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,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
   Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
   While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

Autor: George Herbert