VERTUE
By George Herbert

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.