Читать книгу Selected Works - George Herbert - Страница 24

WHEN first thou didst entice to thee my heart,

I thought the service brave:

So many joyes I writ down for my part,

Besides what I might have

Out of my stock of naturall delights,

Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine,

And made it fine to me;

Thy glorious household-stuffe did me entwine,

And ’tice me unto thee.

Such starres I counted mine: both heav’n and earth

Payd me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I served,

Where joyes my fellows were?

Thus argu’d into hopes, my thoughts reserved

No place for grief or fear;

Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,

And made her youth and fiercenesse seek thy face:

At first thou gav’st me milk and sweetnesses;

I had my wish and way:

My dayes were straw’d with flow’rs and happinesse;

There was no moneth but May.

But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow,

And made a partie unawares for wo.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,

Sicknesses cleave my bones,

Consuming agues dwell in ev’ry vein,

And tune my breath to grones:

Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce beleeved,

Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

When I got health, thou took’st away my life,

And more; for my friends die:

My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife

Was of more use then I.

Thus thinne and lean without a fence or friend,

I was blown through with ev’ry storm and winde.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took

The way that takes the town;

Thou didst betray me to a lingring book,

And wrap me in a gown.

I was entangled in the world of strife,

Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threatened oft the siege to raise,

Not simpring all mine age,

Thou often didst with academick praise

Melt and dissolve my rage.

I took thy sweetened pill, till I came neare;

I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happie be

In my unhappinesse

Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me

Into more sicknesses.

Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making

Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me

None of my books will show:

I reade, and sigh, and wish I were a tree;

For sure then I should grow

To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust

Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;

In weaknesse must be stout.

Well, I will change the service, and go seek

Some other master out.

Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot,

Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.