LXXI. Francis Sabie

O GREAT Creator of the starrie pole

And heauenly things;

O mighty Founder of the earthly mole,

Chiefe King of kings;

Whose gentle pardon euermore is nere

To them which crie unfaynedly with feare:

Distrest with sin

I now begin

To come to thee: O Lord, giue eare.

O Lord, look down from thy chrystallin throne

Enuirond round

With seraphins and angels manie one,

Thy praise who sound:

Such fauour, Lord, on me vouchsafe to send

As on thy chosen flock thou doest extend:

To thee alone

I make my mone:

Some pittie, Father, on me send.

Remember, Lord, that it is more then need

To send redresse:

My sore will grow, vnlesse thou help with speed,

Remedilesse:

Therefore in mercie looke down from aboue,

And visit me with thy heart-joying loue:

Alas! I see

No cause in me

Which vnto pittie may thee moue.