20 Of lawlesse Pagans: strike pale feare
Into those brests, that stubborne were:
And let the Gentiles feele and find,
They beene but men of mortall kind.

PSALM X.

AS THE LIst PSALM,

"O God, consider."

WHY stand'st thou, Lord, aloofe so long, And hid'st thee in due times of need, 2 While lewd men proudly offer wrong Unto the poore? In their owne deed And their device, let them be caught. 3 For, loe, the wicked braves and boasts, In his vile and outragious thought; And blesseth him, that ravines most.

4 On God he dares insult: his pride Scornes to enquire of powers above; But his stout thoughts have still deni'd 5 There is a God. His wayes yet prove Aye prosperous: thy judgements hye Doe farre surmount his dimmer sight. 6 Therefore doth he all foes defie :

His heart saith, I shall stand in spight,

Nor ever move; nor danger 'bide. 7 His mouth is fill'd with curses foule,

And with close fraud: his tongue doth hide 8 Mischiefe and ill: he seekes the soule Of harmelesse men, in secret wait; And, in the corners of the street,

Doth shed their blood: with scorne and hate, eyes upon the poore are set.

His

9 As some fell lion in his den,
He closely lurks, the poore to spoyle:
He spoiles the poore and helplesse men,
When once he snares them in his toyle.
10 He crowcheth low in cumming wile,

And bowes his brest; whereon whole throngs
Of poore, whom his faire shewes beguile,
Fall to be subject to his wrongs,

11 God hath forgot, in soule he sayes:
He hides his face to never see.
12 Lord God, arise, thy hand up-raise:
Let not thy poore forgotten be.
13 Shall these insulting wretches scorne

Their God; and say, thou wilt not care? 14 Thou see'st (for all thou hast forborne) Thou see'st what all their mischiefes are;

That to thy hand of vengeance just
Thou maist them take the poore distressed

Relye on thee with constant trust, The helpe of orphans and oppressed. 15 Oh! breake the wickeds' arme of might, And search out all their cursed traines, And let them vanish out of sight. 16 The Lord, as King, for ever reignes.

From forth his coasts, the heathen sect 17 Are rooted quite: thou, Lord, attend'st To poore men's suits; thou do'st direct Their hearts: to them thine eare thou bend'st; 18 That thou mayst rescue from despight, The wofull fatherlesse and poore:

That so, the vaine and earthen wight
On us may tyrannize no more.

Anthems

FOR THE

CATHEDRAL OF EXETER.

LORD, what am I? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing!
What is my life? A dream, a daily dying!
What is my flesh? My soul's uneasie clothing!
What is my time? A minute ever flying:
My time, my flesh, my life, and I;
What are we, Lord, but vanity?

Where am I, Lord? Downe in a vale of death:
What is my trade? Sin, my dear God offending;
My sport sin too, my stay a puffe of breath:
What end of sin? Hell's horrour, never ending:

My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place
Help to make up my dolefull case.

Lord, what art thou? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss: Where dwell'st thou? Up above, in perfect light: What is thy time? Eternity it is :

What state? Attendance of each glorious sp❜rit:

Thyself, thy place, thy dayes, thy state
Pass all the thoughts of powers create.

How shall I reach thee, Lord? Oh, soar above,
Ambitious soul: But which way should I flie?
Thou, Lord, art way and end: What wings have I?
Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love:

Oh, let these wings, that way alone
Present me to thy blissfull throne.

Anthem

FOR

CHRISTMAS DAY.

IMMORTALL babe, who this dear day
Didst change thy heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh thy Godhead vail,
Eternal Son of God, all hail!

Shine, happy Star, ye Angels sing

Glory on high to Heaven's King:

Run, Shepherds, leave your nightly watch,

See heaven come down to Bethleem's cratch.

Worship, ye Sages of the East,

The King of Gods in meanness drest.

O Blessed Maid, smile and adore

The God, thy womb and armes have bore.