







 
   
     
       
         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
      
       
         
           1624
        
      
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         ESTC S3851
         33151080
         ocm 33151080
         28911
         
           
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             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
             Tyndale, Nathaniel.
             Musket, Anne.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill.
           
             For Iohn Trundle,
             Printed at London :
             [1624]
          
           
             In verse.
             Date of publication from STC (2nd ed.).
             Printed in two columns, surrounded by black border containing mourning figures.
             Attribution of composition to the condemned persons is questionable.
             Reproduction of original in: Society of Antiquaries.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Tyndale, Nathaniel.
           Musket, Anne.
           Murder -- England.
           Broadsides -- London (England) -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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               Lord
               ,
               be
               mercifull
               .
            
             
               O
               God
               ,
               forgiue
               him
               .
            
             
               Forsak●
               mee
               not
               ,
               O
               Lord.
               
            
             
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
            
             
               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
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           Printed
           at
           London
           for
           
             Iohn
             Trundle
          
           .
        
      
    
  

