By George Herbert
I struck the board, and cried, No more.
I will abroad.
What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have I lost with cordial fruit?
Shall there was wine
Before my sights did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
No Flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?
Not so my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh blown age
On double pleasure: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit? And not, Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take the heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy death`s head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load.
But as I raved grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, child
And I replied, My lord.
The Literary World 