by George Herbert

    I struck the board， and cry'd， No more.

    I will abroad.

    What？ shall I ever sigh and pine？

    My lines and life are free； free as the rode，

    Loose as the winde， as large as store.

    Shall I be still in suit？

    Have I no harvest but a thorn

    To let me bloud， and not restore

    What I have lost with cordiall fruit？

    Sure there was wine

    Before my sighs did drie it： there was corn

    Before my tears did drown it.

    Is the yeare onely lost to me？

    Have I no bayes 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 pleasures： leave thy cold dispute

    Of what is fit and not. Forsake¹ thy cage，

    Thy rope of sands，

    Which pettie thoughts have made， and made to thee

    Good cable， to enforce and draw，

    And be thy law，

    While thou didst wink² and wouldst not see.

    Away； take heed³：

    I will abroad.

    Call in thy deaths head there： tie up thy fears.

    He that forbears

    To suit and serve his need，

    Deserves his load.

    But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde

    At every word，

    Me thoughts I heard one calling， Child！

    And I reply'd， My Lord.

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