 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
Psalm XXXIX. Dixi custodiam.
Thus did I thinck, I well will marke my way,
Least by my tongue I happ to stray.
I musle will my mouth, while in the sight
I do abide of wicked wight.
And so I nothing said, but muett stood,
I silence kept, even in the good.
Least by my tongue I happ to stray.
I musle will my mouth, while in the sight
I do abide of wicked wight.
And so I nothing said, but muett stood,
I silence kept, even in the good.
But still the more that I did hold my peace,
The more my sorrow did encrease.
The more me thought, my hart was hott in me,
And as I mus'd such world to see,
The fire, tooke fire, and forcibly out brake;
My tongue would needes and thus I spake:
The more my sorrow did encrease.
The more me thought, my hart was hott in me,
And as I mus'd such world to see,
The fire, tooke fire, and forcibly out brake;
My tongue would needes and thus I spake:
Lord unto me my times just measure give,
Show me how long, I have to live:
Lo thou a spanns length, mad'st my living line.
A spanne? nay nothing in thine eyne.
What do we seeke? the greatest state I see,
At best is meerly vanity.
Show me how long, I have to live:
Lo thou a spanns length, mad'st my living line.
A spanne? nay nothing in thine eyne.
What do we seeke? the greatest state I see,
At best is meerly vanity.
They are but shades, not true things where we live:
Vaine shades, and vaine, in vaine to grive.
Looke but on this: man still doth ritches heape,
And knowes not, who the fruite shall reape.
This beeing thus, for what ô Lord waite I?
I wait on thee, with hopefull ey.
Vaine shades, and vaine, in vaine to grive.
Looke but on this: man still doth ritches heape,
And knowes not, who the fruite shall reape.
This beeing thus, for what ô Lord waite I?
I wait on thee, with hopefull ey.
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O helpe, ô helpe me; this farre yet I crave,
From my transgressions me to save.
Lett me not be throwne down, to so base shame,
That fooles of me, maie make their game.
But I doe hush, why do I say thus much?
Since it is thou that mak'st one such.
From my transgressions me to save.
Lett me not be throwne down, to so base shame,
That fooles of me, maie make their game.
But I doe hush, why do I say thus much?
Since it is thou that mak'st one such.
Ah! yet from me lett thy plagues be displac'd,
For with thy handy stroakes I wast.
I know that manns fowle sinne doth cause thy wrath
For when his sinne thy scourging hath,
Thou moath-like makes his bewty fading be;
Soe what is manne, but vanity?
For with thy handy stroakes I wast.
I know that manns fowle sinne doth cause thy wrath
For when his sinne thy scourging hath,
Thou moath-like makes his bewty fading be;
Soe what is manne, but vanity?
Heare Lord my suites, and cries: stopp not thine eares
At these my wordes all cloth'd in teares:
For I with thee; on earth a stranger am,
But baiting, as my fathers came.
Stay then thy wrath, that I maie strength receave,
Ere I my earthly beeing leave.
At these my wordes all cloth'd in teares:
For I with thee; on earth a stranger am,
But baiting, as my fathers came.
Stay then thy wrath, that I maie strength receave,
Ere I my earthly beeing leave.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |