by George Herbert
(1593-1633)

Let foreign nations of their language boast,
What fine variety each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dress it well, want with, not words.
How neatly do we give one only name
To parents' issue and the sun's bright star.
A son is light and fruit; a fruitful flame
Chafing the father's dimness, carried far
From the first man in th' East, to fresh and new
Western discov'ries of posterity.
So in one word our Lord's humility
We turn upon him in a sense most true;
For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, The Son of Man.