Psalm 6

LOrd, in thy rage correct me not;
To me, oh! do not roughly speake,
Nor chide me when thy wrath is hott
But, pitty me, for I am weake.
Oh Lord, vouchsafe to cure my paines;
For, through my bones, the torments goe:
My hart is vext, & much complaines,
Good God! hów long shal this be soe?

Returne, & help my soul oh Lord;
Mee, let thy meer compassion saue:
For, who in death shall thee record,
Or give thee praises in the grave?
With groanes I tire; & in the nights
My bedd in flouds of teares doth swim;
Through in-ward greefs, & foes despights,
Mine cies decay, my sight growes dimm,

But, Sinners, now depart fro mee:
God heares my suite, my plaint, my crie;
Which let my foes with blushing see,
And vext, & greeu'd, my presence fly.