Henry Purcell — With sick and famishd eyes

With sick and famished eyes With doubling knees, and weary bones To thee my cries To thee my groans To thee my sighs, my tears ascend: No end? My throat, my soul is hoarse; My heart is wither'd like a ground Which thou dost curse; My thoughts turn round And make me giddy: Lord, I fall Yet call Bowels of pity hear! Lord of my soul, love of my mind Bow down thine ear! Let not the wind Scatter my words, and in the same Thy name! Look on my sorrows round; Mark well my furnace! O what flames What heats abound! What griefs, what shames! Consider, Lord; Lord, bow thine ear And hear! Lord Jesu, thou didst bow Thy dying head upon the tree; O be not now More dead to me! Lord, hear! Shall he that made the ear Not hear? Behold! Thy dust doth stir It moves, it creeps to thee; Do not defer To succour me Thy pile of dust wherein each crumb Says "Come" My love, my sweetness, hear! By these thy feet, at which my heart Lies all the year Pluck out thy dart And heal my troubled breast, which cries Which dies