Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor :
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories :
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did beginne :
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel this day thy victorie,
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
Source:
Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert.
New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 49.
