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 worlds, 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 endowGeorge Herbert, 1633.
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.