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,
Thrice blessed Three in One.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A SONNET,

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.

A PARADOX.

(FROM A MS. COLLECTION FORMERLY DR RAWLINSON'S, IN THE BODLEIAN

LIBRARY, OXFORD.)

THAT THE SICK ARE IN A BETTER CASE THAN THE WHOLE.

You who admire yourselves because

You neither groan nor weep,
And think it contrary to Nature's laws
To want one ounce of sleep,

Your strong belief
Acquits yourselves, and gives the sick all grief.

Your state to ours is contrary,

That makes you think us poor,
So Black-moors think us foul, and we
Are quit with them, and more :

Nothing can see,
And judge of things but mediocrity.

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,
Not from excess ? and therefore we do spend
That which we do not need ;

So trembling may
As well show inward warbling, as decay.

Cease then to judge calamities

By outward form and show,
But view yourselves, and inward turn your eyes,
Then you shall fully know

That your estate
Is, of the two, the far more desperate.

You always fear to feel those smarts

Which we but sometimes prove,
Each little comfort much affects our hearts,
None but gross joys you move :

Why then confess
Your fears in number more, your joys are less

Then for yourselves not us embrace

Plaints to bad fortune due,
For though you visit us, and plaint or case,
We doubt much whether you

Come to our bed
To comfort us, or to be comforted.

INSCRIPTION.

IN THE PARSONAGE, BEMERTON.

TO MY SUCCESSOR.

IF thou chance for to find
A new House to thy mind
And built without thy cost :

Be good to the poor,

As God gives thee store,
And then my labour's not lost.

ON LORD DANVERS.

SACRED marble, safely keep
His dust, who under thee must sleep,
Until the years again restore
Their dead, and time shall be no more.
Meanwhile, if he (which all things wears)
Does ruin thee, or if thy tears
Are shed for him ; dissolve thy frame,
Thou art requited : for his fame,
His virtue, and his worth shall be
Another monument to thee.