Volume 2 — HESPERIDES. (continued 2)

My faithful friend, if you can see The fruit to grow up, or the tree; If you can see the colour come Into the blushing pear or plum; If you can see the water grow To cakes of ice or flakes of snow; If you can see that drop of rain Lost in the wild sea once again; If you can see how dreams do creep Into the brain by easy sleep: Then there is hope that you may see Her love me once who now hates me.

Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For, with the flowery earth, The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear. Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow And my retorted hairs. Homer, this health to thee, In sack of such a kind That it would make thee see Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil I'll call forth To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid, and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose. Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat: O Bacchus, cool thy rays! Or, frantic, I shall eat Thy thyrse and bite the bays. Round, round the roof does run, And, being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee: But stay, I see a text That this presents to me. Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire. And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.

Fair was the dawn, and but e'en now the skies Show'd like to cream inspir'd with strawberries, But on a sudden all was chang'd and gone That smil'd in that first sweet complexion. Then thunder-claps and lightning did conspire To tear the world, or set it all on fire. What trust to things below, whenas we see, As men, the heavens have their hypocrisy?

For my part, I never care For those lips that tongue-tied are: Tell-tales I would have them be Of my mistress and of me. Let them prattle how that I Sometimes freeze and sometimes fry: Let them tell how she doth move Fore or backward in her love: Let them speak by gentle tones, One and th' other's passions: How we watch, and seldom sleep; How by willows we do weep; How by stealth we meet, and then Kiss, and sigh, so part again. This the lips we will permit For to tell, not publish it.

Thou'st dar'd too far; but, fury, now forbear To give the least disturbance to her hair: But less presume to lay a plait upon Her skin's most smooth and clear expansion. 'Tis like a lawny firmament as yet, Quite dispossess'd of either fray or fret. Come thou not near that film so finely spread, Where no one piece is yet unlevelled. This if thou dost, woe to thee, fury, woe, I'll send such frost, such hail, such sleet, and snow, Such flesh-quakes, palsies, and such fears as shall Dead thee to th' most, if not destroy thee all. And thou a thousand thousand times shalt be More shak'd thyself than she is scorch'd by thee.

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. You're the maiden posies, And so grac'd To be plac'd 'Fore damask roses. Yet, though thus respected, By-and-by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

Stay while ye will, or go And leave no scent behind ye: Yet, trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye. Within my Lucia's cheek, Whose livery ye wear, Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there.

Gather ye rosebuds 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.

For my neighbour I'll not know, Whether high he builds or no: Only this I'll look upon, Firm be my foundation. Sound or unsound, let it be! 'Tis the lot ordain'd for me. He who to the ground does fall Has not whence to sink at all.

Play I could once; but, gentle friend, you see My harp hung up here on the willow tree. Sing I could once; and bravely, too, inspire With luscious numbers my melodious lyre. Draw I could once, although not stocks or stones, Amphion-like, men made of flesh and bones, Whither I would; but ah! I know not how, I feel in me this transmutation now. Grief, my dear friend, has first my harp unstrung, Wither'd my hand, and palsy-struck my tongue.

Only a little more I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night. 'Tis but a flying minute That I must stay, Or linger in it; And then I must away. O time that cut'st down all And scarce leav'st here Memorial Of any men that were. How many lie forgot In vaults beneath? And piecemeal rot Without a fame in death? Behold this living stone I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee. Pillars let some set up If so they please: Here is my hope And my Pyramides.

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd where late they danc'd before.

The Speakers, Mirtillo, Amintas and Amarillis. Amin. Good-day, Mirtillo. Mirt. And to you no less, And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess. Amar. With all white luck to you. Mirt. But say, what news Stirs in our sheep-walk? Amin. None, save that my ewes, My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well, Smooth, fair and fat! none better I can tell: Or that this day Menalcas keeps a feast For his sheep-shearers. Mirt. True, these are the least; But, dear Amintas and sweet Amarillis, Rest but a while here, by this bank of lilies, And lend a gentle ear to one report The country has. Amin. From whence? Amar. From whence? Mirt. The Court. Three days before the shutting in of May (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!) To all our joy a sweet-fac'd child was born, More tender than the childhood of the morn. Chor. Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep! Mirt. And that his birth should be more singular At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels (some have told to me) Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy. Amin. O rare! But is't a trespass if we three Should wend along his babyship to see? Mirt. Not so, not so. Chor. But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love. Amar. But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told Those learned men brought incense, myrrh and gold From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet. Mirt. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king A neat, though not so great an offering. Amar. A garland for my gift shall be Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet; yet all less sweet than he. Amin. And I will bear, along with you, Leaves dropping down the honeyed dew, With oaten pipes as sweet as new. Mirt. And I a sheep-hook will bestow, To have his little kingship know, As he is prince, he's shepherd too. Chor. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be dress'd, And quickly give—the swiftest grace is best. And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe, then back to country pleasures.

Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say: Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet-singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say, Amen. And if I prove Bless'd in my love, Then thou shalt be High-priest to me, At my return, To incense burn; And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice.

To my revenge and to her desperate fears Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears. In the wild air when thou hast rolled about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out. Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye, then glare Like to a dreadful comet in the air: Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight For thy revenge to be most opposite, Then, like a globe or ball of wild-fire, fly, And break thyself in shivers on her eye.

You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour. You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood. You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine. You are like balm enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet. You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

From this bleeding hand of mine Take this sprig of eglantine, Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets shall prove Many thorns to be in love.

Gold I've none, for use or show, Neither silver to bestow At my death; but this much know; That each lyric here shall be Of my love a legacy, Left to all posterity. Gentle friends, then do but please To accept such coins as these As my last remembrances.

Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have While we this trental sing about thy grave. Had wolves or tigers seen but thee, They would have showed civility; And, in compassion of thy years, Washed those thy purple wounds with tears. But since thou'rt slain, and in thy fall The drooping kingdom suffers all; Chor. This we will do, we'll daily come And offer tears upon thy tomb: And if that they will not suffice, Thou shall have souls for sacrifice. Sleep in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee, And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee. Live, live thou dost, and shall; for why? Souls do not with their bodies die: Ignoble offsprings, they may fall Into the flames of funeral: Whenas the chosen seed shall spring Fresh, and for ever flourishing. Chor. And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory Less in these marble stones than in thy story.

Dear Perenna, prithee come And with smallage dress my tomb: Add a cypress sprig thereto, With a tear, and so Adieu.

Rare temples thou hast seen, I know, And rich for in and outward show: Survey this chapel, built alone, Without or lime, or wood, or stone: Then say if one thou'st seen more fine Than this, the fairies' once, now thine. THE TEMPLE. A way enchased with glass and beads There is, that to the chapel leads: Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the halcyon's curious nest: Into the which who looks shall see His temple of idolatry, Where he of godheads has such store, As Rome's pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones instead of walls. First, in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set: Then in a polished oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly: Next in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is: Then in a round is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that, where'er ye look, ye see, No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixed religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part pagan, part papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's-state placed here right is; Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But alias called here Fatuus ignis; Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie Neither those other saintships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite, Which one by one here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there: "Favour your tongues who enter here; Pure hands bring hither without stain." A second pules: "Hence, hence, profane!" Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put: A little brush of squirrel's hairs (Composed of odd, not even pairs,) Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There off'ring up the Holy Grist, Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much-good-do-'t him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular, Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockal. Whose linen drapery is a thin Subtile and ductile codlin's skin: Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked. The fringe that circumbinds it too Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for show-bread, and at hand, Just in the middle of the altar, Upon an end, the fairy-psalter, Grac'd with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the rubric which they read. And, if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Aye, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And, if that fairy-knight not lies, They have their book of homilies; And other scriptures that design A short but righteous discipline. The basin stands the board upon To take the free oblation: A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves in formal manner fix Two pure and holy candlesticks: In either which a small tall bent Burns for the altar's ornament. For sanctity they have to these Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling Mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister, Their ush'ring vergers, here likewise Their canons and their chanteries. Of cloister-monks they have enow, Aye, and their abbey-lubbers too; And, if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy. And since the last is dead, there's hope Elf Boniface shall next be pope. They have their cups and chalices; Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting spittle; Their sacred salt here, not a little; Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease and bones; Beside their fumigations To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of the friar (of work an odd piece). Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next, then, upon the chanters' side An apple's core is hung up dri'd, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song. The saint to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss; And humbly chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings. When, after these, h'as paid his vows He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense, And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the feast that's now provided.

My muse in meads has spent her many hours, Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers To make for others garlands, and to set On many a head here many a coronet; But, amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation, Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as love— You first of all crown'd her: she must of due Render for that a crown of life to you.

If, after rude and boisterous seas, My wearied pinnace here finds ease; If so it be I've gained the shore With safety of a faithful oar; If, having run my barque on ground, Ye see the aged vessel crown'd: What's to be done, but on the sands Ye dance and sing and now clap hands? The first act's doubtful, but we say It is the last commends the play.

When I through all my many poems look, And see yourself to beautify my book, Methinks that only lustre doth appear A light fulfilling all the region here. Gild still with flames this firmament, and be A lamp eternal to my poetry. Which, if it now or shall hereafter shine, 'Twas by your splendour, lady, not by mine. The oil was yours; and that I owe for yet: He pays the half who does confess the debt.

Charm me asleep and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That, being ravished, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head And make my bed, Thou power that canst sever From me this ill; And quickly still, Though thou not kill, My fever. Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die 'Mongst roses. Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For heaven.

So long you did not sing or touch your lute, We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute. But when your playing and your voice came in, 'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

As lately I a garland bound, 'Mongst roses I there Cupid found; I took him, put him in my cup, And drunk with wine, I drank him up. Hence then it is that my poor breast Could never since find any rest.

Display thy breasts, my Julia—there let me Behold that circummortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair via lactea.

Fools are they who never know How the times away do go; But for us, who wisely see Where the bounds of black death be, Let's live merrily, and thus Gratify the Genius.

Be not proud, but now incline Your soft ear to discipline. You have changes in your life— Sometimes peace and sometimes strife; You have ebbs of face and flows, As your health or comes or goes; You have hopes, and doubts, and fears Numberless, as are your hairs. You have pulses that do beat High, and passions less of heat. You are young, but must be old, And, to these, ye must be told Time ere long will come and plough Loathed furrows in your brow: And the dimness of your eye Will no other thing imply But you must die As well as I.

Art quickens nature; care will make a face; Neglected beauty perisheth apace.

Mop-eyed I am, as some have said, Because I've lived so long a maid: But grant that I should wedded be, Should I a jot the better see? No, I should think that marriage might, Rather than mend, put out the light.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold, And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold: Prithee go home; and for thy credit be First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

Go, happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands. Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods (at will) For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing, thus, and go And tell her this, but do not so, Lest a handsome anger fly, Like a lightning, from her eye, And burn thee up as well as I.

Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never, But like a laurel to grow green for ever.

Men say y'are fair, and fair ye are, 'tis true; But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

At draw-gloves we'll play, And prithee let's lay A wager, and let it be this: Who first to the sum Of twenty shall come, Shall have for his winning a kiss.

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here: Bind up his senses with your numbers so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe. Fall gently, gently, and a while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossessed of pain, Like to a slumb'ring bride, awake again.

Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book. Here stand it still to dignify our Muse, Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose Your name to be a laureate wreath to her Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.

Love, I recant, And pardon crave That lately I offended; But 'twas, Alas! To make a brave, But no disdain intended. No more I'll vaunt, For now I see Thou only hast the power To find And bind A heart that's free, And slave it in an hour.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night: Not all at once, but gently, as the trees Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee, And say thou bring'st this honey bag from me: When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed, Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste. If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.

Love bade me ask a gift, And I no more did move But this, that I might shift Still with my clothes my love: That favour granted was; Since which, though I love many, Yet so it comes to pass That long I love not any.

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil: By whose tough labours and rough hands We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crowned with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home. Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Dressed up with all the country art: See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet: The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lilies. The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned. About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves: Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat: While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after with their breeches rent. Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef: With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With sev'ral dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There's that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, Then to the maids with wheaten hats: To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic boys, till all be blithe. Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat Be mindful that the lab'ring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat. And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough And harrow, though they're hanged up now. And, you must know, your lord's word's true, Feed him ye must, whose food fills you; And that this pleasure is like rain, Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again.

To-morrow, Julia, I betimes must rise, For some small fault to offer sacrifice: The altar's ready: fire to consume The fat; breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume.

Let but thy voice engender with the string, And angels will be born while thou dost sing.

He that will not love must be My scholar, and learn this of me: There be in love as many fears As the summer's corn has ears: Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows more Than the sand that makes the shore: Freezing cold and fiery heats, Fainting swoons and deadly sweats; Now an ague, then a fever, Both tormenting lovers ever. Would'st thou know, besides all these, How hard a woman 'tis to please, How cross, how sullen, and how soon She shifts and changes like the moon. How false, how hollow she's in heart: And how she is her own least part: How high she's priz'd, and worth but small; Little thou'lt love, or not at all.

Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell: Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies, Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair. Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers.

Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here, Where spring-time smiles throughout the year? Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread The body of the under-dead? Phil, the late dead, the late dead dear, O! may no eye distil a tear For you once lost, who weep not here! Had Lesbia, too-too kind, but known This sparrow, she had scorn'd her own: And for this dead which under lies Wept out her heart, as well as eyes. But, endless peace, sit here and keep My Phil the time he has to sleep; And thousand virgins come and weep To make these flowery carpets show Fresh as their blood, and ever grow, Till passengers shall spend their doom: Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd 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 warp'd 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, Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Roses at first were white, Till they could not agree, Whether my Sappho's breast Or they more white should be. But, being vanquish'd quite, A blush their cheeks bespread; Since which, believe the rest, The roses first came red.

Dry your sweet cheek, long drown'd with sorrow's rain, Since, clouds dispers'd, suns gild the air again. Seas chafe and fret, and beat, and overboil, But turn soon after calm as balm or oil. Winds have their time to rage; but when they cease The leafy trees nod in a still-born peace. Your storm is over; lady, now appear Like to the peeping springtime of the year. Off then with grave clothes; put fresh colours on, And flow and flame in your vermilion. Upon your cheek sat icicles awhile; Now let the rose reign like a queen, and smile.

Love on a day, wise poets tell, Some time in wrangling spent, Whether the violets should excel, Or she, in sweetest scent. But Venus having lost the day, Poor girls, she fell on you: And beat ye so, as some dare say, Her blows did make ye blue.

Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distres't, And left of love, are crown'd. When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedew'd with tears are worn. When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee. And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

Among the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: Tell me, said I, in deep distress, Where I may find my shepherdess. Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this? In everything that's sweet she is. In yond' carnation go and seek, There thou shalt find her lip and cheek: In that enamell'd pansy by, There thou shalt have her curious eye: In bloom of peach and rose's bud, There waves the streamer of her blood. 'Tis true, said I, and thereupon I went to pluck them one by one, To make of parts a union: But on a sudden all were gone. At which I stopp'd; said Love, these be The true resemblances of thee; For, as these flowers, thy joys must die, And in the turning of an eye: And all thy hopes of her must wither, Like those short sweets, ere knit together.

If when these lyrics, Cæsar, you shall hear, And that Apollo shall so touch your ear As for to make this, that, or any one, Number your own, by free adoption; That verse, of all the verses here, shall be The heir to this great realm of poetry.

Goddess of youth, and lady of the spring, Most fit to be the consort to a king, Be pleas'd to rest you in this sacred grove Beset with myrtles, whose each leaf drops love. Many a sweet-fac'd wood-nymph here is seen, Of which chaste order you are now the queen: Witness their homage when they come and strew Your walks with flowers, and give their crowns to you. Your leafy throne, with lily-work possess, And be both princess here and poetess.

May his pretty dukeship grow Like t'a rose of Jericho: Sweeter far than ever yet Showers or sunshines could beget. May the Graces and the Hours Strew his hopes and him with flowers: And so dress him up with love As to be the chick of Jove. May the thrice-three sisters sing Him the sovereign of their spring: And entitle none to be Prince of Helicon but he. May his soft foot, where it treads, Gardens thence produce and meads: And those meadows full be set With the rose and violet. May his ample name be known To the last succession: And his actions high be told Through the world, but writ in gold.

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be, Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see: And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair Under that cypress-tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part To live and die for thee.

That prince takes soon enough the victor's room Who first provides not to be overcome.

The gods to kings the judgment give to sway: The subjects only glory to obey.

He that may sin, sins least: leave to transgress Enfeebles much the seeds of wickedness.

That morn which saw me made a bride, The evening witness'd that I died. Those holy lights, wherewith they guide Unto the bed the bashful bride, Serv'd but as tapers for to burn And light my relics to their urn. This epitaph, which here you see, Supplied the epithalamy.

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. Y'ave heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd. But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock and needy grown, Y'are left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.

Though good things answer many good intents, Crosses do still bring forth the best events.

Though hourly comforts from the gods we see, No life is yet life-proof from misery.

Rise, household gods, and let us go; But whither I myself not know. First, let us dwell on rudest seas; Next, with severest savages; Last, let us make our best abode Where human foot as yet ne'er trod: Search worlds of ice, and rather there Dwell than in loathed Devonshire.

When I departed am, ring thou my knell, Thou pitiful and pretty Philomel: And when I'm laid out for a corse, then be Thou sexton, redbreast, for to cover me.

Both you two have Relation to the grave: And where The funeral-trump sounds, you are there, I shall be made, Ere long, a fleeting shade: Pray, come And do some honour to my tomb. Do not deny My last request; for I Will be Thankful to you, or friends, for me.

I call, I call: who do ye call? The maids to catch this cowslip ball: But since these cowslips fading be, Troth, leave the flowers, and, maids, take me. Yet, if that neither you will do, Speak but the word and I'll take you.

You say you're sweet; how should we know Whether that you be sweet or no? From powders and perfumes keep free, Then we shall smell how sweet you be.

What's that we see from far? the spring of day Bloom'd from the east, or fair enjewell'd May Blown out of April, or some new Star filled with glory to our view, Reaching at heaven, To add a nobler planet to the seven? Say, or do we not descry Some goddess in a cloud of tiffany To move, or rather the Emergent Venus from the sea? 'Tis she! 'tis she! or else some more divine Enlightened substance; mark how from the shrine Of holy saints she paces on, Treading upon vermilion And amber: spic- ing the chaft air with fumes of Paradise. Then come on, come on and yield A savour like unto a blessed field When the bedabbled morn Washes the golden ears of corn. See where she comes; and smell how all the street Breathes vineyards and pomegranates: O how sweet! As a fir'd altar is each stone, Perspiring pounded cinnamon. The phœnix' nest, Built up of odours, burneth in her breast. Who, therein, would not consume His soul to ash-heaps in that rich perfume? Bestroking fate the while He burns to embers on the pile. Hymen, O Hymen! tread the sacred ground; Show thy white feet and head with marjoram crown'd: Mount up thy flames and let thy torch Display the bridegroom in the porch, In his desires More towering, more disparkling than thy fires: Show her how his eyes do turn And roll about, and in their motions burn Their balls to cinders: haste Or else to ashes he will waste. Glide by the banks of virgins, then, and pass The showers of roses, lucky four-leav'd grass: The while the cloud of younglings sing And drown ye with a flowery spring; While some repeat Your praise and bless you, sprinkling you with wheat; While that others do divine, Bless'd is the bride on whom the sun doth shine; And thousands gladly wish You multiply as doth a fish. And, beauteous bride, we do confess y'are wise In dealing forth these bashful jealousies: In love's name do so; and a price Set on yourself by being nice: But yet take heed; What now you seem be not the same indeed, And turn apostate: love will, Part of the way be met or sit stone-still. On, then, and though you slow- ly go, yet, howsoever, go. And now y'are entered; see the coddled cook Runs from his torrid zone to pry and look And bless his dainty mistress: see The aged point out, "This is she Who now must sway The house (love shield her) with her yea and nay": And the smirk butler thinks it Sin in's napery not to express his wit; Each striving to devise Some gin wherewith to catch your eyes. To bed, to bed, kind turtles, now, and write This the short'st day, and this the longest night; But yet too short for you: 'tis we Who count this night as long as three, Lying alone, Telling the clock strike ten, eleven, twelve, one. Quickly, quickly then prepare, And let the young men and the bride-maids share Your garters; and their joints Encircle with the bridegroom's points. By the bride's eyes, and by the teeming life Of her green hopes, we charge ye that no strife (Farther than gentleness tends) gets place Among ye, striving for her lace: O do not fall Foul in these noble pastimes, lest ye call Discord in, and so divide The youthful bridegroom and the fragrant bride: Which love forfend; but spoken Be't to your praise, no peace was broken. Strip her of springtime, tender-whimpering maids, Now autumn's come, when all these flowery aids Of her delays must end; dispose That lady-smock, that pansy, and that rose Neatly apart, But for prick-madam and for gentle-heart, And soft maidens'-blush, the bride Makes holy these, all others lay aside: Then strip her, or unto her Let him come who dares undo her. And to enchant ye more, see everywhere About the roof a siren in a sphere, As we think, singing to the din Of many a warbling cherubin. O mark ye how The soul of nature melts in numbers: now See, a thousand Cupids fly To light their tapers at the bride's bright eye. To bed, or her they'll tire, Were she an element of fire. And to your more bewitching, see, the proud Plump bed bear up, and swelling like a cloud, Tempting the two too modest; can Ye see it brusle like a swan, And you be cold To meet it when it woos and seems to fold The arms to hug it? Throw, throw Yourselves into the mighty overflow Of that white pride, and drown The night with you in floods of down. The bed is ready, and the maze of love Looks for the treaders; everywhere is wove Wit and new mystery; read, and Put in practice, to understand And know each wile, Each hieroglyphic of a kiss or smile; And do it to the full; reach High in your own conceit, and some way teach Nature and art one more Play than they ever knew before. If needs we must for ceremony's sake, Bless a sack-posset, luck go with it, take The night-charm quickly, you have spells And magics for to end, and hells To pass; but such And of such torture as no one would grutch To live therein for ever: fry And consume, and grow again to die And live, and, in that case, Love the confusion of the place. But since it must be done, despatch, and sew Up in a sheet your bride, and what if so It be with rock or walls of brass Ye tower her up, as Danae was; Think you that this Or hell itself a powerful bulwark is? I tell ye no; but like a Bold bolt of thunder he will make his way, And rend the cloud, and throw The sheet about like flakes of snow. All now is hushed in silence: midwife-moon With all her owl-eyed issue begs a boon, Which you must grant; that's entrance; with Which extract, all we can call pith And quintessence Of planetary bodies, so commence, All fair constellations Looking upon ye, that two nations, Springing from two such fires May blaze the virtue of their sires.

For sport my Julia threw a lace Of silk and silver at my face: Watchet the silk was, and did make A show as if't had been a snake: The suddenness did me afright, But though it scar'd, it did not bite.

I am sieve-like, and can hold Nothing hot or nothing cold. Put in love, and put in too Jealousy, and both will through: Put in fear, and hope, and doubt; What comes in runs quickly out: Put in secrecies withal, Whate'er enters, out it shall: But if you can stop the sieve, For mine own part, I'd as lief Maids should say or virgins sing, Herrick keeps, as holds nothing.

Love's a thing, as I do hear, Ever full of pensive fear; Rather than to which I'll fall, Trust me, I'll not like at all. If to love I should intend, Let my hair then stand an end: And that terror likewise prove Fatal to me in my love. But if horror cannot slake Flames which would an entrance make Then the next thing I desire Is, to love and live i' th' fire.

Like to the income must be our expense; Man's fortune must be had in reverence.

Who forms a godhead out of gold or stone Makes not a god, but he that prays to one.

I could wish you all who love, That ye could your thoughts remove From your mistresses, and be Wisely wanton, like to me, I could wish you dispossessed Of that fiend that mars your rest, And with tapers comes to fright Your weak senses in the night. I could wish ye all who fry Cold as ice, or cool as I; But if flames best like ye, then, Much good do 't ye, gentlemen. I a merry heart will keep, While you wring your hands and weep.

'Tis a known principle in war, The eyes be first that conquered are.

No fault in women to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress. No fault in women to lay on The tincture of vermilion: And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where nature doth deny. No fault in women to make show Of largeness when they're nothing so: (When true it is the outside swells With inward buckram, little else). No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free. No fault in womankind at all If they but slip and never fall.

Shapcot! to thee the fairy state I, with discretion, dedicate. Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar. Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We'll see the Fairy Court anon. A little mushroom table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread; A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glittering grit to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is serv'd, We must not think his ear was sterv'd; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet, which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies: Of which he eats, and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle. A little fuzz-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands; That was too coarse: but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagg And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag: Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stewed thigh, A bloated earwig and a fly; With the red-capp'd worm that's shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth. A little moth Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth: With withered cherries, mandrakes' ears, Moles' eyes; to these the slain stag's tears The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O'ercome in music; with a wine Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine, But gently press'd from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; the feast is ended.

By time and counsel do the best we can, Th' event is never in the power of man.

When Julia blushes she does show Cheeks like to roses when they blow.

Our honours and our commendations be Due to the merits, not authority.

Hear, ye virgins, and I'll teach What the times of old did preach. Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae in a tower: But yet Love, who subtle is, Crept to that, and came to this. Be ye lock'd up like to these, Or the rich Hesperides, Or those babies in your eyes, In their crystal nunneries; Notwithstanding Love will win, Or else force a passage in: And as coy be as you can, Gifts will get ye, or the man.

Each must in virtue strive for to excel; That man lives twice that lives the first life well.

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free, From murders Benedicite. From all mischances that may fright Your pleasing slumbers in the night, Mercy secure ye all, and keep The goblin from ye while ye sleep. Past one o'clock, and almost two! My masters all, good-day to you.

Of all our parts, the eyes express The sweetest kind of bashfulness.

For one so rarely tun'd to fit all parts, For one to whom espous'd are all the arts, Long have I sought for, but could never see Them all concentr'd in one man, but thee. Thus, thou that man art whom the fates conspir'd To make but one, and that's thyself, admir'd.

Prue, my dearest maid, is sick, Almost to be lunatic: Æsculapius! come and bring Means for her recovering; And a gallant cock shall be Offer'd up by her to thee.

Phœbus! when that I a verse Or some numbers more rehearse, Tune my words that they may fall Each way smoothly musical: For which favour there shall be Swans devoted unto thee.

Bacchus, let me drink no more; Wild are seas that want a shore. When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't. I have drank up, for to please Thee, that great cup Hercules: Urge no more, and there shall be Daffodils given up to thee.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay; My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray, My palmer's hat, my scallop's shell, My cross, my cord, and all, farewell. For having now my journey done, Just at the setting of the sun, Here I have found a chamber fit, God and good friends be thanked for it, Where if I can a lodger be, A little while from tramplers free, At my up-rising next I shall, If not requite, yet thank ye all. Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright The fouler fiend and evil sprite From scaring you or yours this night.

Good things that come of course, far less do please Than those which come by sweet contingencies.

Dead falls the cause if once the hand be mute; But let that speak, the client gets the suit.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right; It is the end that crowns us, not the fight.

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood: Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

'Tis not the food, but the content That makes the table's merriment. Where trouble serves the board, we eat The platters there as soon as meat. A little pipkin with a bit Of mutton or of veal in it, Set on my table, trouble-free, More than a feast contenteth me.

Welcome! but yet no entrance, till we bless First you, then you, and both for white success. Profane no porch, young man and maid, for fear Ye wrong the Threshold-god that keeps peace here: Please him, and then all good-luck will betide You, the brisk bridegroom, you, the dainty bride. Do all things sweetly, and in comely wise; Put on your garlands first, then sacrifice: That done, when both of you have seemly fed, We'll call on Night, to bring ye both to bed: Where, being laid, all fair signs looking on, Fish-like, increase then to a million; And millions of spring-times may ye have, Which spent, one death bring to ye both one grave.

Blessings in abundance come To the bride and to her groom; May the bed and this short night Know the fulness of delight! Pleasures many here attend ye, And, ere long, a boy Love send ye Curled and comely, and so trim, Maids, in time, may ravish him. Thus a dew of graces fall On ye both; good-night to all.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong; 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 anything. 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.

As gilliflowers do but stay To blow, and seed, and so away; So you, sweet lady, sweet as May, The garden's glory, lived a while To lend the world your scent and smile. But when your own fair print was set Once in a virgin flosculet, Sweet as yourself, and newly blown, To give that life, resigned your own: But so as still the mother's power Lives in the pretty lady-flower.

No news of navies burnt at seas; No noise of late-spawn'd tittyries; No closet plot, or open vent, That frights men with a parliament; No new device or late-found trick To read by the stars the kingdom's sick; No gin to catch the state, or wring The freeborn nostril of the king, We send to you; but here a jolly Verse, crown'd with ivy and with holly, That tells of winter's tales and mirth, That milkmaids make about the hearth, Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl, That['s] tost up, after fox-i'-th'-hole; Of blind-man-buff, and of the care That young men have to shoe the mare; Of Twelfth-tide cakes, of peas and beans, Wherewith you make those merry scenes, Whenas ye choose your king and queen, And cry out: Hey, for our town green; Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use Husbands and wives by streaks to choose; Of crackling laurel, which fore-sounds A plenteous harvest to your grounds: Of these and such-like things for shift, We send instead of New-Year's gift. Read then, and when your faces shine With buxom meat and cap'ring wine, Remember us in cups full crown'd, And let our city-health go round, Quite through the young maids and the men, To the ninth number, if not ten; Until the fired chesnuts leap For joy to see the fruits ye reap From the plump chalice and the cup, That tempts till it be tossed up; Then as ye sit about your embers, Call not to mind those fled Decembers, But think on these that are t' appear As daughters to the instant year: Sit crown'd with rosebuds, and carouse Till Liber Pater twirls the house About your ears; and lay upon The year your cares that's fled and gone. And let the russet swains the plough And harrow hang up, resting now; And to the bagpipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness. And thus, throughout, with Christmas plays Frolic the full twelve holidays.

When with the virgin morning thou dost rise, Crossing thyself, come thus to sacrifice; First wash thy heart in innocence, then bring Pure hands, pure habits, pure, pure everything. Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thence Give up thy soul in clouds of frankincense. Thy golden censers, fill'd with odours sweet, Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.

Begin with Jove; then is the work half done, And runs most smoothly when 'tis well begun. Jove's is the first and last: the morn's his due, The midst is thine; but Jove's the evening too; As sure a matins does to him belong, So sure he lays claim to the evensong.

Why I tie about thy wrist, Julia, this my silken twist; For what other reason is't, But to show thee how, in part, Thou my pretty captive art? But thy bondslave is my heart; 'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Knap the thread and thou art free: But 'tis otherwise with me; I am bound, and fast bound, so That from thee I cannot go; If I could, I would not so.

A man prepar'd against all ills to come, That dares to dead the fire of martyrdom; That sleeps at home, and sailing there at ease, Fears not the fierce sedition of the seas; That's counter-proof against the farm's mishaps, Undreadful too of courtly thunderclaps; That wears one face, like heaven, and never shows A change when fortune either comes or goes; That keeps his own strong guard in the despite Of what can hurt by day or harm by night; That takes and re-delivers every stroke Of chance (as made up all of rock and oak); That sighs at others' death, smiles at his own Most dire and horrid crucifixion. Who for true glory suffers thus, we grant Him to be here our Christian militant.

Though I cannot give thee fires Glittering to my free desires; These accept, and I'll be free, Offering poppy unto thee.

Mighty Neptune, may it please Thee, the rector of the seas, That my barque may safely run Through thy watery region; And a tunny-fish shall be Offered up with thanks to thee.

For my embalming, Julia, do but this; Give thou my lips but their supremest kiss, Or else transfuse thy breath into the chest Where my small relics must for ever rest; That breath the balm, the myrrh, the nard shall be, To give an incorruption unto me.

How rich a man is all desire to know; But none inquires if good he be or no.

1. Among thy fancies tell me this, What is the thing we call a kiss? 2. I shall resolve ye what it is. It is a creature born and bred Between the lips (all cherry-red), By love and warm desires fed. Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. 2. It is an active flame that flies, First, to the babies of the eyes; And charms them there with lullabies. Chor. And stills the bride, too, when she cries. 2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies, now here, now there, 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near. Chor. And here and there and everywhere. 1. Has it a speaking virtue? 2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say? 2. Do you but this; Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss Chor. And this love's sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body? 2. Aye, and wings With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings.

Seest thou those diamonds which she wears In that rich carcanet; Or those, on her dishevell'd hairs, Fair pearls in order set? Believe, young man, all those were tears By wretched wooers sent, In mournful hyacinths and rue, That figure discontent; Which when not warmed by her view, By cold neglect, each one Congeal'd to pearl and stone; Which precious spoils upon her She wears as trophies of her honour. Ah then, consider, what all this implies: She that will wear thy tears would wear thine eyes.

I can but name thee, and methinks I call All that have been, or are canonical For love and bounty to come near, and see Their many virtues volum'd up in thee; In thee, brave man! whose incorrupted fame Casts forth a light like to a virgin flame; And as it shines it throws a scent about, As when a rainbow in perfumes goes out. So vanish hence, but leave a name as sweet As benjamin and storax when they meet.

Ask me why I do not sing To the tension of the string As I did not long ago, When my numbers full did flow? Grief, ay, me! hath struck my lute And my tongue, at one time, mute.

No more shall I, since I am driven hence, Devote to thee my grains of frankincense; No more shall I from mantle-trees hang down, To honour thee, my little parsley crown; No more shall I (I fear me) to thee bring My chives of garlic for an offering; No more shall I from henceforth hear a choir Of merry crickets by my country fire. Go where I will, thou lucky Lar stay here, Warm by a glitt'ring chimney all the year.

What can I do in poetry Now the good spirit's gone from me? Why, nothing now but lonely sit And over-read what I have writ.

For punishment in war it will suffice If the chief author of the faction dies; Let but few smart, but strike a fear through all; Where the fault springs there let the judgment fall.

Ah Posthumus! our years hence fly, And leave no sound; nor piety, Or prayers, or vow Can keep the wrinkle from the brow; But we must on, As fate does lead or draw us; none, None, Posthumus, could ere decline The doom of cruel Proserpine. The pleasing wife, the house, the ground, Must all be left, no one plant found To follow thee, Save only the curs'd cypress tree; A merry mind Looks forward, scorns what's left behind; Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may, And here enjoy our holiday. W'ave seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas And moons to wane But they fill up their ebbs again; But vanish'd man, Like to a lily lost, ne'er can, Ne'er can repullulate, or bring His days to see a second spring. But on we must, and thither tend, Where Anchus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed: Thus has infernal Jove decreed; We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade. Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport. Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when We two are dead, The world with us is buried. Then live we free As is the air, and let us be Our own fair wind, and mark each one Day with the white and lucky stone. We are not poor, although we have No roofs of cedar, nor our brave Baiæ, nor keep Account of such a flock of sheep; Nor bullocks fed To lard the shambles: barbels bred To kiss our hands; nor do we wish For Pollio's lampreys in our dish. If we can meet and so confer Both by a shining salt-cellar, And have our roof, Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof, And ceiling free From that cheap candle bawdery; We'll eat our bean with that full mirth As we were lords of all the earth. Well then, on what seas we are toss'd, Our comfort is, we can't be lost. Let the winds drive Our barque, yet she will keep alive Amidst the deeps. 'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps The pinnace up; which, though she errs I' th' seas, she saves her passengers. Say, we must part (sweet mercy bless Us both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness), Can we so far Stray to become less circular Than we are now? No, no, that self-same heart, that vow Which made us one, shall ne'er undo, Or ravel so to make us two. Live in thy peace; as for myself, When I am bruised on the shelf Of time, and show My locks behung with frost and snow; When with the rheum, The cough, the ptisick, I consume Unto an almost nothing; then The ages fled I'll call again, And with a tear compare these last Lame and bad times with those are past; While Baucis by, My old lean wife, shall kiss it dry. And so we'll sit By th' fire, foretelling snow and sleet, And weather by our aches, grown Now old enough to be our own True calendars, as puss's ear Washed o'er's, to tell what change is near: Then to assuage The gripings of the chine by age, I'll call my young Iülus to sing such a song I made upon my Julia's breast; And of her blush at such a feast. Then shall he read that flower of mine, Enclos'd within a crystal shrine; A primrose next; A piece, then, of a higher text, For to beget In me a more transcendent heat Than that insinuating fire, Which crept into each aged sire, When the fair Helen, from her eyes, Shot forth her loving sorceries; At which I'll rear Mine aged limbs above my chair, And, hearing it, Flutter and crow as in a fit Of fresh concupiscence, and cry: No lust there's like to poetry. Thus, frantic-crazy man, God wot, I'll call to mind things half-forgot, And oft between Repeat the times that I have seen! Thus ripe with tears, And twisting my Iülus' hairs, Doting, I'll weep and say, in truth, Baucis, these were my sins of youth. Then next I'll cause my hopeful lad, If a wild apple can be had, To crown the hearth, Lar thus conspiring with our mirth; Then to infuse Our browner ale into the cruse, Which sweetly spic'd, we'll first carouse Unto the Genius of the house. Then the next health to friends of mine, Loving the brave Burgundian wine, High sons of pith, Whose fortunes I have frolicked with; Such as could well Bear up the magic bough and spell; And dancing 'bout the mystic thyrse, Give up the just applause to verse: To those, and then again to thee, We'll drink, my Wickes, until we be Plump as the cherry, Though not so fresh, yet full as merry As the cricket, The untam'd heifer, or the pricket, Until our tongues shall tell our ears We're younger by a score of years. Thus, till we see the fire less shine From th' embers than the kitling's eyne, We'll still sit up, Sphering about the wassail-cup To all those times Which gave me honour for my rhymes. The coal once spent, we'll then to bed, Far more than night-bewearied.

Goddess, I do love a girl, Ruby-lipp'd and tooth'd with pearl; If so be I may but prove Lucky in this maid I love, I will promise there shall be Myrtles offer'd up to thee.

True to yourself and sheets, you'll have me swear; You shall, if righteous dealing I find there. Do not you fall through frailty; I'll be sure To keep my bond still free from forfeiture.

Two parts of us successively command: The tongue in peace; but then in war the hand.

Come, come away, Or let me go; Must I here stay Because y'are slow, And will continue so? Troth, lady, no. I scorn to be A slave to state: And, since I'm free, I will not wait Henceforth at such a rate For needy fate. If you desire My spark should glow, The peeping fire You must blow, Or I shall quickly grow To frost or snow.

When I of Villars do but hear the name, It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham, Who was your brave exalted uncle here, Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere, Who spurned at envy, and could bring with ease An end to all his stately purposes. For his love then, whose sacred relics show Their resurrection and their growth in you; And for my sake, who ever did prefer You above all those sweets of Westminster; Permit my book to have a free access To kiss your hand, most dainty governess.

Will ye hear what I can say Briefly of my Julia? Black and rolling is her eye, Double-chinn'd and forehead high; Lips she has all ruby red, Cheeks like cream enclareted; And a nose that is the grace And proscenium of her face. So that we may guess by these The other parts will richly please.

In time of life I graced ye with my verse; Do now your flowery honours to my hearse. You shall not languish, trust me; virgins here Weeping shall make ye flourish all the year.

Thou say'st my lines are hard, And I the truth will tell— They are both hard and marr'd If thou not read'st them well.

Let kings command and do the best they may, The saucy subjects still will bear the sway.

Sea-born goddess, let me be By thy son thus grac'd and thee; That whene'er I woo, I find Virgins coy but not unkind. Let me when I kiss a maid Taste her lips so overlaid With love's syrup, that I may, In your temple when I pray, Kiss the altar and confess There's in love no bitterness.

How am I ravish'd! when I do but see The painter's art in thy sciography? If so, how much more shall I dote thereon When once he gives it incarnation?

See'st thou that cloud as silver clear, Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere? 'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.

Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

See how the poor do waiting stand For the expansion of thy hand. A wafer dol'd by thee will swell Thousands to feed by miracle.

Still to our gains our chief respect is had; Reward it is that makes us good or bad.

Nothing is new; we walk where others went; There's no vice now but has his precedent.

Look how the rainbow doth appear But in one only hemisphere; So likewise after our decease No more is seen the arch of peace. That cov'nant's here, the under-bow, That nothing shoots but war and woe.

Come with the spring-time forth, fair maid, and be This year again the meadow's deity. Yet ere ye enter give us leave to set Upon your head this flowery coronet; To make this neat distinction from the rest, You are the prime and princess of the feast; To which with silver feet lead you the way, While sweet-breath nymphs attend on you this day. This is your hour, and best you may command, Since you are lady of this fairy land. Full mirth wait on you, and such mirth as shall Cherish the cheek but make none blush at all.

Loth to depart, but yet at last each one Back must now go to's habitation; Not knowing thus much when we once do sever, Whether or no that we shall meet here ever. As for myself, since time a thousand cares And griefs hath filed upon my silver hairs, 'Tis to be doubted whether I next year Or no shall give ye a re-meeting here. If die I must, then my last vow shall be, You'll with a tear or two remember me. Your sometime poet; but if fates do give Me longer date and more fresh springs to live, Oft as your field shall her old age renew, Herrick shall make the meadow-verse for you.

Judith has cast her old skin and got new, And walks fresh varnish'd to the public view; Foul Judith was and foul she will be known For all this fair transfiguration.

How dull and dead are books that cannot show A prince of Pembroke, and that Pembroke you! You who are high born, and a lord no less Free by your fate than fortune's mightiness, Who hug our poems, honour'd sir, and then The paper gild and laureate the pen. Nor suffer you the poets to sit cold, But warm their wits and turn their lines to gold. Others there be who righteously will swear Those smooth-paced numbers amble everywhere, And these brave measures go a stately trot; Love those, like these, regard, reward them not. But you, my lord, are one whose hand along Goes with your mouth or does outrun your tongue; Paying before you praise, and, cockering wit, Give both the gold and garland unto it.

Stately goddess, do thou please, Who are chief at marriages, But to dress the bridal bed When my love and I shall wed; And a peacock proud shall be Offered up by us to thee.

When thou dost play and sweetly sing— Whether it be the voice or string Or both of them that do agree Thus to entrance and ravish me— This, this I know, I'm oft struck mute, And die away upon thy lute.

Thou gav'st me leave to kiss, Thou gav'st me leave to woo; Thou mad'st me think, by this And that, thou lov'dst me too. But I shall ne'er forget How, for to make thee merry, Thou mad'st me chop, but yet Another snapp'd the cherry.

I, who have favour'd many, come to be Grac'd now, at last, or glorified by thee, Lo! I, the lyric prophet, who have set On many a head the delphic coronet, Come unto thee for laurel, having spent My wreaths on those who little gave or lent. Give me the daphne, that the world may know it, Whom they neglected thou hast crown'd a poet. A city here of heroes I have made Upon the rock whose firm foundation laid, Shall never shrink; where, making thine abode, Live thou a Selden, that's a demi-god.

Thou shalt not all die; for, while love's fire shines Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines, And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's Fame and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.

Wrinkles no more are or no less Than beauty turned to sourness.

First offer incense, then thy field and meads Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads. The spangling dew, dredg'd o'er the grass, shall be Turn'd all to mell and manna there for thee. Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil Shall run, as rivers, all throughout thy soil. Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould? Pray once, twice pray, and turn thy ground to gold.

Call me no more, As heretofore, The music of a feast; Since now, alas! The mirth that was In me is dead or ceas'd. Before I went, To banishment, Into the loathed west, I could rehearse A lyric verse, And speak it with the best. But time, ay me! Has laid, I see, My organ fast asleep, And turn'd my voice Into the noise Of those that sit and weep.

So smell those odours that do rise From out the wealthy spiceries; So smells the flower of blooming clove, Or roses smother'd in the stove; So smells the air of spiced wine, Or essences of jessamine; So smells the breath about the hives When well the work of honey thrives, And all the busy factors come Laden with wax and honey home; So smell those neat and woven bowers All over-arch'd with orange flowers, And almond blossoms that do mix To make rich these aromatics; So smell those bracelets and those bands Of amber chaf'd between the hands, When thus enkindled they transpire A noble perfume from the fire; The wine of cherries, and to these The cooling breath of respasses; The smell of morning's milk and cream, Butter of cowslips mix'd with them; Of roasted warden or bak'd pear, These are not to be reckon'd here, Whenas the meanest part of her, Smells like the maiden pomander. Thus sweet she smells, or what can be More lik'd by her or lov'd by me.

Sweet virgin, that I do not set The pillars up of weeping jet Or mournful marble, let thy shade Not wrathful seem, or fright the maid Who hither at her wonted hours Shall come to strew thy earth with flowers. No; know, bless'd maid, when there's not one Remainder left of brass or stone, Thy living epitaph shall be, Though lost in them, yet found in me; Dear, in thy bed of roses then, Till this world shall dissolve as men, Sleep while we hide thee from the light, Drawing thy curtains round: Good-night.

Till I shall come again let this suffice, I send my salt, my sacrifice To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far As to thy Genius and thy Lar; To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen, The fat-fed smoking temple, which in The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines Invites to supper him who dines, Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef, Not represent but give relief To the lank stranger and the sour swain, Where both may feed and come again; For no black-bearded vigil from thy door Beats with a button'd-staff the poor; But from thy warm love-hatching gates each may Take friendly morsels and there stay To sun his thin-clad members if he likes, For thou no porter keep'st who strikes. No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants, Or staying there is scourg'd with taunts Of some rough groom, who, yirkt with corns, says: "Sir, Y'ave dipped too long i' th' vinegar; And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, Y'ave fared well: pray make an end; Two days y'ave larded here; a third, ye know, Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go You to some other chimney, and there take Essay of other giblets; make Merry at another's hearth—y'are here Welcome as thunder to our beer; Manners know distance, and a man unrude Would soon recoil and not intrude His stomach to a second meal". No, no! Thy house well fed and taught can show No such crabb'd vizard: thou hast learnt thy train With heart and hand to entertain, And by the armsful, with a breast unhid, As the old race of mankind did, When either's heart and either's hand did strive To be the nearer relative. Thou dost redeem those times, and what was lost Of ancient honesty may boast It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son. Thus, like a Roman tribune, thou thy gate Early sets ope to feast and late; Keeping no currish waiter to affright With blasting eye the appetite, Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that The trencher-creature marketh what Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by Some private pinch tells danger's nigh A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites Skin-deep into the pork, or lights Upon some part of kid, as if mistook, When checked by the butler's look. No, no; thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer Is not reserved for Trebius here, But all who at thy table seated are Find equal freedom, equal fare; And thou, like to that hospitable god, Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode To eat thy bullock's thighs, thy veals, thy fat Wethers, and never grudged at. The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail, The cock, the curlew and the quail, These and thy choicest viands do extend Their taste unto the lower end Of thy glad table: not a dish more known To thee than unto anyone. But as thy meat so thy immortal wine Makes the smirk face of each to shine And spring fresh rosebuds, while the salt, the wit, Flows from the wine and graces it; While reverence, waiting at the bashful board, Honours my lady and my lord. No scurril jest; no open scene is laid Here for to make the face afraid; But temperate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet- ly that it makes the meat more sweet; And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou Dost rather pour forth than allow By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine As the Canary Isles were thine; But with that wisdom and that method, as No one that's there his guilty glass Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry Repentance to his liberty. No, thou knowest order, ethics, and has read All economics, know'st to lead A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show How far a figure ought to go, Forward or backward, sideward, and what pace Can give, and what retract a grace; What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees With those thy primitive decrees, To give subsistence to thy house, and proof What Genii support thy roof, Goodness and Greatness; not the oaken piles; For these and marbles have their whiles To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand. Such is thy house, whose firm foundation's trust Is more in thee than in her dust Or depth; these last may yield and yearly shrink When what is strongly built, no chink Or yawning rupture can the same devour, But fix'd it stands, by her own power And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock Which tries and counter-stands the shock And ram of time, and by vexation grows The stronger; virtue dies when foes Are wanting to her exercise, but great And large she spreads by dust and sweat. Safe stand thy walls and thee, and so both will, Since neither's height was rais'd by th' ill Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece Was rear'd up by the poor man's fleece; No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild Or fret thy ceiling or to build A sweating-closet to anoint the silk- soft skin, or bathe in asses' milk; No orphan's pittance left him serv'd to set The pillars up of lasting jet, For which their cries might beat against thine ears, Or in the damp jet read their tears. No plank from hallowed altar does appeal To yond' Star-Chamber, or does seal A curse to thee or thine; but all things even Make for thy peace and pace to heaven. Go on directly so, as just men may A thousand times more swear than say: This is that princely Pemberton who can Teach man to keep a god in man; And when wise poets shall search out to see Good men, they find them all in thee.

Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say Birds choose their mates, and couple too this day; But by their flight I never can divine When I shall couple with my valentine.

After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died, The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride, Together with the stage's glory, stood Each like a poor and pitied widowhood. The cirque profan'd was, and all postures rack'd; For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act. Then temper flew from words, and men did squeak, Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak; No holy rage or frantic fires did stir Or flash about the spacious theatre. No clap of hands, or shout, or praise's proof Did crack the play-house sides, or cleave her roof. Artless the scene was, and that monstrous sin Of deep and arrant ignorance came in: Such ignorance as theirs was who once hiss'd At thy unequall'd play, the Alchemist; Oh, fie upon 'em! Lastly, too, all wit In utter darkness did, and still will sit, Sleeping the luckless age out, till that she Her resurrection has again with thee.

Thou had'st the wreath before, now take the tree, That henceforth none be laurel-crown'd but thee.

On, as thou hast begun, brave youth, and get The palm from Urbin, Titian, Tintoret, Brugel and Coxu, and the works outdo Of Holbein and that mighty Rubens too. So draw and paint as none may do the like, No, not the glory of the world, Vandyke.

Store of courage to me grant, Now I'm turn'd a combatant; Help me, so that I my shield, Fighting, lose not in the field. That's the greatest shame of all That in warfare can befall. Do but this, and there shall be Offer'd up a wolf to thee.

These summer-birds did with thy master stay The times of warmth, but then they flew away, Leaving their poet, being now grown old, Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold. But thou, kind Prew, did'st with my fates abide As well the winter's as the summer's tide; For which thy love, live with thy master here, Not one, but all the seasons of the year.

Play, Phœbus, on thy lute; And we will all sit mute, By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire. Hark, hark, the god does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears.

A just man's like a rock that turns the wrath Of all the raging waves into a froth.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear, 'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers.

Since, for thy full deserts, with all the rest Of these chaste spirits that are here possest Of life eternal, time has made thee one For growth in this my rich plantation, Live here; but know 'twas virtue, and not chance, That gave thee this so high inheritance. Keep it for ever, grounded with the good, Who hold fast here an endless livelihood.

At my homely country-seat I have there a little wheat, Which I work to meal, and make Therewithal a holy cake: Part of which I give to Lar, Part is my peculiar.

Man is compos'd here of a twofold part: The first of nature, and the next of art: Art presupposes nature; nature she Prepares the way for man's docility.

Those ills that mortal men endure So long, are capable of cure, As they of freedom may be sure; But, that denied, a grief, though small, Shakes the whole roof, or ruins all.

Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot or not, to be content with all.

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs, Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.

By dream I saw one of the three Sisters of fate appear to me; Close to my bedside she did stand, Showing me there a firebrand; She told me too, as that did spend, So drew my life unto an end. Three quarters were consum'd of it; Only remained a little bit, Which will be burnt up by-and-by; Then, Julia, weep, for I must die.