I Know it is my sinne, which locks thine eares,
                                                 And bindes thy hands,
Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;
Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands.

But as cold hands are angrie with the fire,
                                                 And mend it still;
So I do lay the want of my desire,
Not on my sinnes, or coldnesse, but thy will.

Yet heare, O God, onely for his blouds sake
                                                 Which pleads for me:
For though sinnes plead too, yet like stones they make
His blouds sweet current much more loud to be.