AFFLICTION - 1
When first thou didst entice to thee my heart,
I
thought the service brave:
So many joys I writ down for my part,
Besides
what I might have
Out of my stock of natural delights,
Augmented with thy gracious benefits.
I looked on thy furniture so fine,
And
made it fine to me;
Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,
And
'tice me unto thee.
Such stars I counted mine: both heaven and earth
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.
What pleasures could I want, whose King I served,
Where
joys my fellows were?
Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts reserved
No
place for grief or fear;
Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,
And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face:
At first thou gavest me milk and sweetnesses;
I
had my wish and way:
My days were strew'd with flowers and happiness:
There
was no month but May.
But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And made a party unawares for woe.
My flesh began unto my soul in pain,
Sicknesses
cleave my bones,
Consuming agues dwell in every vein,
And
tune my breath to groans:
Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believed,
Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.
When I got health, thou took'st away my life,
And
more; for my friends die:
My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife
Was
of more use than I.
Thus thin and lean, without a fence or friend,
I was blown through with every storm and wind.
Whereas my birth and spirit rather took
The
way that takes the town;
Thou didst betray me to a lingering book,
And
wrap me in a gown.
I was entangled in the world of strife,
Before I had the power to change my life.
Yet, for I threatened oft the siege to raise,
Not
simpering all mine age,
Thou often didst with Academic praise
Melt
and dissolve my rage.
I took thy sweeten'd pill, till I came near;
I could not go away, nor persevere.
Yet lest perchance I should too happy be
In
my unhappiness,
Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me
Into
more sicknesses.
Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.
Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me
None
of my books will show:
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree;
For
sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust
Her household to me, and I should be just.
Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In
weakness must be stout.
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
Some
other Master out.
Ah, my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.
by George Herbert 1593-1633
source: The Poetical Works Of George Herbert, ed. George Gilfillan. Edinburgh: James Nichol, 1853