WHY do I languish thus, drooping and dull,
As if I were all earth?
O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth
Praise thee brim-full!
The wanton lover in a curious strain
Can praise his fairest fair;
And with quaint metaphors her curled hair
Curl oíre again:
Thou are my lovelinesse, my life, my light,
Beautie alone to me:
Thy bloudy death and undeservíd, makes thee
Pure red and white.
When all perfections as but one appeare,
That those thy form doth show,
The very dust, where thou dost tread and go
Makes beauties here;
Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?
Where are my window-songs?
Lovers are still pretending, and evín wrongs
Sharpen their Muse.
But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes
Still mock me and grow bold:
Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could
Finde where it lies.
Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit
I may but look towards thee:
Look onely ; for to love thee, who can be,
What angel fit ?
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 145-146.