thus.

9 Through sorrow, and affliction great
Mine eye grows dim and dead,
Lord all the day I thee entreat,
My bands to thee I spread.

10 Wilt thou do wonders on the dead,

Shall the deceas'd arise

And praise thee from their loathsom bed
With pale and hollow eyes?

11 Shall they thy loving kindness tell
On whom the grave hath hold,
Or they who in perdition dwell
Thy faithfulness unfold:

12 In darkness can thy mighty hand
Or wondrous acts be known,
Thy justice in the gloomy land
Of dark oblivion?

But I to thee O Lord do cry

13

E're yet my life be spent,

And up to thee my praier doth hie
Each morn, and thee prevent.

14 Why wilt thou Lord my soul forsake,
And bide thy face from me,
15 That am already bruis'd, and shake
With terror sent from thee;
Bruz'd, and afflicted and so low
As ready to expire,

While I thy terrors undergo
Astonish'd with thine ire.

16 Tby fierce wrath over me doth flow
Thy threatnings cut me through.

17 All day they round about me go, Like waves they me persue.

18 Lover and friend thou hast remov'd
And sever'd from me far.

They fly me now whom I have lov'd,
And as in darkness are.

A Collection of Passages translated in the
Prose Writings

From Of Reformation in England.

Ab Constantine, of how much ill was cause
Not thy Conversion, but those rich demains
That the first wealthy Pope receiv'd of thee.

DANTE, Inf. XIX. 115.

Founded in chast and bumble Poverty,
'Gainst them that rais'd thee dost thou lift thy born,
Impudent whoore, where hast thou plac'd thy bope?
In thy Adulterers, or thy ill got wealth?
Another Constantine comes not in bast.

PETRARCA, Son. 108.

And to be short, at last bis guid him brings
Into a goodly valley, where he sees
A mighty mass of things Strangely confus'd
Things that on earth were lost or were abus'd.

Then past be to a flowry Mountain green,
Which once smelt sweet, now Stinks as odiously;
This was that gift (if you the truth will have)
That Constantine to good Sylvestro gave.

ARIOSTO, Orl. Fur. xxxiv. 80.

From Reason of Church Government.

When I die, let the Earth be roul'd in flames.

From Apology for Smectymnuus.

Laughing to teach the truth

What binders? as some teachers give to Boys

Junkets and knacks, that they may

learne apace.

HORACE, Sat. I. 24.