But his verses are brightened by a certain almost childishly quaint and innocent humour; while the tenderness of some of them rises on the reader like the aurora of the coming sun of George Herbert.

I do not forget that, even if some of his poems were printed in 1639, years before that George Herbert had done his work and gone home: my figure stands in relation to the order I have adopted.
Some of his verse is homelier than even George Herbert's homeliest.

One of its most remarkable traits is a quaint thanksgiving for the commonest things by name--not the less real that it is sometimes even queer.

For instance: God gives not only corn for need, But likewise superabundant seed; Bread for our service, bread for show; Meat for our meals, and fragments too: He gives not poorly, taking some Between the finger and the thumb, But for our glut, and for our store, Fine flour pressed down, and running o'er.
Here is another, delightful in its oddity.

We can fancy the merry yet gracious poet chuckling over the vision of the child and the fancy of his words.
A GRACE FOR A CHILD.
Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be, _frogs._ Here I lift them up to thee, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on us all.