V. Barnaby Barnes

O BENIGNE Father! let my sutes ascend

And please thy gracious eares, from my soule sent,

Even as those sweete perfumes of incense went

From our forefathers’ altars: who didst lend

Thy nostrils to that mirrh which they did send,

Even as I now crave thine eares to be lent.

My soule, my soule, is wholy, wholy bent

To do thee condigne service, and amend;

To flie for refuge to thy wounded brest,

To sucke the balme of my salvation thence;

In sweete repose to take eternall rest,

As thy child folded in thine armes’ defence:—

But then my flesh, methought by Sathan firde,

Said my proud sinfull soule in vain aspirde.