COme, tender Mothers, see a Mothers feares;
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Sinnes Palsie, shake mee; and my Floud of teares:
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Come heare my sighs, and penitentiall prayers;
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Deaths shade's my Mansion; my Companion, Cares.
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O! how much worse than any savage Beare,
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She-Wolfe, or Tygresse, must I now appeare?
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Since they, their young, with such respect doe cherish;
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And mine, by Mee, doth thus untimely perish.
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For, wretched I, (when fruitlesse cares tooke place;
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And cloudy passion, hid the light of grace)
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More fell than these are, my poore Childe forgot,
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And child-bed pangs, (the Mothers painefull lot)
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Forgot thou wert my Flesh; Forgot how oft
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I kist thee; blest thee; and, to slumbers soft,
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Within these armes have lull'd thee: And againe,
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How oft my pitties have bemon'd thy paine.
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Forgot how oft upon my tender brest
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Thou hast bin fed; how often taine thy rest;
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Forgot a Mothers nine yeeres cares and cost;
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All which, with thee, are in thy murder, lost.
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All these forgot. When wee our GOD forget,
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Then Satan comes, and in our Eye doth set
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His poysoned baites; which, 'cause I not withstood,
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Mine Eye drops Water; But, my Heart drops Blood.
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For Death (alas) I care not: Could I summe
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As many lives, as I have houres to come;
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I'de spend them all; And, with a smiling Face,
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Meet all those Deaths, to give thy sweet life, place.
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But wishes (deare CLEMENTIA) are but vaine;
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I drown'd thee (little Angell;) And againe
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Should drowne thy Body, (wer't before my feares,)
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In this New River, of mine owne warme Teares.
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These Teares, that ever from mine Eyes shall flow;
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This lavish Floud of penitentiall woe;
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This Wine of Angels, so the Fathers call
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Those drops Repentance lets so freely fall.
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With Paul, with Peter, David; and that sonne,
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The maze of Ryot, and hot lust did runne;
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And with the Woman, washt her Saviours feet,
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Let my poore Soule that balme of mercy meet.
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Thou cam'st not (Lord) the just and pure to call,
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But impure sinners; Nor do'st joy their fall,
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But their conversion: And, when Grace doth bring
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One soule to thee, all the blest Angels sing.
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I know, 'tis late (O Lord) yet know thy power;
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Know that's as much, in mans departing houre,
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As in a rathe beginning; for my griefe
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Has learnt the Lesson of that penitent Thiefe.
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Like his, let mine, thy Mercies-Seat ascend,
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And purchase there, 'gainst this sad life shall end:
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That life, to death, shall never more give way;
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So, while I weepe, helpe my poore Soule to pray.
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