A Wreath

by George Herbert

A Wreath

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,

Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,

I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,

My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,

Wherein I die, not live : for life is straight,

Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,

To thee, who art more farre above deceit,

Then deceit seems above simplicitie.

Give me simplicitie, that I may live,

So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,

Know them and practise them : then shall I give

For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise. 

Heaven 

Oh who will show me those delights on high!

Echo I

Thou Echo, thou art mortal, all men know.

Echo No

Wert thou not born among the trees and leaves?

Echo Leaves

And are there any leaves, that still abide?

Echo Bide

What leaves are they? Impart the matter wholly.

Echo Holy

Are holy leaves the Echo then of blisse?

Echo Yes

Then tell me, what is that supreme delight?

Echo Light

Light to the minde: what shall the will enjoy?

Echo Joy

But are there cares and business with the pleasure?

Echo Leisure

Light, joy and leisure; but shall they persever?

Echo Ever) 

Nature

Full of rebellion, I would die, 

Or fight, or travel, or deny

That thou has aught to do with me.

O tame my heart; 

It is thy highest art

To captivate strong holds to thee.

If thou shalt let this venom lurk, 

And in suggestions fume and work, 

My soul will turn to bubbles straight, 

And thence by kind

Vanish into a wind, 

Making thy workmanship deceit.

O smooth my rugged heart, and there

Engrave thy rev'rend law and fear; 

Or make a new one, since the old

Is sapless grown, 

And a much fitter stone

To hide my dust, than thee to hold. 

The Agony 

Philosophers have measur'd mountains, 

Fathom'd the depths of the seas, of states, and kings, 

Walk'd with a staff to heav'n, and traced fountains: 

But there are two vast, spacious things, 

The which to measure it doth more behove: 

Yet few there are that sound them; Sin and Love.

Who would know SIn, let him repair

Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see

A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, 

His skin, his garments bloody be.

Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain

To hunt his cruel food through ev'ry vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay

And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike

Did set again abroach, then let him say

If ever he did taste the like.

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, 

Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine.