Robert Herrick

A Thanksgiving to God, for his House

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
        Wherein to dwell,
A little house, whose humble roof
        Is weather—proof:
Under the spars of which I lie
        Both soft, and dry;
Where Thou my chamber for to ward
        Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
        Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
        Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
        Is worn by th’ poor,
Who thither come and freely get
        Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall
        And kitchen’s small;
A little buttery, and therein
        A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
        Unchipp’d, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
        Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
        And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
        The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits, that be
        There plac’d by Thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
        Of water—cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
        And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
        To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
        With guiltless mirth;
And giv’st me wassail—bowls to drink,
        Spic’d to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty—dropping hand
        That soils my land;
And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
        Twice ten for one;
Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
        Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear
        Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
        Run cream, for wine.
All these, and better, Thou dost send
        Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
        A thankful heart,
Which, fir’d with incense, I resign,
        As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
        My Christ, by Thee.
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