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. A Dialogue-Anthem
2. Artillery
3. The Dawning
4. Clasping of Hands
5. Whitsunday

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