These Hymns are now lost to us; but doubtless they were such as they two now sing in Heaven.

[Sidenote:  Her Funeral Sermon]

There might be more demonstrations of the friendship, and the many sacred endearments betwixt these two excellent persons,—­for I have many of their letters in my hand,—­and much more might be said of her great prudence and piety:  but my design was not to write her’s, but the life of her son; and therefore I shall only tell my Reader, that about that very day twenty years that this letter was dated, and sent her, I saw and heard this Mr. John Donne—­who was then Dean of St. Paul’s—­weep, and preach her Funeral Sermon, in the Parish Church of Chelsea, near London, where she now rests in her quiet grave:  and where we must now leave her, and return to her son George, whom we left in his study in Cambridge.  And in Cambridge we may find our George Herbert’s behaviour to be such, that we may conclude he consecrated the first-fruits of his early age to virtue, and a serious study of learning.  And that he did so, this following Letter and Sonnet, which were, in the first year of his going to Cambridge, sent his dear Mother for a New-year’s gift, may appear to be some testimony.

[Sidenote:  A Letter]

—­“But I fear the heat of my late ague hath dried up those springs, by which scholars say the Muses use to take up their habitations.  However, I need not their help to reprove the vanity of those many love-poems, that are daily writ, and consecrated to Venus; nor to bewail that so few are writ, that look towards God and Heaven.  For my own part, my meaning—­dear Mother—­is, in these Sonnets, to declare my resolution to be, that my poor abilities in Poetry, shall be all and ever consecrated to God’s glory:  and I beg you to receive this as one testimony.”

[Sidenote:  and Sonnets]

  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? 
  Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry
    Oceans of ink; for as the Deluge did
    Cover the Earth, so doth thy Majesty;
  Each cloud distils thy praise, and doth forbid
  Poets to turn it to another use. 
    Roses and lilies speak Thee; and to make
    A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse. 
  Why should I women’s eyes for crystal