Selected Works. George Herbert

or live.

      As for thy passion—But of that anon,

      When with the other I have done.

      For thy predestination, I’ll contrive,

      That three years hence, if I survive,

      I’ll build a spittle, or mend common waves,

      But mend mine own without delayes.

      Then I will use the works of thy creation,

      As if I us’d them but for fashion.

      The world and I will quarrell; and the yeare

      Shall not perceive, that I am here.

      My musick shall finde thee, and ev’ry string

      Shall have his attribute to sing;

      That all together may accord in thee,

      And prove one God, one harmonie.

      If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appeare,

      If thou hast giv’n it me, ’tis here.

      Nay, I will reade thy booke, and never move

      Till I have found therein thy love;

      Thy art of love, which I’ll turn back on thee,

      Oh my deare Saviour, Victorie!

      Then for thy passion—I will do for that—

      Alas, my God, I know not what.

      6. THE REPRISALL.

      I HAVE consider’d it, and finde

      There is no dealing with thy mighty passion:

      For though I die for thee, I am behinde;

      My sinnes deserve the condemnation.

      O make me innocent, that I

      May give a disentangled state and free;

      And yet thy wounds still my attempts defie,

      For by thy death I die for thee.

      Ah! was it not enough that thou

      By thy eternall glorie didst outgo me?

      Couldst thou not grief’s sad conquests me allow,

      But in all vict’ries overthrow me?

      Yet by confession will I come

      Into the conquest. Though I can do nought

      Against thee, in thee I will overcome

      The man, who once against thee fought.

      7. THE AGONIE.

      PHILOSOPHERS have measur’d mountains,

      Fathom’d the depths of seas, of states, and kings,

      Walk’d with a staffe to heav’n, and traced fountains:

      But there are two vast, spacious things,

      The which to measure it doth more behove:

      Yet few there are that found them; Sinne and Love.

      Who would know Sinne, let him repair

      Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see

      A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,

      His skinne, his garments bloudie be.

      Sinne is that presse and vice, which forceth pain

      To hunt his cruell food through ev’ry vein.

      Who knows not Love, let him assay,

      And taste that juice, which on the crosse a pike

      Did set again abroach; then let him say

      If ever he did taste the like.

      Love in that liquour sweet and most divine,

      Which my God feels as bloud; but I, as wine.

      8. THE SINNER.

      LORD, how I am all ague, when I seek

      What I have treasured in my memorie!

      Since, if my soul make even with the week,

      Each seventh note by right is due to thee.

      I finde there quarries of pil’d vanities,

      But shreds of holinesse, that dare not venture

      To shew their face, since crosse to thy decrees:

      There the circumference earth is, heav’n the centre.

      In so much dregs the quintessence is small:

      The spirit and good extract of my heart

      Comes to about the many hundreth part.

      Yet, Lord, restore thine image, heare my call:

      And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,

      Remember that thou once didst write in stone.

      9. GOOD FRIDAY.

      O MY chief good,

      How shall I measure out thy bloud?

      How shall I count what thee befell,

      And each grief tell?

      Shall I thy woes

      Number according to thy foes?

      Or, since one starre shew’d thy first breath,

      Shall all thy death?

      Or shall each leaf,

      Which falls in autumne, score a grief?

      Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be signe,

      Of the true vine?

      Then let each houre

      Of my whole life one grief devoure;

      That thy distresse through all may runne,

      And be my sunne.

      Or rather let

      My severall sinnes their sorrows get;

      That as each beast his cure doth know,

      Each sinne may so.

      Since bloud is fittest, Lord, to write

      Thy sorrows in, and bloudie fight;

      My heart hath store; write there, where in

      One box doth lie both ink and sinne:

      That when sinne spies so many foes,

      Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,

      All come to lodge there, sinne may say,

      No room for me, and flie away.

      Sinne being gone, oh fill the place,

      And keep possession with thy grace;

      Lest sinne take courage and return,

      And all the writings blot or burn.

      10. REDEMPTION.

      HAVING been tenant long to a rich Lord,

      Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,

      And make a suit unto him, to afford

      A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’ old.

      In