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George Herbert - The Forerunners
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The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; 
White is their colour, and behold my head. 
But must they have my brain? must they dispark 
Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? 
     Must dulnesse turn me to a clod? 
Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God. 

Good men ye be, to leave me my best room, 
Ev`n all my heart, and what is lodged there: 
I passe not, I, what of the rest become, 
So, Thou art still my God, be out of fear. 
     He will be pleased with that dittie; 
And if I please him, I write fine and wittie. 

Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors; 
But will ye leave me thus? when ye before 
Of stews and brothels onely knew the doores, 
Then did I wash you with my tears, and more, 
     Brought you to Church well drest and clad; 
My God must have my best, ev`n all I had. 

Louely enchanting language, sugar-cane, 
Hony of roses, whither wilt thou flie? 
Hath some fond lover tic`d thee to thy bane? 
And wilt thou leave the Church, and love a stie! 
     Fie, thou wilt soil thy broider`d coat, 
And hurt thy self, and him that sings the note. 

Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung, 
With canvas, not with arras clothe their shame: 
Let follie speak in her own native tongue. 
True beautie dwells on high: ours is a flame 
     But borrow`d thence to light us thither. 
Beautie and beauteous words should go together. 
 
Yet if you go, I passe not; take your way: 
For, Thou art still my God, is all that ye 
Perhaps with more embellishment can say. 
Go birds of spring: let winter have his fee; 
     Let a bleak palenesse chalk the doore, 
So all within be livelier then before.
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