By Sir Philip Sidney


Confitebor tibi.

I. WITH all my heart, O Lord, I will prayse Thee,
           My speeches all Thy mervailes shall descry;
    In Thee my joyes and comforts ever be,
           Yea, ev'n my songs Thy name shall magnify,
                                                        O Lord most high!

2. Because my foes to fly are now constraind,
           And they are faln, nay, perisht at Thy sight;
    For Thou my cause, my right Thou hast maintaind,
           Setting Thy self in throne, which shinèd bright,
                                                        Of judging right.

3. The Gentiles Thou rebukèd sorely hast,
           And wyked folk from Thee to wrack do wend,
    And their renoune, which seemd so long to last,
           Thou dost put out, and quite consuming send
                                                        To endles end.

4. O bragging foe, where is the endles wast
           Of conquerd states, wherby such fame you gott?
    What! doth their memory no longer last—
           Both ruines, ruiners, and ruin'd plott
                                                        Be quite forgott?

5. But God shall sit in His eternal chaire,
           Which He prepar'd to giue His judgments high;
    Thither the world for justice shall repare,
           Thence He to all His judgments shall apply

6. Thou, Lord, also th' oppressèd wilt defend,
           That they to Thee in troublous time may flee;
    They that know Thee on Thee their trust will bend,
           For Thou, Lord, found by them wilt ever be,
                                                        That seek to Thee.

7. O prayse the Lord, this Syon-dweller good,
           Shew forth His acts, and this as act most high,
    That He, inquiring, doth require just blood,
           Which He forgetteth not, nor letteth dy
                                                        Th' afflicted cry.

8. Haue mercy, mercy, Lord, I once did say;
           Ponder the paines which on me loaden be
    By them whose minds on hatefull thoughts do stay:
           Thou, Lord, that from death gates hast lifted me,
                                                        I call to Thee,

9. That I within the ports most beautyfull
           Of Syon's daughter may sing foorth Thy prayse;
    That I, even I, of heavnly comfort full,
           May only joy in all Thy saving wayes
                                                        Throughout my days.

10. No sooner said, but lo, myne enemyes sink
             Down in the pitt which they themselues had wrought;
      And in that nett, which they well hidden think,
             Is their own foot, ledd by their own ill thought,
                                                            Most surely caught.

11. For then the Lord in judgment shewes to raigne,
             When godless men be snar'd in their own snares;
      When wycked soules be turn'd to hellish paine,
             And that forgetfull sort which never cares
                                                            What God prepares.

12. But, of the other side, the poore in sprite
             Shall not be scrap'd out of heavnly scoare,
      Nor meek abiding of the pacient wight
             Yet perish shall, although his paine be sore,
                                                            For ever more.

13. Vp, Lord, and judg the Gentyls in Thy right,
             And let not man haue vpper hand of Thee:
      With terrors great, O Lord, do Thou them fright,
             That by sharp proofes, the heathen them selues may se
                                                            But men to be.

Text source:
      Sidney, Philip. The Complete Poems of Sir Philip Sidney. vol. III.
      Alexander B. Grosart, Ed. London: Chatto & Windus, 1877. 97-101.

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