“The Affliction” (I)
from
The Temple (1633)
By George Herbert
When
first thou didst entice to thee my heart,
I
thought the service brave;
So
many joys I writ down for my part,
Besides
what I might have
Out
of my stock of natural delights,
Augmented
with thy gracious benefits.
I
looked on thy furniture so fine,
And
made it fine to me;
Thy
glorious household-stuff did me entwine,
And
‘tice me unto thee.
Such
stars I counted mine: both heav’n and earth;
Paid
me my wages in a world of mirth.
What
pleasures could I want, whose King I serv’d,
Where
joys my fellows were?
Thus
argu’d into hopes, my thoughts reserv’d
No
place for grief or fear.
Therefore
my sudden soul caught at the place,
And
made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.
At
first thou gav’st me milk and sweetnesses;
I
had my wish and way;
My
days were straw’d with flow’rs and happiness;
There
was no month but May.
But
with my years sorrow did twist and grow,
And
made a party unawares for woe.
My
flesh began unto my soul in pain,
“Sicknesses
cleave my bones;
Consuming
agues dwell in ev’ry vein,
And
tune my breath to groans”.
Sorrow
was all my soul; I scarce believ’d,
Till
grief did tell me roundly, that I liv’d.
When
I got health, thou took’st away my life,
And
more, for my friends die;
My
mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife
Was
of more use than I.
Thus
thin and lean without a fence or friend,
I
was blown through with ev’ry storm and wind.
Whereas
my birth and spirit rather took
The
way that takes the town;
Thou
didst betray me to a ling’ring book,
And
wrap me in a gown.
I
was entangled in the world of strife,
Before
I had the power to change my life.
Yet,
for I threaten’d oft the siege to raise,
Not
simp’ring all mine age,
Thou
often didst with academic praise
Melt
and dissolve my rage.
I
took thy sweet’ned pill, till I came where
I
could not go away, nor persevere.
Yet
lest perchance I should too happy be
In
my unhappiness,
Turning
my purge to food, thou throwest me
Into
more sicknesses.
Thus
doth thy power cross-bias me, not making
Thine
own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.
Now
I am here, what thou wilt do with me
None
of my books will show;
I
read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,
For
sure then I should grow
To
fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust
Her
household to me, and I should be just.
Yet,
though thou troublest me, I must be meek;
In
weakness must be stout;
Well,
I will change the service, and go seek
Some
other master out.
Ah
my dear God! though I am clean forgot,
Let
me not love thee, if I love thee not.
