The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; <br />White is their colour, and behold my head. <br />But must they have my brain? must they dispark <br />Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? <br />Must dulnesse turn me to a clod? <br />Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God. <br /> <br />Good men ye be, to leave me my best room, <br />Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodged there: <br />I passe not, I, what of the rest become, <br />So Thou art still my God, be out of fear. <br />He will be pleased with that dittie; <br />And if I please him, I write fine and wittie. <br /> <br />Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors. <br />But will ye leave me thus? when ye before <br />Of stews and brothels onely knew the doores, <br />Then did I wash you with my tears, and more, <br />Brought you to Church well drest and clad; <br />My God must have my best, ev'n all I had. <br /> <br />Louely enchanting language, sugar-cane, <br />Hony of roses, whither wilt thou flie? <br />Hath some fond lover tic'd thee to thy bane? <br />And wilt thou leave the Church, and love a stie? <br />Fie, thou wilt soil thy broider'd coat, <br />And hurt thy self, and him that sings the note. <br /> <br />Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung, <br />With canvas, not with arras clothe their shame: <br />Let follie speak in her own native tongue. <br />True beautie dwells on high: ours is a flame <br />But borrow'd thence to light us thither. <br />Beautie and beauteous words should go together. <br /> <br />Yet if you go, I passe not; take your way: <br />For, Thou art still my God, is all that ye <br />Perhaps with more embellishment can say, <br />Go birds of spring: let winter have his fee, <br />Let a bleak palenesse chalk the doore, <br />So all within be livelier then before.<br /><br />George Herbert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-forerunners-2/
