by George Herbert

    I struck the board， and cry'd， No more.

    I will abroad.

    What？ shall I ever sigh and pine？

    My lines and life are free； free as the rode，

    Loose as the winde， as large as store.

    Shall I be still in suit？

    Have I no harvest but a thorn

    To let me bloud， and not restore

    What I have lost with cordiall fruit？

    Sure there was wine

    Before my sighs did drie it： there was corn

    Before my tears did drown it.

    Is the yeare onely lost to me？

    Have I no bayes to crown it？

    No flowers， no garlands gay？ all blasted？

    All wasted？

    Not so， my heart： but there is fruit，

    And thou hast hands.

    Recover all thy sigh-blown age

    On double pleasures： leave thy cold dispute

    Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage，

    Thy rope of sands，