ROBERT HERRICK 1591–1674

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which star-like sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free. Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty’s gone.

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

You’ve heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You’re left here to lament Your poor estates alone.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What, were ye born to be An hour or half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite!

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer’s rain, Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, Ne’er to be found again.

Welcome, Maids of Honour! You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her.

She has Virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

Ye are the Maiden Posies, And so graced To be placed ’Fore damask roses.

But, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt th’ unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make known The reason, why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep? Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest, worth, Conceived with care are, and with tears brought forth.

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Hath not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherd’s star Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye, And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness:— A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction,— An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher,— A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly,— A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat,— A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility,— Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air! Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east, Above an hour since; yet you not drest— Nay! not so much as out of bed, When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns: ’tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in— Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept: Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come! and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see’t? Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying: But, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.

There’s not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, Love’s firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked:—Yet we’re not a-Maying.

Come! let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short; and our days run As fast away as does the sun: And as a vapour, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne’er be found again; So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.

Here, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand: Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on our all. Amen.

Ah, Ben! Say how, or when, Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

My Ben! Or come again Or send to us Thy wit’s great over-plus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.