‘Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve.’ ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame? ‘My dear, then I will serve.’ ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ So I did sit and eat. THE PULLEY WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, ‘Let us,’ said He, ‘pour on him all we can; Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span.’ So strength first made a way, Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour pleasure; When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. ‘For if I should,’ said He, ‘Bestow this jewel also on My creature, He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be. ‘Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast.’ THE COLLAR I STRUCK the board, and cried, ‘No more; I will abroad. What, shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death’s-head there, tie-up thy fears; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load.’ But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, ‘Child’; And I replied, ‘My Lord.’ LIFE I MADE a posy while the day ran by: Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band; But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they By noon most cunningly did steal away, And withered in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time’s gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly Death’s sad taste convey, Making my mind to smell my fatal day, Yet sugaring the suspicion.