V. Barnaby Barnes

HEAVENLY Messias! sweete anointed King!

Whose glorie round about the world doth reach,

Which everie beast, plant, rocke, and river teach,

And aerie birds like angels ever sing,

And everie gale of winde in gustes doth bring,

And everie man with reason ever preach:

Behold, behold, that lamentable breach

Which, my distressed conscience to sting,

False, spitefull Sathan in my soule doth make.

Oh, sweete Messias! lend some gracious oyle

To cure that wound, even for thy mercies sake;

Least, by that breach, thy temple he dispoyle.

Helpe, helpe,—my Conscience thither him doth leade:

And hee will come, if Thou bruise not his head.