Easter wings.

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,

Till he became
Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

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20

Affliction.

Hen first thou didst entice to thee my heart,

WH

I thought the service brave:

So many joyes I writ down for my part,

Besides what I might have

Out of my stock of naturall delights,
Augmented with thy gracious benefits.
I looked on thy furniture so fine,

And made it fine to me:

Thy glorious houshold-stuffe did me entwine,

And 'tice me unto thee;

Such starres I counted mine: both heav'n and earth
Payd me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I served ?
Where joyes my fellows were.

Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserved
No place for grief or fear.

Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fiercenesse seek thy face
At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses;

I had my wish and way:

My dayes were straw'd with flow'rs and happinesse ;
There was no moneth but May.

But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a partie unawares for wo.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,

Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein,

Sorrow was all my

And tune my breath to grones.
soul; I scarce beleeved,

Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

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30

When I got health, thou took'st away my life,

And more; for my friends die :

My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife
Was of more use then I.

Thus thinne and lean without a fence or friend,

I was blown through with ev'ry storm and winde.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took

The way that takes the town;

Thou didst betray me to a lingring book,
And wrap me in a gown.

I was entangled in the world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threatned oft the siege to raise,
Not simpring all mine age,

Thou often didst with Academick praise

Melt and dissolve my rage.

I took thy sweetned pill, till I came neare;
I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happie be
In my unhappinesse,

Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me

Into more sicknesses.

Thus doth thy power crosse-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my wayes taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me

None of my books will show:

I reade, and sigh, and wish I were a tree;

For sure then I should grow

To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust

Her houshold to me, and I should be just.

50

60

40

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;

In weaknesse must be stout.

Well, I will change the service, and go seek

Some other master out.

Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

George Herbert.

Ho

Jordan.

Who sayes that fictions onely and false hainutie?

Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines passe, except they do their dutie
Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lovers loves?
Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,

Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:
I envie no mans nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,
Who plainly say, My God, My King.

George Herbert.

M Ark

The Church-floore.

Ark you the floore? that square & speckled stone,
Which looks so firm and strong,

Is Patience:

And th' other black and grave, wherewith each one
Is checker'd all along,

Humilitie:

The gentle rising, which on either hand

Leads to the Quire above,

Is Confidence:

But the sweet cement, which in one sure band

Ties the whole frame, is Love

And Charitie.

Hither sometimes Sinne steals, and stains
The marbles neat and curious veins :
But all is cleansed when the marble weeps.

Sometimes Death, puffing at the doore,
Blows all the dust about the floore:

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps.
Blest be the Architect, whose art

Could build so strong in a weak heart.

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George Herbert.

Lord,

The Windows.

Ord, how can man preach thy eternall word?
He is a brittle crazie glasse:

Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,
To be a window, through thy grace.