VI. Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke

Nonne Deo.

YET shall my soule in silence still

On God, my help, attentive stay:

Yet he my fort, my health, my hill,

Remove I may not, move I may.

How long then shall your fruitlesse will

An enemy soe farr from thrall

With weake endevor strive to kill,

You rotten hedge, you broken wall?

Forsooth, that hee no more may rise

Advaunced oft to throne and crown,

To headlong him their thoughtes devise,

And past reliefe to tread him down.

Their love is only love of lies:

Their wordes and deedes dissenting soe,

When from their lippes most blessing flyes,

Then deepest curse in hart doth grow.

Yet shall my soule in silence still

On God, my hope, attentive stay:

Yet hee my fort, my health, my hill,

Remove I may not, move I may.

My God doth me with glory fill,

Not only shield me safe from harme:

To shun distresse, to conquer ill,

To him I clime, in him I arme.

O then on God, our certaine stay,

All people in all times rely:

Your hartes before him naked lay;

To Adam’s sonnes tis vain to fly.

Soe vain, soe false, soe fraile are they,

Ev’n he that seemeth most of might,

With lightnesse self if him you weigh,

Then lightnesse self will weigh more light.

In fraud and force noe trust repose:

Such idle hopes from thought expell,

And take good heed, when riches growes,

Let not your hart on riches dwell.

All powre is God’s, his own word showes,

Once said by him, twice heard by mee:

Yet from thee, Lord, all mercy flowes,

And each man’s work is paid by thee.