Good, and great God, can I not think of thee, But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
Is it interpreted in mee disease, That, laden with my sinnes.
I seeke for ease?
O, be thou witnesse, that the reines dost know, And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
And judge mee after: if I dare pretend To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to mee, First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state, My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate.
Where have I been this while exil'd from thee? And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to mee?
Dwell, dwell here still:
O, being every-where, How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here?
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne, Conceiv'd in sinne, and unto labour borne,
Standing with feare, and must with horror fall, And destin'd unto judgement, after all.
I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground, Upon my flesh t'inflict another wound.
Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death With holy Paul, lest it be thought the
Of Discontent; or that these prayers bee For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.
