Vertue from The Temple (1633), by George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridall of the earth and skie:

The dew shall weep thy fall to night;

For thou must die.


Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:

Thy root is ever in its grave

And thou must die.


Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie;

My musick shows ye have your closes,1

And all must die.


Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like season’d timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

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