Prison-pietie, or, Meditations divine and moral digested into poetical heads, on mixt and various subjects : whereunto is added a panegyrick to the right reverend, and most nobly descended, Henry Lord Bishop of London / by Samuel Speed ...

¶ On Sin.

SIn is such an uncouth thing, I cannot well define it; Death doth own it is his sting, God bids me undermine it. But it so cunning is, that when I think to win the day, It now comes over, under then, And blows my baits away. It seiz'd my Parents, and beguil'd More learned men than I; And when I think it is most milde, I have most cause to fly. At Church when I Devotion have, It hovers o're my book, And bids me think upon my Grave, And off the other look. Invisible it is, no doubt, And felt before 'tis seen; It subtilly can wheel about, And like an Angel seem. Good deeds I know accepted are, And will be evermore; But if I do not well, I sear Sin lieth at the door:

Sin, as a Serpent, cunningly Doth lurk upon the scout, That if my foot but tread awry, My sins they finde me out. If I with Brother break my word, The fact may not be great; But if I sin against the Lord, Who shall for me intreat? Many the faults are of my Youth, I have been oft misled; But they are blessed, faith the truth, Whose sin is covered. Wherefore, O Lord, I will confess What in those days I did; O grant thy merciful redress, And let my sins be hid. But I with heart and knee will bow, In duty to adore thee; Then recollect, and study how To set my sins before me. Shap'd in Iniquity I was, A wretch of little worth: In sin my Mothers womb, alas, Conceiv'd, and brought me forth. Lord, with thy grace enrich my heart, Take out the filth therein; Let fools pursue their idle Art, To make a mock at sin. Wo unto them their sins do draw With ropes, them fast to tie; That bind Iniquity their Law With cords of Vanitie. If sinners could but count their score, They'd fear a future doom: Let him that sinneth, sin no more, Lest worser things shall come. Whoso doth his transgression love, Careless, or lose, or win, He strangely doth himself approve To be a slave to sin.

Lord, fix my heart still towards thee, Especially at Pray'r, Lest my Petition on my knee, Become to me a snare. Surely the quintessence of sin, Satan that Judas is; He turns a murtherer, when in Leads the poor Soul amiss, And kills it with a kiss.