Petrarchs seuen penitentiall psalmes paraphrastically translated: with other philosophicall poems, and a hymne to Christ vpon the crosse. Written by George Chapman

PSALME VI. Circumuallarunt me inimici.

1.

MY foes haue girt me in with armes, And earthquakes tost vp all my ioynts, No flesh can answer their alarmes, Each speare they manage hath so many points.

2.

Death, arm'd in all his horrors, leades: Whom more I charge, the lesse he yeelds: Affections, with an hundred heads, Conspire with them, & turne on me their shields

3.

Nor looke I yet, Lord, to the East, Nor hope for helpe, where I am will'd: Nor, as I ought, haue arm'd my breast; But rust in sloth, and naked come to field.

4.

And therefore hath the host of starres Now left me, that before I led:

Arm'd Angels tooke my pay in wa••res, Frō whose height falne, all leaue me here for dead.

5.

In falling, I discern'd how sleight, My footing was on those blest towres. I lookt to earth, and her base height, And so lost heauen, and all his aidfull powres.

6.

Now, broke on earth, my bodie lies, Where theeues insult on my sad fall: Spoyle me of many a daintie prise, That farre I fetcht, t'enrich my soule withall.

7.

Nor ceasse they, but deforme me too, With wounds that make me all engor'd: And in the desart, leaue me so, Halfe dead, all naked, and of all abhorr'd.

8.

My head, and bosome, they transfixt, But in my torne affections rag'd: Wounds there, with blood, and matter mixt,

Corrupt and leaue my very soule engag'd.

9.

There, Lord, my life doth most misgiue, There quickly thy white hand bestow: Thou liu'st, and in thee I may liue. Thy fount of life doth euer ouerflow.

10.

All this from heauen, thy eyes explore, Yet silent sitst, and sufferst all: Since all I well deserue, and more; And must confesse me, wilfull in my fall:

11.

And hence tis, that thou letst me bleed, Mak'st all men shun, and skorne my life: That all my workes such enuie breed, And my disgrace giues food to all mens strife.

12.

But this, since Goodnesse oft doth cause, And tis Goods grace to heare his ill: Since tis a chiefe point in his lawes, No thought, without our powre, to make our wil.

13.

Still let the greene seas of their gall, Against this rocke with rage be borne: And from their height, still let me fall: Them, stand and laugh, & me lie still and scorne.

14.

But, Lord, my fall from thee, ô raise, And giue my fainting life thy breath: Sound keepe me euer in thy waies, Thou mightie art, and setst downe lawes to death.

15.

Driue thou from this my ruines rape, These theeues, that make thy Phane their den: And let my innocence escape The cunning malice of vngodly men.

All glorie to the Father be, And to the Sonne as great as he: With the coequall sacred Spirit: Who all beginnings were before, Are, and shall be euermore. Glorie, all glorie to their merit.