---

Robert Herrick - A Thanksgiving
Work rating: Low

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell 
          Wherein to dwell; 
An little house, whose humble roof 
          Is weather-proof; 
Under the spars of which I lie  
          Both soft and dry; 
Where Thou my chamber for to ward 
          Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 
          Me, while I sleep. 
Low is my porch as is my fate, 
          Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door 
           Is worn by`th` poor, 
Who thither come, and freely get 
          Good words, or meat; 
Like as my parlour, so my hall 
          And kitchen`s small; 
A little butterie and therein  
          A little bin, 
Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
          Unchipp`d, unflay`d; 
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar 
          Make me a fire, 
Close by whose living coal I sit, 
          And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess too, when I dine, 
          The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be 
          There plac`d by Thee; 
The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
          Of water-cress, 
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; 
          And my content 
Makes those, and my beloved beet, 
          To be more sweet. 
`Tis Thou that crown`st my glitt`ring hearth 
          With guiltless mirth; 
And giv`st me wassail bowls to drink, 
          Spic`d to the brink. 
Lord, `tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 
          That soils my land; 
And giv`st me, for my bushel sown, 
          Twice ten for one; 
Thou mak`st my teeming hen to lay 
          Her egg each day; 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 
          Me twins each year; 
The while the conduits of my kine 
          Run cream (for wine.) 
All these, and better Thou dost send 
          Me, to this end, 
That I should render, for my part, 
          A thankful heart, 
Which, fir`d with incense, I resign 
          As wholly Thine; 
But the acceptance, that must be, 
          My Christ, by Thee.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.