To the chiefe musition, a psalme of Dauid. O Lorde heare my voyce in my prayer: preserue my life from feare of the enemie.

Hyde me from the secrete counsayles of the malitious: from the conspiracie of the workers of iniquitie.

Who haue whet their tongue lyke a sword: who haue drawne their arrow, euen a bitter worde.

That they may priuily shoote at hym which is perfect: they do sodenly shoote at hym and feare not.

They courage them selues in mischiefe: and comune among them selues how they may lay snares, and say, who shall see them?

They searche out howe to do wrong, they put in practise fully that they haue diligently searched out: yea euen the secretes and bottome of euery one of their heartes.

But the Lorde wyll sodenly shoote at them with a swyft arrowe: their plagues shalbe apparaunt.

Yea they shall cause their owne tongues to be a meanes for to destroy the selues: insomuch that who so seeth them, shal desire to flee away from them

And all men that see it shall say, this hath God done: for they shall well perceaue that it is his worke.

The righteous wyll reioyce in God, and put his trust in hym: and all they that be vpright hearted wylbe glad.