Selected Works. George Herbert

thou mayst know,

      That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust

      That measures all our time; which also shall

      Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below,

      How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,

      That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

      38. CHURCH-MUSICK.

      SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you: when displeasure

      Did through my bodie wound my minde,

      You took me thence; and in your house of pleasure

      A daintie lodging me assign’d.

      Now I in you without a bodie move,

      Rising and falling with your wings:

      We both together sweetly live and love,

      Yet say sometimes, God help poore Kings.

      Comfort, I’ll die; for if you poste from me,

      Sure I shall do so and much more:

      But if I travell in your companie,

      You know the way to heaven’s doore.

      39. CHURCH-LOCK AND KEY.

      I KNOW it is my sinne, which locks thine eares,

      And bindes thy hands!

      Out-crying my requests, drowning my tears;

      Or else the chilnesse of my faint demands.

      But as cold hands are angrie with the fire,

      And mend it still;

      So I do lay the want of my desire,

      Not on my sinnes, or coldnesse, bat thy will.

      Yet heare, O God, onely for his blood’s sake,

      Which pleads for me:

      For though sinnes plead too, yet like stones they make

      His bloud’s sweet current much more loud to be.

      40. THE CHURCH-FLOORE.

      MARK you the floore? that square and speckled stone,

      Which looks so firm and strong,

      Is Patience:

      And th’ other black and grave, where with 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 marble’s 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.

      41. THE WINDOWS.

      LORD, 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.

      But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie,

      Making thy life to shine within

      The holy preacher’s, then the light and glorie

      More rev’rend grows, and more doth win;

      Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.

      Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one

      When they combine and mingle, bring

      A strong regard and aw: but speech alone

      Doth vanish like a flaring thing,

      And in the eare, not conscience ring.

      42. TRINITIE SUNDAY.

      LORD, who hast formed me out of mud,

      And hast redeemed me through thy bloud,

      And sanctified me to do good;

      Purge all my sinnes done heretofore;

      For I confesse my heavie score,

      And I will strive to sinne no more.

      Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,

      With faith, with hope, with charitie;

      That I may runne, rise, rest with thee.

      43. CONTENT.

      PEACE mutt’ring thoughts, and do not grudge to keep

      Within the walls of your own breast.

      Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep,

      Can on another’s hardly rest.

      Gad not abroad at ev’ry quest and call

      Of an untrained hope or passion.

      To court each place or fortune that doth fall,

      Is wantonnesse in contemplation.

      Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie,

      Content and warm t’ it self alone:

      But when it would appeare to other’s eye,

      Without a knock it never shone.

      Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure

      Complies and suits with all estates;

      Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure

      Take up within a cloister’s gates.

      This soul doth span the world, and hang content

      From either pole unto the centre:

      Where in each room of the well-furnisht tent

      He lies warm, and without adventure.

      The brags of life are but a nine days1 wonder:

      And after death the fumes that spring

      From private bodies, make as big a thunder

      As those which rise from a huge king.

      Onely thy chronicle is lost: and yet

      Better by worms be all once spent,

      Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret

      Thy name in books, which may not rent.

      When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel’st alone,

      Are chaw’d by others’ pens and