William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Whilst I Beheld the Neck o th DovePatrick Cary (fl. 1651)
W
I spied and read these words.
‘This pretty dye
Which takes your eye,
Is not at all the bird’s.
The dusky raven might
Have with these colours pleased your sight,
Had God but chose so to ordain above;’
This label wore the dove.
These notes she warbled o’er.
‘No melody
Indeed have I,
Admire me then no more:
God has it in His choice
To give the owl, or me, this voice;
’Tis He, ’tis He that makes me tell my tale;’
This sang the nightingale.
Blushing, thus answer’d she.
‘The praise you gave,
The scent I have,
Do not belong to me;
This harmless odour, none
But only God indeed does own;
To be His keepers, my poor leaves He chose;’
And thus replied the rose.
On th’ bag these words were seen.
‘More sweet than this
Perchance nought is,
Yet gall it might have been:
If God it should so please,
He could still make it such with ease;
And as well gall to honey change can He;’
This learnt I of the bee.
But felt these words there writ.
‘Bristles, thorns, here
I soon should bear,
Did God ordain but it;
If my down to thy touch
Seem soft and smooth, God made it such;
Give more, or take all this away, He can;’
This was I taught by th’ swan.
That th’ owe Him all, but I.
My senses find
True, that my mind
Would still, oft does, deny.
Hence, Pride! out of my soul!
O’er it thou shalt no more control;
I’ll learn this lesson, and escape the rod:
I, too, have all from God.