Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden
George Herbert (1593–1633)Misery
L
Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;
Folly and sin play all his game;
His house still burns, and yet he still doth sing—
Man is but grass,
He knows it—Fill the glass!
Man cannot serve Thee: let him go
And serve the swine—there, there is his delight:
He doth not like this virtue, no;
Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:
These preachers make
His head to shoot and ache.
Indeed, at first Man was a treasure,
A box of jewels, shop of rarities,
A ring whose posy was ‘My pleasure’;
He was a garden in a Paradise;
Glory and grace
Did crown his heart and face.
A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing
To raise him to a glimpse of bliss;
A sick-toss’d vessel, dashing on each thing,
Nay, his own shelf;
My God, I mean myself.