SOUL Long lookt for Sir! Happy, right Happy Saint. I long to lay before you my Complaint: And gain your Counsill: but you're strange: and I Through backwardness lost opportunity. SAINT How is't good Sir: methinks I finde there dart Some pleasant Hopes of you within my heart. What is your Rantery declinde, foregone? Your looks are like the Earth you Tread upon. SOUL Its true: I do, and well may look so, too For worse than mee the world did never show. My sins are dide in grain: all Grace I lack. This doth my Soul on tenterhooks enwrack. Wherefore I Counsill Crave touching my sin My Want of Grace. Temptations too within. |