SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, AND THE
COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
HEARE me, O heare me, when I call,
O God, God of my equity!
Thou sett'st me free when I was thrall:
Have mercy therefore still on me,
And hearken how I pray to thee.
O men, whose fathers were but men,
Till when will ye my honor high
Stain with your blasphemies? till when
Such pleasure take in vanity,
And only haunt where lies do lye?
Yet know this to, that God did take,
When he chose me, a godly one:
Such one, I say, that when I make
My crying plaintes to him alone,
He will give good eare to my moane.
O, tremble then with awfull will;
Sinne from all rule in you depose.
Talk with your harts, and yet be still;
And, when your chamber you do close,
Your selves yet to your selves 'disclose.
The sacrifices sacrifie
Of just desires on justice staid :
Trust in that Lord that cannot ly.
Indeed, full many folkes have said,
From whence shall come to us such aid?
But, Lord, lift thou upon our sight
The shining cleerenes of thy face;
Where I have found more hart's delight,
Then they whose store in harvest's space
Of grain and wine fills stoaring place.
So I in peace and peacefull blisse
Will lay mee downe and take my rest:
For it is thou, Lord, thou it is,
By pow'r of whose own onely brest
I dwell, laid up in safest neast.
LORD, lett not mee a worm by thee be shent, While thou art in the heate of thy displeasure; Nor let thy rage of my due punishment
But mercy, Lord, lett mercy thine descend, For I am weake, and in my weaknes languish: Lord, help, for ev'n my bones their marrow spend With cruel anguish.
Nay, ev'n my soule fell troubles do appall.
Alas! how long, my God, wilt thou delay me?
Turn thee, sweete Lord, and from this ougly fall,
My deere God, stay me.
Mercy, O mercy, Lord, for mercy sake,
For death doth kill the wittnes of thy glory:
Can of thy praise the tongues entombed make
A heavenly story?
Loe, I am tir'd while still I sigh and grone:
My moistned bed proofes of my sorrow showeth:
My bed-while I with black night moorn alone-
With my teares floweth.
Woe, like a moth, my face's beutie eates, And age pul'd on with paines all freshnes fretteth;
The while a swarm of foes with vexing feates
My life besetteth.
Get hence, you evill, who in my ill rejoice,
In all whose workes vainenesse is ever raigning;
For God hath heard the weeping sobbing voice
Of my complayning.
The Lord my suite did heare, and gently heare:
They shall be sham'd and vext, that breed my
And turn their backs, and straight on backs
PSALME XIII.
Usque quo, Domine?
How long, O Lord, shall I forgotten be?
What, ever?
How long wilt thou thy hidden face from me
Dissever?
How long shall I consult with carefull sprite In anguish?
How long shall I with foes' triumphant might
Thus languish?
Behold me, Lord; let to thy hearing creep
My crying:
Nay, give me eyes and light, least that I sleep
In dying:
Least my foe bragg, that in my ruyne he
And at my fall they joy that, troublous, me
Noe! noe! I trust on thee, and joy in thy Greate pitty:
Still, therefore, of thy graces shall be my Song's ditty.
SAVE me, Lord; for why? thou art
All the hope of all my hart:
Wittnesse thou, my soule, with me,
That to God, my God, I say,
Thou, my Lord, thou art my stay,
Though my workes reach not to thee.
This is all the best I prove:
Good and godly men I love;
And forsee their wretched paine,
Who to other gods doe runne:
Their blood-offerings I do shunne;
Nay, to name their names disdaine.
God my only portion is,
And of my childes part the bliss:
He then shall maintaine my lott.
Say then, is not my lott found
In a goodly pleasant ground?
Have not I faire partage gott?
Ever, Lord, I will blesse thee,
Who dost ever councell me:
Ev'n when Night with his black wing, Sleepy Darknes, doth orecast,
In my inward raines I tast
Of my faultes and chastening.
My eyes still my God reguard,
And he my right hand doth guard;
So can I not be opprest,
So my hart is fully gladd,
So in joy my glory cladd:
Yea, my flesh in hope shall rest.
For I know the deadly grave
On my soule noe pow'r shall have:
For I know thou wilt defend
Even the body of thine own
Deare beloved holy one
From a fowle corrupting end.
Thou life's path wilt make me knowe,
In whose view doth plenty growe
All delights that soules can crave;
And whose bodies placed stand
On thy blessed-making hand,
They all joies like-endless have.
THE heav'nly frame setts foorth the fame
Of him that only thunders;
The firmament, so strangly bent,
Showes his hand-working wonders.
Day unto day doth it display,
Their course doth it acknowledg:
And night to night succeeding right
In darknes teach cleare knowledg.
There is no speach, nor language, which
Is soe of skill bereaved,
But of the skies the teaching cries
They have heard and conceaved.
There be no eyne, but read the line
From soe faire booke proceeding;
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