A lofty hart, a lifted eye
Lord thou dost know I never bare;
Lesse have I borne in things to hygh
A medling mind, or clyming care.
Looke how the wained babe doth fare,
O did I not? yes soe did I:
None more for quiet might compare
Ev’n with the babe that wain’d doth lye:
Heare then and learne, O Jacobs race,
Such endlesse trust on God to place.
- translated by Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke
