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Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her who begot this love in me before,
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I do but


To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic books; my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals, unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among

All foreigners, my English tongue :
Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo
The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth,
And all your graces no more use shall have

Than a sun-dial in a grave.
Thou, Love, taught'st me by making me
Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all




[GEORGE HERRERT, the son of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, was born at Montgomery Castle in 1593, and was educated at Cambridge. He became a favourite of James I.; but the death of that monarch and some other patrons blighting his prospect of promotion at Court, he took orders, after which he was made a prebend of Lincoln, and was appointed to the living of Bemerton in Wiltshire. He discharged his clerical duties with great zeal, and with more energy than his strength permitted. He died at Bemerton in 1632, at the early age of thirtynine.

His poetry is not of the very highest order. There are many beautiful passages in his works, but his imagery is fantastic, and his style is often strained and unnatural.]

O DAY most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time, care's balm and bay :
The week were dark, but for thy light;

Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow :
The workydays are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,

Making the whole to stoop and bow

Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone To endless death : but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on one, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still, Since there is no place so alone,

The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are On which heaven's palace arched lies : The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful beds and borders In God's rich garden : that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife-

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.


The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at his passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

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The brightness of that day We sullied by ur foul offence : Wherefore that robe we cast away, Having a new at his expence, Whose drops of blood paid the full price, That was required to make us gay,

And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth : And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : O let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heaven!

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