XLIV. Francis Davison

GOD, who the universe doth hold

In his fold,

Is my shepherd kind and heedful,—

Is my shepherd, and doth keepe

Me his sheepe

Still supplied with all things needfull.

He feedes me in fieldes which beene

Fresh and greene,

Mottled with Spring’s flowry painting;

Through which creepe with murmuring crookes

Christall brookes,

To refresh my spirit’s fainting.

When my soule from heauen’s way

Went astray,

With earthe’s vanities seduced,

For his name sake kindly he

Wandering me

To his holy fold reduced.

Yea, should I stray throughe deathe’s vale,

Where his pale

Shades did on each side enfold me;

Dreadles, hauing thee for guide,

Should I bide,

For thy rod and staff vpholde me.

Thou my board with messes large

Dost surcharge;

My bowles full of wine thou powrest,

And before myne enemies’

Enuious eies

Balme vpon my head thou showerest.

Neither dures thy bounteous grace

For a space;

But it knowes nor bound nor measure.

So my daies to my liue’s end

I shall spend

In thy courtes with heauenly pleasure.