The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The British Church

by George Herbert

¶ The British Church.

I Joy, deare Mother, when I viewThy perfect lineaments, and hueBoth sweet and bright.

Beautie in thee takes up her place,And dates her letters from thy face,When she doth write.

A fine aspect in fit aray,Neither too mean, nor yet too gay,Shows who is best.

Outlandish looks may not compare:For all they either painted are,Or else undrest.

She on the hills, which wantonlyAllureth all in hope to beBy her preferr'd,

Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines,That ev'n her face by kissing shines,For her reward.

She in the valley is so shieOf dressing, that her hair doth lieAbout her eares:

While she avoids her neighbours pride,She wholly goes on th' other side,And nothing wears.

But dearest Mother, (what those misse)The mean thy praise and glorie is,And long may be.

Blessed be God, whose love it wasTo double-moat thee with his grace,And none but thee.