Hark how the birds do sing
And woods do ring:
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.
To this life things of sense
Make their pretence;
In the other Angels have a right by birth:
Man ties them both alone,
And makes them one,
With the one hand touching Heaven, with the other earth.
Not that he may not here
Taste of the cheer;
But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,
So must he sip, and think
Of better drink
He may attain to after he is dead.
But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble:
He hath two winters, other things but one;
Both frosts and thoughts do nip
And bite his lip;
And he of all things fears two deaths alone.
Yet ev'n the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,
Could he but take them right and in their ways.
Happy is he whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise!