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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, AND THE
COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.
O God, God of my equity!
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
And only haunt where lies do lye?
When he chose me, a godly one:
I say, that when I make
He will give good eare to my moane.
Your selves yet to your selves 'disclose.
Of just desires on justice staid :
But, Lord, lift thou upon our sight
The shining cleerenes of thy face;
Of grain and wine fills stoaring place.
Will lay mee downe and take my rest :
Domine, ne in furorc. 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
Become the measure.
For I am weake, and in my weaknes languish: Lord, help, for ev'n my bones their marrow spend
With cruel anguish.
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?
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,
fretteth; The while a swarm of foes with vexing feates
My life besetteth.
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
crying, And turn their backs, and straight on backs appeare
Their shamfull flying.
Usque quo, Domine?
Dissever ? How long shall I consult with carefull sprite
In anguish ?
Noe! noe! I trust on thee, and joy in thy
Greate pitty : Still, therefore, of thy graces shall be my
Wittnesse thou, my soule, with me,
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,
Nay, to name their names disdaine.
the bliss :
Have not I faire partage gott?
Ev'n when Night with his black wing,
Of my faultes and chastening.
So can I not be opprest,
Yea, my flesh in hope shall rest.
For I know thou wilt defend
From a fowle corrupting end.
All delights that soules can crave;
They all joies like-endless have.
Cæli enarrant. 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,
They have heard and conceaved.
From soe faire booke proceeding;