Sure Lord, there is enough in thee to dry Oceans of Ink ; for, as the Deluge did Cover the Earth, so doth thy Majesty :
Each Cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid Poets to turn it to another use. Roses and Lilies speak thee ; and to make A pair of Cheeks of them, is thy abuse.
Why should I Womens eyes for Chrystal take?
Such poor invention burns in their low mind, Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go To praise, and on thee Lord, some Ink bestow.
Open the bones, and you shall nothing find In the best face but filth, when Lord, in thee The beauty lies, in the
From Walton's Life.
This, and Sonnet I, were sent by Herbert to his mother in 1610 'as a New-years gift' ;
They declare, he told her, 'my resolution to be, that my poor Abilities in Poetry shall be all, and ever consecrated to Gods glory'.
