Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke [1561-1621]. The Psalmes of David translated into diverse & sundry kinds of verse, more rare & excellent, for the method & varietie then ever yet hath bene done in English (1599).

PSALM 51 MISERERE MEI, DEUS

O Lord, whose grace no limits comprehend;
Sweet Lord, whose mercies stand from measure free;
To mee that grace, to mee that mercie send,
And wipe O Lord, my sinnes from sinfull mee
O clense, Owash my foule iniquitie:
Clense still my spotts, still wash awaie my staynings,
Till staines and spotts in me leave no remaynings.

For I, alas, acknowledging doe know
My filthie fault, my faultie filthiness
To my soules eye uncessantly doth show.
Which done to thee, to thee I doe confesse,
Just judge, true witness; that for righteousness,
Thy doome may passe against my guilt awarded,
Thy evidence for truth maie be regarded.

My mother, loe! when I began to be,
Conceaving me, with me did sinne conceave:
And as with living heate she cherisht me,
Corruption did like cherishing receave
But loe, thy love to purest good doth cleave,
And inward truth which hardlie els discerned,
My trewand soule in thy hid schoole hath learned.

Then as thy self to leapers hast assign'd,
With hisop, Lord, thy Hisop, purge me soe:
And that shall clense the leaprie of my mind;
Make over me thy mercies streames to flow
Soe shall my whiteness scorn the whitest snow.
To eare and hart send soundes auld thoughts of gladness,
That brused bones maie daunce awaie their sadness.

Thy ill-pleas'd eye from my misdeedes avert:
Cancell the registers my sinns containe:
Create in me a pure, cleane, spottless hart:
Inspire a sprite where love of right maie raigne.
Ah! cast me not from thee: take not againe
Thy breathing grace! againe thy comfort send me,
And let the guard of thy free sp'rite attend me.

Soe I to them a guiding hand wilbe,
Whose faultie feete have wandred from thy way:
And turn'd from sinne will make retorne to thee,
Whom, turn'd from thee, sinne erst had ledd astraie.
O God, God of my health, O doe away
My bloody crime: soe shall my tongue be raised
To praise thy truth, enough can not be praised.

Unlock my lipps, shut up with sinnfull shame:
Then shall my mouth, O Lord, thy honor sing;
For bleeding fuell for thy alters flame,
To gaine thy grace what bootes it me to bring?
Burnt-offrings are to thee no pleasant thing.
The sacrifice that God will holde respected,
Is the heart-broken soule, the sprite dejected.

Lastly, O Lord, how soe I stand or fall,
Leave not thy loved Sion to embrace:
But with thy favour build up Salems wall,
And still in peace, maintaine that peacefull place.
Then shalt thou turne a well-accepting face
To sacred fires with offred giftes perfumed:
Till ev'n whole calves on alters be consumed.