Logos Virtual Library: George Herbert: The Temple: The Church: Dulnesse

George Herbert

George Herbert (1593-1633)

The Temple

Dulnesse

Why do I languish thus, drooping and dull,

As if I were all earth?
O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth

Praise thee brim-full!

The wanton lover in a curious strain

Can praise his fairest fair;
And with quaint metaphors her curled hair

Curl o’re again.

Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light,

Beautie alone to me:
Thy bloudy death and undeserv’d, makes thee

Pure red and white.

When all perfections as but one appeare,

That those thy form doth show,
The very dust, where thou dost tread and go,

Makes beauties here;

Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?

Where are my window-songs?
Lovers are still pretending, and ev’n wrongs

Sharpen their Muse:

But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes

Still mock me, and grow bold:
Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could

Finde where it lies.

Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit

I may but look towards thee:
Look onely; for to love thee, who can be,

What angel fit?