Selected Works. George Herbert

great kingdome, which thou now hast got,

      That he was fain, when thou wert destitute,

      To digge thee out of thy dark cave and grot.

      Then forcing thee, by fire he made thee bright:

      Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we

      Have with our stamp and seal transferr’d our right:

      Thou art the man, and man but drosse to thee.

      Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich;

      And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.

      52. ANA-GRAM

      How well her name an Army doth present,

      In whom the Lord of hosts did pitch his tent!

      53. TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS.

      OH glorious spirits, who after all your bands

      See the smooth face of God, without a frown,

      Or strict commands;

      Where ev’ry one is king, and hath his crown,

      If not upon his head, yet in his hands:

      Not out of envy or maliciousnesse

      Do I forbear to crave your speciall aid.

      I would addresse

      My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid,

      And Mother of my God, in my distresse:

      Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold,

      The great restorative for all decay

      In young and old;

      Thou art the cabinet where the jewell lay:

      Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold.

      But now, (alas!) I dare not; for our King,

      Whom we do all joyntly adore and praise,

      Bids no such thing:

      And where his pleasure no injunction layes,

      (’Tis your own case) ye never move a wing.

      All worship is prerogative, and a flower

      Of his rich crown, from whom lyes no appeal

      At the last houre:

      Therefore we dare not from his garland steal,

      To makea posie for inferiour power.

      Although then others court you, if ye know

      What’s done on earth, we shall not fare the worse,

      Who do not so;

      Since we are ever ready to disburse,

      If any one our Master’s hand can show.

      54. EMPLOYMENT.

      HE that is weary, let him sit.

      My soul would stirre

      And tread in courtesies and wit,

      Quitting the furre

      To cold complexions needing it.

      Man is no starre, but a quick coal

      Of mortall fire:

      Who blows it not, nor doth controll

      A faint desire,

      Lets his own ashes choke his soul

      When th’ elements did for place contest

      With him, whose will

      Ordain’d the highest to be best:

      The earth sat still,

      And by the others is opprest.

      Life is a businesse, not good cheer;

      Ever in warres.

      The sunne still shineth there or here,

      Whereas the starres

      Watch an advantage to appeare.

      Oh that I were an orenge-tree,

      That busie plant!

      Then should I ever laden be,

      And never want

      Some fruit for him that dressed me.

      But we are still too young or old;

      The man is gone,

      Before we do our wares unfold:

      So we freeze on,

      Until the grave increase our cold.