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Become a verse ? Is there in truth no beautie ? Is all good structure in a winding stair ? May no lines passe, except they do their dutie Not to a true, but painted chair ? Is it not verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines ? Must purling streams refresh a lovers loves ? Must all be vail’d, while he that reades, divines, Catching the sense at two removes ? Shepherds are honest people ; let them sing : Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime : I envie no mans nightingale or spring ; Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme, Who plainly say, My God, My King. |
Source:
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 68-69.
 | to Works of George Herbert |
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