The Penitent sonnes teares for his murdered mother / by Nathaniel Tyndale, sicke both in soule and body, a prisoner now in Newgate. The much-afflicted mothers teares for her drowned daughter / [by?] Anne Musket, the wofull mother for her lost daughter

Lord , be mercifull .

O God , forgiue him .

Forsak● mee not , O Lord .

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O Lord 〈…〉 ▪

Lord , be mercifull

The penitent Sonnes Teares , for his murdered Mother . HE that has taught ten thousand tongues to speake That horrid sinne , that his sad heart doth breake , Now scarce can speake himselfe ; for Woe denyes A begging Voyce , and giues me begging Eyes . Me thinkes the Shaddow of this reall thing That wretched Mee into this World did bring , Stands poynting now , ( my guilty Soule to shake ) To th' bloudy wound , this bloudy hand did make , That wound 's a Mouth ; her dead dry bloud , a Tongue , That sayes , 'mongst all , the most-forsaken throng , That haue their liues branded with bloud and shame , J stand the formost ; haue the foulest name . Mee thinkes , I heare her tell mee , those pale Hands Haue gently lapt mee in my swathing bands ; Haue dandled mee ; and , when I learn'd to goe , Haue propt mee , weake , till I too-strong did grow . Me thinkes I see Her poynt vpon her brest , And tell me , there , I haue bin vs'd to feast ; Thence oft haue fetcht my liuing ; from her bloud , By Heau'n conuerted to my wholesome food . And last , me thinkes , Shee poynts vpon that place , Where all my parts had their due forme and grace , With these sad words ; Behold th' vnhappy wombe , Which I could wish , Heauen once had made thy Tombe . A heauy wish ; yet such a wish indeed , As I my selfe now , ( with a Heart doth bleed ) Could sadly breathe ; 'cause that vntimely birth Brought not a Man , but Monster to the Earth . From that deepe Dungeon , where , in bands I lye , And from a depth , more deepe , I call and cry : The depth of anguish ; which thy sight most pure ; Can onely looke on ; and thy mercies , cure . O cure my soule ; 't is that great worke , I know , For which ( so High ) thou didst descend so low : Then , great Phisician , Helpe mee ; Heale my wound ; Great Shepheard , Seeke mee ; Let my Soule be found . That heauenly inuitation , made to those , Whose many sinnes load them with many woes , Is made to mee : For onely sinne doth griue mee , And not my death ; Then ( blessed Lord ) relieue mee . Lord , let my teares be , to my leprous sinne As Iordan was , to Naamans leprous skinne ; And wash it cleane : But , ô ! so great a good Ne'r came by Water , 't is a worke of Bloud . A worke of Bloud : the bloud of that pure Lambe , That to purge sinne , and saue poore sinners came ; That precious Bloud : O Lord , that Bloud of thine , Apply to mee , to purge this bloud of mine . So , as of GOD I begge , I begge of Men , Their zealous prayers t' assist mee : And agen , To quit that Goodnesse , this Reward I 'le giue , I 'le pray , my Death may teach all them to Liue. FINIS . By Nathaniel Tyndale , sicke both in soule and body : a prisoner now in New-gate .

The much-afflicted Mothers Teares , for her drowned Daughter . COme , tender Mothers , see a Mothers feares ; Sinnes Palsie , shake mee ; and my Floud of teares : Come heare my sighs , and penitentiall prayers ; Deaths shade's my Mansion ; my Companion , Cares . O! how much worse than any sauage Beare , She-Wolfe , or Tygresse , must I now appeare ? Since they , their young , with such respect doe cherish ; And mine , by Mee , doth thus vntimely perish . For , wretched J , ( when fruitlesse cares tooke place ; And cloudy passion , hid the light of gr ce ) More fell than these are , my poore Childe forgot , And child-bed pangs , ( the Mothers painefull lot ) Forgot thou wert my Flesh ; Forgot how oft I kist thee ; blest thee ; and , to slumbers soft , Within these armes haue lull'd thee : And againe , How oft my pitties haue bemon'd thy paine . Forgot how oft vpon my tender brest Thou hast bin fed ; how often taine thy rest ; Forgot a Mothers nine yeeres cares and cost ; All which , with thee , are in thy murder , lost . All these forgot . When wee our GOD forget , Then Satan comes , and in our Eye doth set His poysoned baites ; which , 'cause I not withstood , Mine Eye drops Water ; But , my Heart drops Blood . For Death ( alas ) I care not : Could I summe As many liues , as I haue houres to come ; I 'de spend them all ; And , with a smiling Face , Meet all those Deaths , to giue thy sweet life , place . But wishes ( deare CLEMENTIA ) are but vaine ; I drown'd thee ( little Angell ; ) And againe Should drowne thy Body , ( wer 't before my feares , ) In this New Riuer , of mine owne warme Teares . These Teares , that euer from mine Eyes shall flow ; This lauish Floud of penitentiall woe ; This Wine of Angels , so the Fathers call Those drops Repentance lets so freely fall . With Paul , with Peter ▪ Dauid ; and that sonne , The maze of Ryot , and hot lust did runne ; And with the Woman , washt her Sauiours feet , Let my poore Soule that balme of mercy meet . Thou ' cam'st not ( Lord ) the iust and pure to call , But impure sinners ; Nor do'st ioy their fall , But their conuersion : And , when Grace doth bring One soule to thee , all the blest Angels sing . I know , 't is late ( O Lord ) yet know thy power ; Know that's as much , in mans departing houre , As in a rathe beginning ; for my griefe Has learnt the Lesson of that penitent Thiefe . Like his , let mine , thy Mercies-Seat ascend , And purchase there , 'gainst this sad life shall end : That life , to death , shall neuer more giue way ; So , while I weepe , helpe my poore Soule to pray . FINIS . Anne Musket , the wofull MOTHER ▪ for her lost Daughter .