ENGLANDS MERCIES
In the Midst of Miserys.
OR,
The Poor-Man's Comfort in a Time of Trouble.
To the Tune of, Packingtons Pound, OR, Digbys arewell.
Entred according to Order.
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POor England thy sorrows this many a year,
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Has caus'd in thy mind a suspition of fear,
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Dreading that thou should'd be brought very low,
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But be of good comfort it may not be so:
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We have a good God that still doth provide,
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If we do but serve him he will be our guide;
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We need not to fear that our Foes can devour
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They can do no more then the Lord gives them power
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What though the times they be never so bad,
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Yet be of good comfort and look not so sad,
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For every sorrow will sure have an end;
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If thou dost endeavour to make him thy friend:
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Who certainly will provide for the just
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un troubles and sorrows thou still shalt be blest:
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Thou need'st not to fear the fierce rage of thy foes
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Nor yet in the least to be decompos'd.
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Every morsel of bread thou dost eat,
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If thou art contented be sure it is sweet;
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'Tis better to thee then the Misers great store,
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Though he hath abundance yet still he is poor:
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His covetous heart is his Heaven for Gold,
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And's never at quiet though he doth behold
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A suff[i]cient supply for many a year,
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Yet he is possest with a poverty fear.
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Why should we incumber ourselves with such care
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To distract our wits or to live in dispair,
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What though thy condition be never so mean,
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If there be content, there will comfort be seen:
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'Tis certain we have not long for to stay,
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Death doth approach and our lives doth decay,
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Then blessed is he that doth lye down in peace,
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His sorrows doth end, and his joys will increase.
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Why should we distrust in his Mercies at all,
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We see that his bountiful hand is to all,
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We find that he hath a regard to the poor,
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And feeds them with Bread from a plentiful store:
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What though thou art cast into Prison for debt,
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Yet be of good chear, in the least do not fret;
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For thou shalt have food for to nourish thy life,
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And God will provide for thy Children and wife:
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Some men are complaining that trading is d[ead,]
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But blessed be God there is plenty of bread,
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The earth in abundance brings forth her increase,
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Can we be but thankful, and rest here in peace:
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We have no just cause to grieve and repine,
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Rely upon him who is so divine,
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For sure he is able always to provide,
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For thee and for me, and the whole world beside.
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Great persons that go so gallant and fine,
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That hath in their pockets great plenty of Coyn,
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Yet still they have troubles we daily do see,
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On this side the Grave there is no man is free:
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An extravagant Son may waste an estate,
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Which may to his Father much sorrow create,
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There is this way and likewise many ways more,
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That rich men hath troubles as well as the poor.
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Then let us prepare for the hour of death,
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Tis certain we must surrender our breath,
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For whether thou art prepared or no,
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Death will thee arrest, thou must certainly go,
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Then set not thy heart on things here below,
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For riches doth often thy mind overthrow,
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For better it is to live mean and upright,
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Then to have great plenty to ruine us quite.
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Alas in this life there is trouble and pain,
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Let's keep a good conscience that we may obtain
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The true joys of Heaven likewise perfect peace,
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And then all the cares of the world it will cease:
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That man that doth live and dye in the Lord,
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Shall certainly then receive his reward,
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For Death shall appear like a stingless friend,
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And lead him to joys which shall never have end.
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All you that have heard these words now of me,
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I wish they may prove an advantage to thee:
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To bear us thy Spirits in sorrow and care,
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And keep thee from every thought of dispair:
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Then may we have comfort and joy to the end,
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As knowing that God will still be our friend,
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For he in his mercies will still us defend,
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And be our safeguard even to our lives end.
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