G. Herbert

My God, where is that ancient heat towards Thee

Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn,

Besides their other flames? Doth poetry

Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn?

Why are not sonnets made of Thee? and lays

Upon Thine altar burnt? Cannot Thy love

Heighten a spirit to sound out Thy praise

As well as any She? Cannot Thy Dove

Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?

Or, since Thy ways are deep, and still the same,

Will not a verse run smooth that bears Thy name?

Why doth that fire, which by Thy power and might

Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose

Than that, which one day worms may chance refuse?