VI. Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke

Conserva me.

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.