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George Herbert - A Sonnet, To His Mother As A New Year`s Gift From Cambridge
Work rating: Medium

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, 
   Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn, 
Besides their other flames? Doth poetry 
   Wear Venus` livery? only serve her turn? 
Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays 
   Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love 
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise 
   As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove 
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight? 
   Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the fame, 
   Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! 
Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might 
   Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose 
   Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse. 
Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry 
   Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did 
Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty: 
   Each cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid 
Poets to turn it to another use. 
   Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make 
A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse 
   Why should I women`s eyes for crystal take? 
Such poor invention burns in their low mind 
   Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go 
   To praise, and on thee, Lord, some ink bestow. 
Open the bones, and you shall nothing find 
In the best face but filth; when Lord, in thee 
The beauty lies in the discovery.
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