Poem by George Herbert

Jordan

Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines passe, except they do their dutie
      Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it not verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spunne lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines,
      Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:
I envie no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme,
      Who plainly say, My God, My King.

1. The Thanksgiving
2. The Search
3. Sin's Round
4. Love (Immortal Love, authour of this great frame)
5. Joseph's Coat

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