Sweet Content and A Thanksgiving to God

Sweet Content, Thomas Dekker
(1575 – 1641)

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex’d?
O punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex’d
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!

Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
O punishment!

Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny nonny—hey nonny nonny!

 

A Thanksgiving to God, for his House,  Herrick, Robert (1591 – 1674)

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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