Angels' bread made pilgrim's feeding,
Truly bread for children's eating,
To dogs not to be offered.
Signed by Isaac on the altar,
By the lamb and paschal supper,
And in the manna figurèd.

Jesu, food and feeder of us,

Here with mercy feed and friend us,
Then grant in heaven felicity!

Lord of all, whom here Thou feedest,
Fellows, heirs, guests with Thy dearest,

Make us in heavenly company! Amen.

SAINT PETER'S AFFLICTED MIND.

F that the sick may groan,

Or orphan mourn his loss;

If wounded wretch may rue his harms,
Or caitiff show his cross;

If heart consumed with care,

May utter signs of pain;

Then may my

breast be sorrow's home,

And tongue with cause complain.

My malady is sin,

And languor of the mind; My body but a Lazar's couch Wherein my soul is pined.

The care of heavenly kind
Is dead to my relief;

Forlorn, and left like orphan child,
With sighs I feed my grief.

My wounds, with mortal smart
My dying soul torment,

K

And, prisoner to my own mishaps,
My folly I repent.

My heart is but the haunt

Where all dislike doth keep;

And who can blame so lost a wretch, Though tears of blood he weep?

SAINT PETER'S REMORSE.

EMORSE upbraids my faults;
Self-blaming conscience cries;
Sin claims the host of humbled thoughts
And streams of weeping eyes:

Let penance, Lord, prevail;

Let sorrow sue release;
Let love be umpire in my cause,
And pass the doom of peace.

If doom go by desert,

My least desert is death;

That robs from soul's immortal joys,

From body mortal breath.

But in so high a God,

So base a worm's annoy

Can add no praise unto Thy power,
No bliss unto Thy joy.

Well may I fry in flames,
Due fuel to hell-fire!

But on a wretch to wreak Thy wrath

Cannot be worth Thine ire.

Yet sith so vile a worm

Hath wrought his greatest spite, Of highest treasons well Thou may'st In rigour him indite.

But Mercy may relent,

And temper Justice' rod,
For mercy doth as much belong
As justice to a God.

If former time or place

More right to mercy win,

Thou first were author of myself,
Then umpire of my sin.

Did Mercy spin the thread
To weave in Justice' loom,
Wert then a father to conclude
With dreadful judge's doom.

It is a small relief

To say I was Thy child, If, as an ill-deserving foe, From grace I am exiled.