Читать книгу Selected Works - George Herbert - Страница 39

KILL me not ev’ry day,

Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me

Is more than all my deaths can be,

Though I in broken pay

Die over each hour of Methusalem’s stay.

If all men’s tear were let

Into one common sewer, sea, and brine;

What were they all, compar’d to thine?

Wherein if they were set,

They would discolour thy most bloudy sweat.

Thou art my grief alone,

Thou, Lord, conceal it not: and as thou art

All my delight, so all my smart:

Thy crosse took up in one,

By way of imprest, all my future mone.