DIY History | Transcribe | Szathmary Culinary Manuscripts and Cookbooks | English cookbook, 1700

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Page 8

Raise me from these dark shades of grief & night,
Thy word my home, thy law is my delight,
Confound the proud with just rebuke & shame,
Who me perversly & unjustly blame,
While all my thoughts thy righteous laws employ,
And in Sincere obedience all my joy,
Be onely those my friends who friends to thee,
Nor will I value those my enemy,
For this great end still let my life be found,
Blamelese and pure my heart sincere & sound,
So of my hope I n'ere asham'd shall be, 
That God & all good men regard & pitty me,
II
S1 How long shall my sick soul to heaven aspire, 
And faint with hopes delay'd & vain desire, 
Ah is it then in vain? it cannot be, 
Since all my hopes are in thy word & thee, 
My weary famish'd eyes to heaven I turn, 
And gasp for help, O comfort those that mourn, 
Deform'd with heavy grief & worn with woe, 
I to my self a stranger grow,
Yet from thy promise, never will I part, 
The onely Comfort of my [adouring?] heart, 
My few and evill days in Sorrow Spend, 
And soon my miseries with my life will end, 
When shall thy goodnesse for me interpose? 
When wilt thou judge my unrelenting foes? 
With impious fraud the proud my death contrive, 
Who not themselves by thy precepts live, 
Faithfull thy statutes all & since they be, 
Against my faithless foes, 'O succour me!

Saving...

Raise me from these dark shades of grief & night, Thy word my home, thy law is my delight, Confound the proud with just rebuke & shame, Who me perversly & unjustly blame, While all my thoughts thy righteous laws employ, And in Sincere obedience all my joy, Be onely those my friends who friends to thee, Nor will I value those my enemy, For this great end still let my life be found, Blamelese and pure my heart sincere & sound, So of my hope I n'ere asham'd shall be, That God & all good men regard & pitty me, II S1 How long shall my sick soul to heaven aspire, And faint with hopes delay'd & vain desire, Ah is it then in vain? it cannot be, Since all my hopes are in thy word & thee, My weary famish'd eyes to heaven I turn, And gasp for help, O comfort those that mourn, Deform'd with heavy grief & worn with woe, I to my self a stranger grow, Yet from thy promise, never will I part, The onely Comfort of my [adouring?] heart, My few and evill days in Sorrow Spend, And soon my miseries with my life will end, When shall thy goodnesse for me interpose? When wilt thou judge my unrelenting foes? With impious fraud the proud my death contrive, Who not themselves by thy precepts live, Faithfull thy statutes all & since they be, Against my faithless foes, 'O succour me!