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

PSALME VII. Cogitabam stare.

1.

WHile I was falne, I thought to rise, And stand, presuming on my thies: But thighes, and knees, were too much broken. My haire stood vp to see such bane Depresse presumption so prophane: I tremble but to heare it spoken.

2.

Yet in my strength, my hope was such, Since I conceiu'd, thou vow'dst as much: I fain'd dreames, and reioyc't to faine them: But weighing awake, thy vowes profound, Their depth, my lead came short to sound: And now, aye me, my teares containe them.

3.

For calmes, I into stormes did stere, And look't through clouds, to see things cleare, Thy waies shew'd crook't, like speares in water;

When mine went trauerse, and no Snake Could winde with that course, I did take: No Courtier could so grosly flatter.

4.

But which way I soeuer bend, Thou meet'st me euer in the end: Thy finger strikes my ioynts with terrors; Yet no more strikes, then points the way: Which, weighing weeping, straight I stay, And with my teares cleanse feete and errors.

5.

But of my selfe, when I beleeue To make my steps, thy waies atchieue, I turne head, and am treading mazes▪ I feele sinnes ambush; and am ••ext To be in error so perplext, Nor yet can finde rests holy places.

6.

I loath my selfe, and all my deeds, Like Rubarbe taste, or Colche in weed••: I flie them, with their throwes vpon me.

In each new purpose, customes old, So checke it, that the stone I rold Neuer so oft, againe fals on me.

7.

No step in mans trust should be trod, Vnlesse in mans, as his in God: Of which trust, make good life the founder: Without which, trust no forme, nor art; Faiths loadstarre is a guiltlesse heart; Good life is truths most learn'd expounder.

8.

With which, Lord, euer rule my skill; In which, as I ioyne powre with will, So let me trust, my truth in learning, To such minds, thou all truth setst ope•• The rest are rapt with stormes past hopes The lesse, for more deepe arts discerning.

9.

Blesse, Lord, who thus their arts employ, Their sure truth, celebrate with ioy, And teare the maskes from others faces;

That make thy Name, a cloake for sinne; Learning but termes to iangle in, And so disgrace thy best of Graces.

10.

Whereof since I haue onely this, That learnes me what thy true will is, Which thou, in comforts still concludest; My poore Muse still shall sit, and sing, In that sweete shadow of thy wing, Which thou to all earths state obtrudest.

11.

As oft as I my fraile foote moue, From this pure fortresse of thy loue: So oft let my glad foes deride me. I know my weakenesse yet, and feare, By triall, to build comforts there, It doth so like a ruine hide me.

12.

My worth is all, but shade, I finde, And like a fume, before the winde; I gaspe with sloth, thy waies applying:

Lie tumbling in corrupted blood; Loue onely, but can do no good: Helpe, Lord, lest I amend not dying.

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.

The end of Petrarchs seuen Penitentiall Psalmes.