Who by aspersions throw a stone
At the head of others, hit their own.

Who looks on ground with humble eyes,
Finds himself there, and seeks to rise.

When the hair is sweet through pride or lust,
The powder doth forget the dust.

Take one from ten, and what remains?
Ten still, if sermons go for gains.†

In shallow waters heaven doth show:
But who drinks on, to hell may go.

AFFLICTION.

My God, I read this day,

That planted Paradise was not so firm
As was and is Thy floating Ark; whose stay
And anchor Thou art only, to confirm

And strengthen it in every age,

When waves do rise and tempests rage.

At first we lived in pleasure;

Thine own delights Thou didst to us impart : When we grew wanton, Thou didst use displeasure To make us Thine; yet, that we might not part, As we at first did board with Thee,

Now Thou wouldst taste our misery.

* See "A Priest in the Temple."

† An allusion to tithes or the tenth part paid to the Church, but repaid by its ministrations.

There is but joy and grief;

If either will convert us, we are Thine :
Some angels used the first; if our relief
Take up the second, then Thy double line
And several baits in either kind
Furnish Thy table to Thy mind.

Affliction, then, is ours;

We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more, While blustering winds destroy the wanton bowers, And ruffle all their curious knots and store.

My God, so temper joy and woe,

That Thy bright beams may tame Thy bow.

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath
Scarce knows the way,

Those clouts are little winding-sheets,
Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,

They step into their voluntary graves:

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead.

Successive nights, like rolling waves,
Convey them quickly who are bound for death

When youth is frank and free,

And calls for music, while his veins do swell,

All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,

Getting a house and home, where he may move
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes;

That dumb enclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak, Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year, Till all do melt, and drown his breath

When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier

Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And drest his hearse, while he has breath

As yet to spare.

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die

That all these dyings may be life in death.

DECAY.

SWEET were the days when thou didst lodge with Lot Struggle with Jacob, sit with Gideon,

Advise with Abraham; when Thy power could not Encounter Moses' strong complaints and moan: Thy words were then, "Let me alone."

One might have sought and found Thee presently At some fair oak, or bush, or cave, or well: "Is my God this way?" "No," they would reply: "He is to Sinai gone, as we heard tell :

List, ye may hear great Aaron's bell."

But now Thou dost Thyself immure and close
In some one corner of a feeble heart;

Where yet both Sin and Satan, Thy old foes,
Do pinch and straiten Thee, and use much art
To gain Thy thirds and little part.

I see the world grows old, when as the heat
Of Thy great love once spread, as in an urn,
Doth closet up itself, and still retreat,
Cold sin still forcing it, till it return

And calling Justice, all things burn.

MISERY.

LORD, let the angels praise Thy name.
Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing!
Folly and sin play all his game.

His house still burns; and yet he still doth sing
Man is but grass,

He knows it,-fill the glass.

How canst Thou brook his foolishness ?
Why, he'll not lose a cup of drink for Thee:

Bid him but temper his excess,—

Not he he knows where he can better be,
As he will swear,

Than to serve Thee in fear.

What strange pollutions doth he wed,
And make his own! as if none knew but he.
No man shall beat into his head

That Thou within his curtains drawn canst see:
They are of cloth

Where never yet came moth.

The best of men, turn but Thy hand For one poor minute, stumble at a pin : They would not have their actions scanned, Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,

Though it be small,

And measure not their fall.

They quarrel * Thee, and would give over The bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy love Holds them unto it, and doth cover Their follies with the wing of Thy mild dove, Not suff'ring those

Who would, to be Thy foes.

My God, man cannot praise Thy name :
Thou art all brightness, perfect purity:
The sun holds down his head for shame,
Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee.
How shall infection

Presume on Thy perfection?

Quarrel was used in Herbert's time as a verb active.