Psalmus Primus Davidis. Poem by John Ashmore

Beatus vir, &c.
Hee happy is, amongst the brain-sick Crue
Of ill-advising men, that doth not walk;
Nor the lewd Path of wicked men pursue,
Of holy things that dare profanely talke;
Nor in the Scorners chaire sits (swoln with Pride)
That God contemne, and Godliness deride.
But hee seeks-out farre-better Wayes to tread,
Led (in the winding Labyrinth of this Life)
By his Creator's Lawes, as a sure thread
That guides him through cross-wayes of worldly Strife.
By it, his Words and Actions he doth frame:
Earely and late he thinks upon the fame.
Hee's like a thick-leav'd tree, that planted is
By the green Bank of som smooth-gliding Stream,
That with his fruitfull armes stretcht-forth doth bliss
The Labourers Paines: which Phœbus with his beam
Doth ne'r so search, nor Winters rage can stay,
But yearly Rent she to her Lord will pay.
So shall not the ungodly and unkinde
Despisers of Gods Statutes and his Grace,
That (with themselves at war) no Rest can finde;
But, like the Chaf, are tost from place to place
With every sudden blast of Winde that bloweth,
Which scorns their lightness, and to Heaven it sheweth.
For, when the iust Iudge comes in a bright Cloud,
Circled with Angels, cloath'd with Maiesty,
The wicked (daunted) will cry-out aloud,
Cashierd from Saints for their impiety.
For, as in good mens Wayes God takes Delight,
So he o'r-throwes all wicked By-wayes quite.
FINIS.