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Choke him, let him say no more, But reserve his breath in store, Till thy conquest and his fall Make his sighs to use it all; And then bargain with the wind To discharge what is behind.
Blessed be God alone,
SENT BY GEORGE HERBERT TO HIS MOTHER AS A NEW
YEAR'S GIFT FROM CAMBRIDGE.
My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee,
Wherewith whole shoals of Martyrs once did burn, Besides their other flames? Doth poetry
Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn ? Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays
Upon thine altar burnt ? Cannot thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise
As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight ?
Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the same,
Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name? Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might
Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose
Than that which, one day, worms may chance refuse? Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry
Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty:
Each cloud distils thy praise, and doth forbid
Poets to turn it to another use.
Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse.
Why should I women's eyes for crystal take? Such poor invention burns in their low mind
Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go
To praise, and on thee, Lord, some ink bestow. Open the bones, and you shall nothing find
, In the best face but filth ; when, Lord, in thee The beauty lies, in the discovery.
(FROM A MS. COLLECTION FORMERLY DR RAWLINSON'S, IN THE BODLEIAN
THAT THE SICK ARE IN A BETTER CASE THAN THE WHOLE.
You who admire yourselves because
You neither groan nor weep,
Your strong belief
Your state to ours is contrary,
That makes you think us poor,
Nothing can see,
The sick are in themselves a state
Which health hath nought to do. How know you that our tears proceed from woe, And not from better fate?
Since that mirth hath Her waters also and desired bath.
How know you that the sighs we send
From want of breath proceed,
So trembling may
Cease then to judge calamities
By outward form and show,
That your estate
You always fear to feel those smarts
Which we but sometimes prove,
Why then confess
Then for yourselves not us embrace
Plaints to bad fortune due,
Come to our bed
IN THE PARSONAGE, BEMERTON.
TO MY SUCCESSOR.
IF thou chance for to find
Be good to the poor,
As God gives thee store,
ON LORD DANVERS.
SACRED marble, safely keep