CHRISTMAS. [HER BERT.] ALL after pleasures as I rid one day, dear There, when I came, whom found I, but my O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be? My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Then we will chide the Sun, for letting night We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should I will go searching, till I find a Sun- A willing shiner; that shall shine as gladly, Then we will sing and shine all our own day; And one another pay. His beams shall cheer my breast; and both so twine, Till ev'n his beams sing, and my music shine. MAN. [HER BERT.] MY God, I heard this day, What house more stately hath there been, For Man is ev'ry thing; And more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit. Man is all symmetry, Full of proportions, one limb to another, Each part may call the farthest brother. Nothing hath got so far, But Man hath caught and kept it, as his prey. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow. As our delight, or as our treasure. Or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed: Night draws the curtain; which the sun withdraws. In their ascent and cause. Each thing is full of duty: Below, our drink; above, our meat: More servants wait on Man, Than he'll take notice of. In ev'ry path He treads down that, which doth befriend him Since then, my God, thou hast Till then, afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee; CONSCIENCE. [HERBERT.] PEACE! prattler, do not lour. Not a fair look, but thou dost call it foul; By list'ning to thy chatting fears I have both lost mine eyes and ears. Prattler, no more, I say, My thoughts must work, but like a noiseless sphere; If thou persistest, I will tell thee, And the receipt shall be My Saviour's blood. Whenever at his board, No, not a tooth or nail to scratch, Yet, if thou talkest still, Besides my physic, know, there's some for thee; Some wood or nails, to make a staff or bill For those that trouble me. The bloody cross of my dear Lord BUSINESS. [HERBERT.] Can'st be idle, can'st thou play, RIVERS run, and springs each one If, poor soul, thou hast no tears, Winds still work; it is their plot, If thou hast no sighs or groans, But, if yet thou idle be, Foolish soul, who died for thee? Who did leave his Father's throne, |