赫伯特诗四首

THE COLLAR.

I STRUCK the board, and cry, No more ;
                                I will abroad.
    What ? shall I ever sigh and pine ?
My lines and life are free ; free as the rode,
    Loose as the winde, as large as store.
                                Shall I be still in suit ?
    Have I no harvest but a thorn
    To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit ?
                                Sure there was wine,
    Before my sighs did drie it : there was corn
              Before my tears did drown it.
    Is the yeare onely lost to me ?
              Have I no bayes to crown it ?
No flowers, no garlands gay ? all blasted ?
                                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 pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
    Good cable, to enforce and draw,
                                And be thy law,
    While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
                                Away ; take heed :
                                I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there : tie up thy fears.
                                He that forbears
              To suit and serve his need,
                                Deserves his load.

But as I rave and grew more fierce and wilde,
                                At every word,
    Methought I heard one calling, Childe :
                                And I reply, My Lord.

VERTUE.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie :
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ;
                                For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie 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 dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My musick shows ye have your closes,
                                And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives ;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
                                Then chiefly lives.

JORDAN. (I)

WHO sayes that fictions onely and false hair
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, 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.

LOVE (III)

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
        If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
        Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
        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."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
        "My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
        So I did sit and eat.