%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The penitent Sonnes Teares, for / his murdered Mother. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1624-1624 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/26/2018 36340

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

S3851 HE that has taught ten thousand tongues to speake / That horrid sinne, that his sad heart doth breake, Society of Antiquaries of London - Broadsides Editor none none none none Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 3: 243 The penitent Sonnes Teares, for / his murdered Mother. The penitent Son's Tears, for his murdered Mother. 1624-1624 Iohn Trundle

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction / health alcohol Americas animals / nature Bible / biblical figures buildings / architecture catastrophe children class clothing / appearance country / nation crime death economics / commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays / seasons infidelity labor / craft law London love maritime marriage military / war monstrosity mythology / Classical news nobility / court politics / government procreation punishment race / ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex / sexuality supernatural / magic travel trickery / deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth / age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 10/26/2018 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America death family religious concepts Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 10/26/2018 3:41:55 PM XBallad Raychawdhuri, Anita Created XML Version of Ballad 10/26/2018 3:41:55 PM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/26/2018 3:41:55 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/26/2018 3:41:55 PM Transcriptionist Two Stark, Nicole Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/26/2018 3:41:55 PM Transcriptionist One Messner, Milena Transcription of ballad manuscript 9/7/2017 Bibliographer Kristen McCants Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 8/21/2018 Checker Minh Hua Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
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HE that has taught ten thousand tongues to speake That horrid sinne, that his sad heart doth breake, Now scarce can speake himselfe; for Woe denyes A begging Voyce, and gives me begging Eyes. Me thinkes the Shaddow of this reall thing That wretched Mee into this World did bring, Stands poynting now, (my guilty Soule to shake) To thbloudy wound, this bloudy hand did make, That wounds a Mouth; her dead dry bloud, a Tongue, That sayes, 'mongst all, the most-forsaken throng, That have their lives branded with bloud and shame, I stand the formost; have the foulest name. Mee thinkes, I heare her tell mee, those pale Hands Have gently lapt mee in my swathing bands; Have dandled mee; and, when I learn'd to goe, Have propt mee, weake, till I too-strong did grow. Me thinkes I see Her poynt upon her brest, And tell me, there, I have bin us'd to feast; Thence oft have fetcht my living; from her bloud, By Heav'n converted to my wholesome food. And last, me thinkes, Shee poynts upon that place, Where all my parts had their due forme and grace, With these sad words; Behold th'unhappy wombe, Which I could wish, Heaven once had made thy Tombe. A heavy wish; yet such a wish indeed, As I myselfe now, (with a Heart doth bleed) Could sadly breathe; 'cause that untimely birth Brought not a Man, but Monster to the Earth. From that deepe Dungeon, where, in bands I lye, And from a depth, more deepe, I call and cry: The depth of anguish; which thy sight most pure; Can onely looke on; and thy mercies, cure. O cure my soule; 'tis that great worke, I know, For which (so High) thou didst descend so low: Then, great Phisician, Helpe mee; Heale my wound; Great Shepheard, Seeke mee; Let my Soule be found. That heavenly invitation, made to those, Whose many sinnes, load them with many woes, Is made to mee: For onely sinne doth grive mee, And not my death; Then (blessed Lord) relieve mee. Lord, let my teares be, to my leprous sinne As Jordan was, to Naamans leprous skinne; And wash it cleane: But, o! so great a good Ne'r came by Water, 'tis a worke of Bloud. A worke of Bloud: the bloud of that pure Lambe, That to purge sinne, and save poore sinners came; That precious Bloud: O Lord, that Bloud of thine, Apply to mee, to purge this bloud of mine. So, as of GOD I begge, I begge of Men, Their zealous prayers t'assist mee: And agen, To quit that Goodnesse, this Reward I'le give, I'le pray, my Death may teach all them to Live.
FINIS. By Nathaniel Tyndale, sicke both in soule and body: a prisoner now in New-gate. Printed at London for John Trundle.