Читать книгу Selected Works - George Herbert - Страница 60

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.