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The Poetical Works of George Herbert: With a Memoir - Primary Source Edition
Sin vista previa disponible - 2013
appeare bear beautie better blessed bloud brave breast breath bring Christ church dead deare death delight doore doth dust earth ev'n ev'ry eyes face fair fall fear finde fire flesh flowers fruit gain gave give glorie grace grief ground grow hand hath head heare heart heav'n Herbert hold holy hope houre joyes keep King leave lesse light live look Lord lost mark means measure meet minde move musick never night once passe peace pleasure poore praise present rest seek serve sigh sing sinne sometimes sorrow soul speak stand starres stay stone sunne sure sweet tears thee thine things thou art thou didst thou dost thou hast thoughts thyself true turn unto verse winde write
Página 104 - ... whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My Music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.
Página 208 - And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.
Página 4 - Lie not : but let thy heart be true to God, Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both : Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod ; The stormy working soul spits lies and froth.
Página 191 - All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures : leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage. Thy rope of sands, Which petty...
Página 20 - Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge : If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good. If all want sense, God takes a text and preacheth patience.
Página 154 - There was a Prince of old At Salem dwelt, Who liv'd with good increase Of flock and fold. 'He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death out of His grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat; Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set.
Página 60 - O, rack me not to such a vast extent, Those distances belong to thee ; The world's too little for thy tent, A grave too big for me.
Página 238 - I cannot look on thee. Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, Who made the eyes but I \ Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them : let my shame Go where it doth deserve.