Classic Poem

Psal — 120. Buchan[ani] Paraphra[sis]

Hence warrs Beleaguer me, whilst Envy stands
Advancing Thence Reproaches Fier-brands
Wherfore to Thee to whom all Creatures owe
Their beings I alone for refuge goe
Which by an humble voyce when I express
Thou art not slowe to guive my praiers access
May thy protection be an Antedote
'Gainst th'Poyson of th'deceiptfull Tongue, and Throat
That utters lies. O Tongue what gain will't be
To hope to blast with falce Impiety?
Arrowes are Poyson-Piled noe more can
Infect though shot by a fierce Sythian
Nor's any Fier half soe bad and cruell
As such a Tongue when made of serest fuell
My life's opprest with sorrowes For I tread
The mountaines til now uninhabited
And soe those Cottages frequent wher none
But Muscovite and Arab Theeves are known
My mind is vext my Annalls to reherse
Sithence they have been with those to Peace averse
Such enemies to quiet as when I
But mentiond it 't hath whet their Cruelty
And a word utterd but on Concords skoar
Their warrlike Dispositions haightned more.