Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish?
Is it to fast an hour.
Or ragg'd to go,
Or show
A downcast look, and sour?
No! 't is a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,
Unto the hungry soul.
It is to fast from strife,
From old debate
And hate,—
To circumcise thy life.
To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin,—
And that's to keep thy Lent.
ROBERT HERRICK.
*
FROM "THE CHURCH PORCH."
Thou whose sweet youth and early hopes enhance
Thy rate and price, and mark thee for a treasure.
Hearken unto a Verser, who may chance
Rhyme thee to good, and make a bait of pleasure:
A verse may find him who a sermon flies
And turn delight into a sacrifice.
When thou dost purpose aught (within thy power),
Be sure to doe it, though it be but small;
Constancie knits the bones, and make us stowre,
When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall.
Who breaks his own bond, forfeiteth himself:
What nature made a ship, he makes a shelf.