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NATALITIUM: MARTIJ 13, 1645, by                    
First Line: Tire'd with my psyche, (for ye song
Last Line: Then, whilst in ease I live, of these soft poisons die.
Subject(s): Birth; Prayer; Child Birth; Midwifery

TIRE'D with my PSYCHE, (for ye Song
Though wondrous hudled, yet was long,
And near
A year
Consumed in such singing, well may force
A stronger Voice then mine, & make it hoarse.)


I took some time to breath, but strait
Curs'd LAZINES which lay in wait,
Did heap
Its sleep
Upon my Heart, & I grew well content
With Ease, ev'n in the midst of active Lent.


Lent, & ye Spring, & my great Need
Of being Buisie could not breed
Brisk fires,
No, nor ye Spark of any Thought wch might
Me in ye ways of good Imployment light:


Till rows'd by this important Day
I started up, & wip'd away
The Mist
Which prest
Upon mine Eys; & now I am awake:
But whoe will say so else that hears me speak!


Can any Charitie beleve
That I a fiction doe not weave,
When I shall talk
How I have heer
In this Lifes Walk
Gone Thirtie Year
And yet can nothing shew wherby
This Course of mine it self may justifie,
Unless I use the trick of Travellers, to Lie?


He whoe would paint my Life aright
Has nothing but a Blank to write;
Pure Vanitie
Its Arms doth reach
About all my
Fond Life; where such
A plenitude of Emptines
In all its annuall Circles bubling is
That thirtie Cyphers may my Thirtie years express.


The more my Shame, You'l say: & so
All blushing guilty I say too.
I shall be yet
More vain, yf I
Did not admit
That Vanitie
Which everie Ey that reads but Me
Doth in that prospect so compleatly see,
That 'tis too late to crave Help of Hypocrisie!


'Tis true, our Nations sinfull Score
From patient Heavn hath Vengance bore:
Love, Peace, & Law,
Obedience, Right,
And Safetie, now
Have taken flight,
E'r since our woefull Isle began
Within it self to raise an Ocean,
And Tides of Blood about the desperate Country ran.


'Tis true, my Self have felt some share
Of headlong & injurious Warr:
But had my Hart
Been brave & right,
Surely my Part
Had not been sleight;
But with those faithfull Hero's whoe
Impatient gallantrie bid battell to
All Persecution, I had had the grace to goe.


They, noble Soules, long time before
Layd up substantiall Virtue's store,
But heedless I
Had not the Witt
Of Gallantrie
That Stock to gett:
Fond Drone, I playd & wantonized
Untill my sunshine Summer was surprized
With Winter, which all Heavn with clowds & storms disguized.


And now, alas, what can I doe
But sitt, & think, & sing my Woe!
I might have been
All pure & white,
As was this clean
Leaf where I write,
But now am farr more spotted, then
Is this unhappie virgin Papyr when
Deflour'd & stained thus, by my adulterate Pen.


Yet I can sigh, & wish for Tears
To wash my Thirtie blotted years.
And whoe can say
But languishment
And longing may
Make Heavn relent!
Whoe knows but Jesus will supplie
What wants both in my hardned Hart, & Ey
Out of his own deep Wounds, the Springs wch ne'r are drie?


This is my Hope: else would I not
To Live, on any terms be got.
Life is a thing
Which doth belie
Its Name, & cling
With flatterie
About the Hart it means to slay,
Yf JESUS helpeth not to purge away
The Poison wch amidst its smiling Looks does play.


Those pretious Names upon Me prove!
I am thy DUST
And ASHES, and
My onely trust
On Thee doth stand:
Since Thou art pleased to repreive
Me still, oh crown the Favour Thou dost give,
And to thy Mercie's Praise & Honor let Me live.


I care not what becomes of Me
In this our Warrs Calamitie:
I care not though
All Mischeifs bend
At Me their Bowe,
And everie Friend
Turns Stranger unto my Distress,
So long as I Thy favour may possess,
And duelie answer it with bounden Loyallness.


I feel Rebellious Seeds would fain
Amidst my Hart spring up again,
And taint this year
As they have done
All these which are
Allready runn.
Help, help, sweet JESU; rather I
In any deadly Agonie would frie;
Then, whilst in ease I live, of these soft Poisons die.

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