Lord, be merciful.  
O God, forgive him.  
Forsake me not, O Lord.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉  
O Lord 〈…〉▪  
 
Lord, be merciful   

The penitent Son's Tears, for his murdered Mother.  

HE that has taught ten thousand tongues to speak  
That horrid sin, that his sad heart doth break,  
Now scarce can speak himself; for Woe denies  
A begging Voice, and gives me begging Eyes.  
Me thinks the Shadow of this real thing  
That wretched Me into this World did bring,  
Stands pointing now, (my guilty Soul to shake)  
To th' bloody wound, this bloody hand did make,  
That wound's a Mouth; her dead dry blood, a Tongue,  
That says, 'mongst all, the most-forsaken throng,  
That have their lives branded with blood and shame,  
I stand the foremost; have the foulest name.  
Me thinks, I hear her tell me, those pale Hands  
Have gently leapt me in my swathing bands;  
Have dandled me; and, when I learned to go,  
Have propped me, weak, till I too-strong did grow.  
Me thinks I see Her point upon her breast,  
And tell me, there, I have been used to feast;  
Thence oft have fetched my living; from her blood,  
By Heaven converted to my wholesome food.  
And last, me thinks, She points upon that place,  
Where all my parts had their due form and grace,  
With these sad words; Behold th' unhappy womb,  
Which I could wish, Heaven once had made thy Tomb.  
A heavy wish; yet such a wish indeed,  
As I myself now, (with a Heart doth bleed)  
Could sadly breathe; 'cause that untimely birth  
Brought not a Man, but Monster to the Earth.  
From that deep Dungeon, where, in bands I lie,  
And from a depth, more deep, I call and cry:  
The depth of anguish; which thy sight most pure;  
Can only look on; and thy mercies, cure.  
O cure my soul; 'tis that great work, I know,  
For which (so High) thou didst descend so low:  
Then, great Physician, Help me; Heale my wound;  
Great Shepherd, Seek me; Let my Soul be found.  
That heavenly invitation, made to those,  
Whose many sins load them with many woes,  
Is made to me: For only sin doth grieve me,  
And not my death; Then (blessed Lord) relieve me.  
Lord, let my tears be, to my leprous sin  
As jordan was, to Naamans' leprous skin;  
And wash it clean: But, o! so great a good  
Ne'er came by Water, 'tis a work of Blood.  
A work of Blood: the blood of that pure Lamb,  
That to purge sin, and save poor sinners came;  
That precious Blood: O Lord, that Blood of thine,  
Apply to me, to purge this blood of mine.  
So, as of GOD I beg, I beg of Men,  
Their zealous prayers t'assist me: And again,  
To quit that Goodness, this Reward I'll give,  
I'll pray, my Death may teach all them to Live.   
FINIS.  By Nathaniel Tyndale, sick both in soul and body: a prisoner now in Newgate.  

The much-afflicted Mother's Tears, for her drowned Daughter.  

COme, tender Mothers, see a Mother's fears;  
Sins Palsy, shake me; and my Flood of tears:  
Come hear my sighs, and penitential prayers;  
Deaths shade's my Mansion; my Companion, Cares.  
O! how much worse than any savage Bear,  
She-Wolfe, or Tigress, must I now appear?  
Since they, their young, with such respect do cherish;  
And mine, by Me, doth thus untimely perish.  
For, wretched I, (when fruitless cares took place;  
And cloudy passion, hid the light of gr ce)  
More fell than these are, my poor Child forgot,  
And childbed pangs, (the Mother's painful lot)  
Forgot thou wert my Flesh; Forgot how oft  
I kissed thee; blest thee; and, to slumbers soft,  
Within these arms have lulled thee: And again,  
How oft my pities have bemoaned thy pain.  
Forgot how oft upon my tender breast  
Thou hast been fed; how often ta'en thy rest;  
Forgot a Mother's nine years' cares and cost;  
All which, with thee, are in thy murder, lost.  
All these forgot. When we our GOD forget,  
Then Satan comes, and in our Eye doth set  
His poisoned baits; which, 'cause I not withstood,  
Mine Eye drops Water; But, my Heart drops Blood.  
For Death (alas) I care not: Could I sum  
As many lives, as I have hours to come;  
I'd spend them all; And, with a smiling Face,  
Meet all those Deaths, to give thy sweet life, place.  
But wishes (dear CLEMENTIA) are but vain;  
I drowned thee (little Angel;) And again  
Should drown thy Body, (were't before my fears,)  
In this New River, of mine own warm Tears.  
These Tears, that ever from mine Eyes shall flow;  
This lavish Flood of penitential woe;  
This Wine of Angels, so the Fathers call  
Those drops Repentance lets so freely fall.  
With Paul, with Peter▪ David; and that son,  
The maze of Riot, and hot lust did run;  
And with the Woman, washed her Saviour's feet,  
Let my poor Soul that balm of mercy meet.  
Thou thou cam'st not (Lord) the just and pure to call,  
But impure sinners; Nor dost joy their fall,  
But their conversion: And, when Grace doth bring  
One soul to thee, all the blessed Angels sing.  
I know, 'tis late (O Lord) yet know thy power;  
Know thats as much, in man's departing hour,  
As in a rather beginning; for my grief  
Has learned the Lesson of that penitent Thief.  
Like his, let mine, thy Mercies-Seat ascend,  
And purchase there, 'gainst this sad life shall end:  
That life, to death, shall never more give way;  
So, while I weep, help my poor Soul to pray.   
FINIS.  Anne Musket, the woeful MOTHER▪ for her lost Daughter.   

Printed at London for john Trundle.