 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
244
Psalm XLII. Quemadmodum.
As the chafed hart which braieth,
Seeking some refreshing brooke:
So my soule in panting plaieth,
Thirsting on my God to looke.
My soule thirsts indeede in mee
After ever-lyving thee.
Ah when comes my blessed beeing,
Of thy face to have a seeing!
Seeking some refreshing brooke:
So my soule in panting plaieth,
Thirsting on my God to looke.
My soule thirsts indeede in mee
After ever-lyving thee.
Ah when comes my blessed beeing,
Of thy face to have a seeing!
Day and night my teares out-flowing
Have been my ill feeding food:
With their daily questions throwing;
Where is now, thy God soe good?
My hart melts remembring soe,
How in troupes I woont to goe:
Leading them, his praises singing,
Holy daunce to Gods howse bringing.
Have been my ill feeding food:
With their daily questions throwing;
Where is now, thy God soe good?
My hart melts remembring soe,
How in troupes I woont to goe:
Leading them, his praises singing,
Holy daunce to Gods howse bringing.
Why art thou my soule soe sory,
And in me soe much dismaid?
Waite on God for yet his glory
In my songue shalbe displaid.
When but with one looke of his
He shall me restore to blisse:
Ah my soule it self appalleth;
In such longing thoughtes it falleth.
And in me soe much dismaid?
Waite on God for yet his glory
In my songue shalbe displaid.
When but with one looke of his
He shall me restore to blisse:
Ah my soule it self appalleth;
In such longing thoughtes it falleth.
For my mynd on my God bideth,
Ev'n from Hermons dwelling ledd,
From the groundes where Jordan slideth,
And from Myzars hilly hedd.
One deepe with noise of his fall
Other deepes of woes doth call:
While my God, with wasting wonders
On me wretch his tempest thunders.
Ev'n from Hermons dwelling ledd,
From the groundes where Jordan slideth,
And from Myzars hilly hedd.
One deepe with noise of his fall
Other deepes of woes doth call:
While my God, with wasting wonders
On me wretch his tempest thunders.
All thy floodes on me abounded,
Over me all thy waves went:
Yet thus still my hope is grounded,
That thy anger beeing spent,
I by day thy love shall tast:
I by night shall singing last:
Prayeng, praiers still bequeathing
To my God, that gave me breathing.
Over me all thy waves went:
Yet thus still my hope is grounded,
That thy anger beeing spent,
245
I by night shall singing last:
Prayeng, praiers still bequeathing
To my God, that gave me breathing.
I will say ô Lord my tower,
Why am I forgott by thee?
Why should griefe my hart devower
While the foe oppresseth me?
Those vile scoffs of naughty ones
Wound and rent me to the bones:
When foes aske with fowle deriding
Where is now your God abiding?
Why am I forgott by thee?
Why should griefe my hart devower
While the foe oppresseth me?
Those vile scoffs of naughty ones
Wound and rent me to the bones:
When foes aske with fowle deriding
Where is now your God abiding?
Why art thou my soule soe sory,
And in me soe much dismaid?
Waite on God for yet his glory
In my songe shalbe displaid.
To him my thancks shalbe said,
Who is still my present aid:
And in fine my soule be raised,
God is my God, by me praised.
And in me soe much dismaid?
Waite on God for yet his glory
In my songe shalbe displaid.
To him my thancks shalbe said,
Who is still my present aid:
And in fine my soule be raised,
God is my God, by me praised.
| The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |