VI. Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke

Domine, ne in furore.

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.

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 crying,

And turn their backs, and straight on backs appeare

Their shamfull flying.