by George Herbert
LORD, in my silence how do I despise
What upon trust
Is styled, honour, riches, or fair eyes;But is—fair dust!
I surname them gilded clay,
Dear earth, fine grass or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.
What upon trust
Is styled, honour, riches, or fair eyes;But is—fair dust!
I surname them gilded clay,
Dear earth, fine grass or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.
But when I view abroad both regiments,
The world's, and Thine;
Thine clad with simpleness, and sad events;The other fine,
Full of glory and gay weeds,
Brave language, braver deeds:
That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,
And prick mine eyes.
Thine clad with simpleness, and sad events;The other fine,
Full of glory and gay weeds,
Brave language, braver deeds:
That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,
And prick mine eyes.
O brook not this, lest if what even now
My foot doth tread,
My foot doth tread,
Affront those joys, wherewith Thou didst endow,
And long since wed
And long since wed
My poor soul, e'en sick of love;
It may a Babel prove,
Commodious to conquer heaven and Thee
Planted in me.
It may a Babel prove,
Commodious to conquer heaven and Thee
Planted in me.
