by George Herbert
Let forrain nations of their language boast,
What fine varietie each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly do we give one onely name
To parents' issue and the sunne's bright starre!
A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitful flame
Chasing the father's dimnesse, carried far
From the first man in th' East, to fresh and new
Western discov'ries of posteritie.
So in one word our Lord's humilitie
We turn upon him in a sense most true:
For what Christ once in humblenesse began,
We him in glorie call, The Sonne of Man.
Last updated January 14, 2019