Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
And little house, whose humble Roof
Is weather-proof;
Where Thou my chamber for to ward
Hath set a Guard
Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my Fate,
Both void of state;
Like as my Parlour, so my Hall
And Kitchin’s small:
Some brittle sticks of Thorne or Briar
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coale I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confesse too, when I dine,
The Pulse is Thine,
And all those other Bits, that bee
There plac’d by Thee;
‘Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering Hearth
With guiltlesse mirth;
And giv’st me Wassaile Bowles to drink,
Spic’d to the brink.

All these, and better Thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
A thankfull heart;
Which, fir’d with incense, I resigne,
As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by Thee.

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)