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George Herbert - The Sinner
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Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek
What I have treasured in my memorie!
       Since, if my soul make even with the week,
Each seventh note by right is due to thee.
I finde there quarries of pil`d vanities,
       But shreds of holinesse, that dare not venture
       To shew their face, since cross to thy decrees:
There the circumference earth is, heav`n the centre.
In so much dregs the quintessence is small:
       The spirit and good extract of my heart
       Comes to about the many hundreth part.
Yet, Lord, restore thine image, heare my call:
       And though my hard heart scarce to thee can grone,
       Remember that thou once didst write in stone.
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