Читать книгу Selected Works - George Herbert - Страница 52

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 guilded clay,

Deare earth, fine grasse 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 simplenesse, and sad events;

The other fine,

Full of glorie 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 did tread,

Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow,

And long since wed

My poore soul, ev’n sick of love;

It may a Babel prove,

Commodious to conquer heav’n and thee

Planted in me.