Psalm 42. which agrees with the tune of Like the Hermite poore

LOok as an hart with sweat and bloud embrued,
Chas'd and embost, thirsts in the soil to be;
So my poore soul with eager foes pursued,
Looks, longs, O Lord, pines, pants, and faints for thee:
When, O my God, when shall I come in place
To see thy light, and view thy glorious face?

I dine and sup with sighs, with grones and teares,
While all thy foes mine eares with taunting load;
Who now thy cries, who now thy prayer heares?
Where is, say they, where is thy boasted God?
My molten heart deep plung'd in sad despairs
Runnes forth to thee in streams of teares and prayers.

With grief I think on those sweet now past dayes,
When to thy house my troops with joy I led:
We sang, we danc'd, we chanted sacred layes;
No men so haste to wine, no bride to bed.
Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my breast?
Wait still with praise; his presence is thy rest.

My famisht soul driv'n from thy sweetest word,
(From Hermon hill, and Jordans swelling brook)
To thee laments, sighs deep to thee, O Lord,
To thee sends back her hungrie longing look:
Flouds of thy wrath breed flouds of grief and fears;
And flouds of griefbreed flouds of plaints and teares.

His early light with morn these clouds shall clear,
These drearie clouds, and storms of sad despairs:
Sure am I in the night his songs to heare,
Sweet songs of joy, as well as he my prayers.
I'le say, My God, why slight'st thou my distresse,
While all my foes my wearie soul oppresse?

My cruel foes both thee and me upbraid;
They cut my heart, they vant that bitter word,
Where is thy trust? where is thy hope? they said;
Where is thy God? where is thy boasted Lord?
Why droop'st, my soul? why faint'st thou in my breast?
Wait still with praise; his presence is thy rest.