Volume 2 — HESPERIDES. (continued 3)

Away with silks, away with lawn, I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn; Give me my mistress as she is, Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities; For as my heart e'en so mine eye Is won with flesh, not drapery.

Show me thy feet; show me thy legs, thy thighs; Show me those fleshy principalities; Show me that hill where smiling love doth sit. Having a living fountain under it; Show me thy waist, then let me therewithal, By the assention of thy lawn, see all.

When out of bed my love doth spring, 'Tis but as day a-kindling; But when she's up and fully dress'd, 'Tis then broad day throughout the east.

Have I not blest thee? Then go forth, nor fear Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here. But with thy fair fates leading thee, go on With thy most white predestination. Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing The farting tanner and familiar king, The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush; Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush, Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned, That doted on a maid of gingerbread; The flying pilchard and the frisking dace, With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race (Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes), Shall live, and thou not superlast all times. No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see The whole world die and turn to dust with thee. He's greedy of his life who will not fall Whenas a public ruin bears down all.

I do not love, nor can it be Love will in vain spend shafts on me; I did this godhead once defy, Since which I freeze, but cannot fry. Yet out, alas! the death's the same, Kill'd by a frost or by a flame.

I dislik'd but even now; Now I love I know not how. Was I idle, and that while Was I fir'd with a smile? I'll to work, or pray; and then I shall quite dislike again.

Love he that will, it best likes me To have my neck from love's yoke free.

Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray, hurt him not, though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender (pray take heed); With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home; but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him.

I heard ye could cool heat, and came With hope you would allay the same; Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold, Nor find that true which was foretold. Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat And labour with unequal heat; Cure, cure yourselves, for I descry Ye boil with love as well as I.

Tell if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum; These musks, these ambers, and those other smells, Sweet as the vestry of the oracles. I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace Her silken bodice but a breathing space, The passive air such odour then assum'd, As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd, Whose pure immortal body doth transmit A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

Whither dost thou whorry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this, Here and there a fresh love is. That doth like me, this doth please, Thus a thousand mistresses I have now; yet I alone, Having all, enjoy not one.

Would I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin? It should be only in my Julia's skin, Which so betrays her blood as we discover The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.

When my off'ring next I make, Be thy hand the hallowed cake, And thy breast the altar whence Love may smell the frankincense.

I'm sick of love, O let me lie Under your shades to sleep or die! Either is welcome, so I have Or here my bed, or here my grave. Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep Time with the tears that I do weep? Say, have ye sense, or do you prove What crucifixions are in love? I know ye do, and that's the why You sigh for love as well as I.

Mon. Bad are the times. Sil. And worse than they are we. Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. Sil. None crowns the cup Of wassail now or sets the quintell up; And he who us'd to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes grief-drown'd. Ambo. Let's cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping-ripe. Mir. Ah! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay. Dear Amaryllis! Mon. Hark! Sil. Mark! Mir. This earth grew sweet Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet. Ambo. Poor pitied youth! Mir. And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine. This flock of wool and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here. Sil. Words sweet as love itself. Montano, hark! Mir. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent! Like to a field of beans when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown. Mon. A sweet-sad passion—— Mir. In dewy mornings when she came this way Sweet bents would bow to give my love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and, closing, sigh and weep. Besides (ay me!) since she went hence to dwell, The voices' daughter ne'er spake syllable. But she is gone. Sil. Mirtillo, tell us whither. Mir. Where she and I shall never meet together. Mon. Forfend it Pan, and, Pales, do thou please To give an end. Mir. To what? Sil. Such griefs as these. Mir. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure. Mon. Love for thy sake will bring her to these hills And dales again. Mir. No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep, And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep: And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee. Mon. Set with the sun thy woes. Sil. The day grows old, And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold. Chor. The shades grow great, but greater grows our sorrow; But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep, And meet to weep To-morrow.

I do not love to wed, Though I do like to woo; And for a maidenhead I'll beg and buy it too. I'll praise and I'll approve Those maids that never vary; And fervently I'll love, But yet I would not marry. I'll hug, I'll kiss, I'll play, And, cock-like, hens I'll tread, And sport it any way But in the bridal bed. For why? that man is poor Who hath but one of many, But crown'd he is with store That, single, may have any. Why then, say, what is he, To freedom so unknown, Who, having two or three, Will be content with one?

A willow garland thou did'st send Perfum'd, last day, to me, Which did but only this portend— I was forsook by thee. Since so it is, I'll tell thee what, To-morrow thou shalt see Me wear the willow; after that, To die upon the tree. As beasts unto the altars go With garlands dress'd, so I Will, with my willow-wreath, also Come forth and sweetly die.

'Twas not love's dart, Or any blow Of want, or foe, Did wound my heart With an eternal smart; But only you, My sometimes known Companion, My dearest Crew, That me unkindly slew. May your fault die, And have no name In books of fame; Or let it lie Forgotten now, as I. We parted are And now no more, As heretofore, By jocund Lar Shall be familiar. But though we sever, My Crew shall see That I will be Here faithless never, But love my Clipseby ever.

Empires of kings are now, and ever were, As Sallust saith, coincident to fear.

Every time seems short to be That's measured by felicity; But one half-hour that's made up here With grief, seems longer than a year.

In holy meetings there a man may be One of the crowd, not of the company.

That princes may possess a surer seat, 'Tis fit they make no one with them too great.

Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry, double grac'd, Within a lily centre plac'd? Or ever mark'd the pretty beam A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.

Shut not so soon; the dull-ey'd night Has 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.

Ye pretty housewives, would ye know The work that I would put ye to? This, this it should be: for to spin A lawn for me, so fine and thin As it might serve me for my skin. For cruel Love has me so whipp'd That of my skin I all am stripp'd: And shall despair that any art Can ease the rawness or the smart, Unless you skin again each part. Which mercy if you will but do, I call all maids to witness to What here I promise: that no broom Shall now or ever after come To wrong a spinner or her loom.

After the feast, my Shapcot, see The fairy court I give to thee; Where we'll present our Oberon, led Half-tipsy to the fairy bed, Where Mab he finds, who there doth lie, Not without mickle majesty. Which done, and thence remov'd the light, We'll wish both them and thee good-night. Full as a bee with thyme, and red As cherry harvest, now high fed For lust and action, on he'll go To lie with Mab, though all say no. Lust has no ears; he's sharp as thorn, And fretful, carries hay in's horn, And lightning in his eyes; and flings Among the elves, if moved, the stings Of peltish wasps; well know his guard— Kings, though they're hated, will be fear'd. Wine lead[s] him on. Thus to a grove, Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinselled with twilight, he and they, Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num'rous feet, which, by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn and many a cross- Track they redeem a bank of moss, Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft than the finest Lemster ore, Mildly disparkling like those fires Which break from the enjewell'd tyres Of curious brides; or like those mites Of candi'd dew in moony nights. Upon this convex all the flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought, As if love's sampler here was wrought: Or Citherea's ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine, Who, as they low, impearl with milk The four-leaved grass or moss like silk. The breath of monkeys met to mix With musk-flies are th' aromatics Which 'cense this arch; and here and there And farther off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card With peeps of hearts, of club, and spade Are here most neatly inter-laid Many a counter, many a die, Half-rotten and without an eye Lies hereabouts; and, for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels' and children's teeth late shed Are neatly here enchequered With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plum. The nails fallen off by whitflaws: art's Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others, from ourselves, Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stolen from the neck Of the shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance, where within The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake: enfriez'd throughout With eyes of peacocks' trains and trout- Flies' curious wings; and these among Those silver pence that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm's eyes; the shining scales Of silv'ry fish; wheat straws, the snail's Soft candle light; the kitling's eyne; Corrupted wood; serve here for shine. No glaring light of bold-fac'd day, Or other over-radiant ray, Ransacks this room; but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful day or night. By this quaint taper light he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tann'd Mab, as somewhat sick, And (love knows) tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandillions, high- Rear'd, lies her elvish majesty: Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown Her Mabship in obedient down. For either sheet was spread the caul That doth the infant's face enthral, When it is born (by some enstyl'd The lucky omen of the child), And next to these two blankets o'er- Cast of the finest gossamore. And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seemed to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity. Thus soft she lies: and overhead A spinner's circle is bespread With cob-web curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air. The fringe about this are those threads Broke at the loss of maidenheads: And, all behung with these, pure pearls, Dropp'd from the eyes of ravish'd girls Or writhing brides; when (panting) they Give unto love the straiter way. For music now, he has the cries Of feigned-lost virginities; The which the elves make to excite A more unconquered appetite. The king's undrest; and now upon The gnat's watchword the elves are gone. And now the bed, and Mab possess'd Of this great little kingly guest; We'll nobly think, what's to be done, He'll do no doubt; this flax is spun.

I've paid thee what I promis'd; that's not all; Besides I give thee here a verse that shall (When hence thy circummortal part is gone), Arch-like, hold up thy name's inscription. Brave men can't die, whose candid actions are Writ in the poet's endless calendar: Whose vellum and whose volume is the sky, And the pure stars the praising poetry. Farewell

Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one To make up now a congregation. Let's to the altar of perfumes then go, And say short prayers; and when we have done so, Then we shall see, how in a little space Saints will come in to fill each pew and place.

What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own? For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart. Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why! yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together.

I cannot suffer; and in this my part Of patience wants. Grief breaks the stoutest heart.

To print our poems, the propulsive cause Is fame—the breath of popular applause.

Ye silent shades, whose each tree here Some relique of a saint doth wear, Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of love: Here is the legend of those saints That died for love, and their complaints: Their wounded hearts and names we find Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind. Give way, give way to me, who come Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom: And have deserv'd as much (love knows) As to be canonis'd 'mongst those Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your greeny calendar: By all those virgins' fillets hung Upon your boughs, and requiems sung For saints and souls departed hence (Here honour'd still with frankincense); By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering to the dead; By all those true love-knots that be With mottoes carv'd on every tree; By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me: By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me, forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ: That my poor name may have the glory To live remembered in your story.

Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep Hush'd be all things—no noise here— But the toning of a tear: Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering.

Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war (Not without glory), noble sir, you are, Despite of all concussions, left the stem To shoot forth generations like to them. Which may be done, if, sir, you can beget Men in their substance, not in counterfeit, Such essences as those three brothers; known Eternal by their own production. Of whom, from fame's white trumpet, this I'll tell, Worthy their everlasting chronicle: Never since first Bellona us'd a shield, Such three brave brothers fell in Mars his field. These were those three Horatii Rome did boast, Rome's were these three Horatii we have lost. One Cœur-de-Lion had that age long since; This, three; which three, you make up four, brave prince.

O jealousy, that art The canker of the heart; And mak'st all hell Where thou do'st dwell; For pity be No fury, or no firebrand to me. Far from me I'll remove All thoughts of irksome love: And turn to snow, Or crystal grow, To keep still free, O! soul-tormenting jealousy, from thee.

Let's live in haste; use pleasures while we may; Could life return, 'twould never lose a day.

Here, here I live, And somewhat give Of what I have To those who crave, Little or much, My alms is such; But if my deal Of oil and meal Shall fuller grow, More I'll bestow; Meantime be it E'en but a bit, Or else a crumb, The scrip hath some.

Come, leave this loathed country life, and then Grow up to be a Roman citizen. Those mites of time, which yet remain unspent, Waste thou in that most civil government. Get their comportment and the gliding tongue Of those mild men thou art to live among; Then, being seated in that smoother sphere, Decree thy everlasting topic there; And to the farm-house ne'er return at all: Though granges do not love thee, cities shall.

While Fates permit us let's be merry, Pass all we must the fatal ferry; And this our life too whirls away With the rotation of the day.

Love, I have broke Thy yoke, The neck is free; But when I'm next Love-vexed, Then shackle me. 'Tis better yet To fret The feet or hands, Than to enthral Or gall The neck with bands.

You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man Who writes sweet numbers well as any can; If so, why then are not these verses hurled, Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world? What is a jewel if it be not set Forth by a ring or some rich carcanet? But being so, then the beholders cry: See, see a gem as rare as Belus' eye. Then public praise does run upon the stone, For a most rich, a rare, a precious one. Expose your jewels then unto the view, That we may praise them, or themselves prize you. Virtue concealed, with Horace you'll confess, Differs not much from drowsy slothfulness.

I am of all bereft, Save but some few beans left, Whereof, at last, to make For me and mine a cake, Which eaten, they and I Will say our grace, and die.

One feeds on lard, and yet is lean, And I but feasting with a bean Grow fat and smooth. The reason is: Jove prospers my meat more than his.

Thou sent'st to me a true love-knot, but I Returned a ring of jimmals to imply Thy love had one knot, mine a triple tie.

Go hence, and with this parting kiss, Which joins two souls, remember this: Though thou be'st young, kind, soft, and fair And may'st draw thousands with a hair; Yet let these glib temptations be Furies to others, friends to me. Look upon all, and though on fire Thou set their hearts, let chaste desire Steer thee to me, and think, me gone, In having all, that thou hast none. Nor so immured would I have Thee live, as dead and in thy grave; But walk abroad, yet wisely well Stand for my coming, sentinel. And think, as thou do'st walk the street, Me or my shadow thou do'st meet. I know a thousand greedy eyes Will on thy feature tyrannise In my short absence, yet behold Them like some picture, or some mould Fashion'd like thee, which, though 't have ears And eyes, it neither sees or hears. Gifts will be sent, and letters, which Are the expressions of that itch, And salt, which frets thy suitors; fly Both, lest thou lose thy liberty; For, that once lost, thou't fall to one, Then prostrate to a million. But if they woo thee, do thou say, As that chaste Queen of Ithaca Did to her suitors, this web done, (Undone as oft as done), I'm won; I will not urge thee, for I know, Though thou art young, thou canst say no, And no again, and so deny Those thy lust-burning incubi. Let them enstyle thee fairest fair, The pearl of princes, yet despair That so thou art, because thou must Believe love speaks it not, but lust; And this their flattery does commend Thee chiefly for their pleasure's end. I am not jealous of thy faith, Or will be, for the axiom saith: He that doth suspect does haste A gentle mind to be unchaste. No, live thee to thy self, and keep Thy thoughts as cold as is thy sleep, And let thy dreams be only fed With this, that I am in thy bed; And thou, then turning in that sphere, Waking shalt find me sleeping there. But yet if boundless lust must scale Thy fortress, and will needs prevail, And wildly force a passage in, Banish consent, and 'tis no sin Of thine; so Lucrece fell and the Chaste Syracusian Cyane. So Medullina fell; yet none Of these had imputation For the least trespass, 'cause the mind Here was not with the act combin'd. The body sins not, 'tis the will That makes the action, good or ill. And if thy fall should this way come, Triumph in such a martyrdom. I will not over-long enlarge To thee this my religious charge. Take this compression, so by this Means I shall know what other kiss Is mixed with mine, and truly know, Returning, if't be mine or no: Keep it till then; and now, my spouse, For my wished safety pay thy vows And prayers to Venus; if it please The great blue ruler of the seas, Not many full-faced moons shall wane, Lean-horn'd, before I come again As one triumphant, when I find In thee all faith of womankind. Nor would I have thee think that thou Had'st power thyself to keep this vow, But, having 'scaped temptation's shelf, Know virtue taught thee, not thyself.

Seeing thee, Soame, I see a goodly man, And in that good a great patrician. Next to which two, among the city powers And thrones, thyself one of those senators; Not wearing purple only for the show, As many conscripts of the city do, But for true service, worthy of that gown, The golden chain, too, and the civic crown.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here a while, 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 a while, they glide Into the grave.

Man knows where first he ships himself, but he Never can tell where shall his landing be.

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

Many we are, and yet but few possess Those fields of everlasting happiness.

How long, Perenna, wilt thou see Me languish for the love of thee? Consent, and play a friendly part To save, when thou may'st kill a heart.

Trust me, ladies, I will do Nothing to distemper you; If I any fret or vex, Men they shall be, not your sex.

Holy rood, come forth and shield Us i' th' city and the field: Safely guard us, now and aye, From the blast that burns by day; And those sounds that us affright In the dead of dampish night. Drive all hurtful fiends us fro, By the time the cocks first crow.

Thus I Pass by, And die: As one Unknown And gone: I'm made A shade, And laid I' th' grave: There have My cave, Where tell I dwell. Farewell.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win An easy blessing to your bin And basket, by our entering in. May both with manchet stand replete; Your larders, too, so hung with meat, That though a thousand, thousand eat, Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about Their silv'ry spheres, there's none may doubt But more's sent in than was served out. Next, may your dairies prosper so As that your pans no ebb may know; But if they do, the more to flow, Like to a solemn sober stream Bank'd all with lilies, and the cream Of sweetest cowslips filling them. Then, may your plants be prest with fruit, Nor bee, or hive you have be mute; But sweetly sounding like a lute. Next, may your duck and teeming hen Both to the cock's tread say Amen; And for their two eggs render ten. Last, may your harrows, shears, and ploughs, Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows, All prosper by our virgin vows. Alas! we bless, but see none here That brings us either ale or beer; In a dry house all things are near. Let's leave a longer time to wait, Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate, And all live here with needy fate. Where chimneys do for ever weep For want of warmth, and stomachs keep, With noise, the servants' eyes from sleep. It is in vain to sing, or stay Our free feet here; but we'll away: Yet to the Lares this we'll say: The time will come when you'll be sad And reckon this for fortune bad, T'ave lost the good ye might have had.

Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed. Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years; Yet not a lily from the bed appears: Nor will; for why, Pudica this may know, Trees never bear unless they first do blow.

These springs were maidens once that lov'd, But lost to that they most approv'd: My story tells by Love they were Turn'd to these springs which we see here; The pretty whimpering that they make, When of the banks their leave they take, Tells ye but this, they are the same, In nothing chang'd but in their name.

My wooing's ended: now my wedding's near When gloves are giving, gilded be you there.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.

I begin to wane in sight; Shortly I shall bid good-night: Then no gazing more about, When the tapers once are out.

Stand with thy graces forth, brave man, and rise High with thine own auspicious destinies: Nor leave the search, and proof, till thou canst find These, or those ends, to which thou wast design'd. Thy lucky genius and thy guiding star Have made thee prosperous in thy ways thus far: Nor will they leave thee till they both have shown Thee to the world a prime and public one. Then, when thou see'st thine age all turn'd to gold, Remember what thy Herrick thee foretold, When at the holy threshold of thine house He boded good luck to thy self and spouse. Lastly, be mindful, when thou art grown great, That towers high rear'd dread most the lightning's threat: Whenas the humble cottages not fear The cleaving bolt of Jove the thunderer.

Dew sat on Julia's hair And spangled too, Like leaves that laden are With trembling dew: Or glitter'd to my sight, As when the beams Have their reflected light Danc'd by the streams.

How can I choose but love and follow her Whose shadow smells like milder pomander? How can I choose but kiss her, whence does come The storax, spikenard, myrrh, and laudanum?

Great men by small means oft are overthrown; He's lord of thy life who contemns his own.

All things are open to these two events, Or to rewards, or else to punishments.

Shame is a bad attendant to a state: He rents his crown that fears the people's hate.

Since to the country first I came I have lost my former flame: And, methinks, I not inherit, As I did, my ravish'd spirit. If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line. Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him who only can Be in prose a grateful man.

I could never love indeed; Never see mine own heart bleed: Never crucify my life, Or for widow, maid, or wife. I could never seek to please One or many mistresses: Never like their lips to swear Oil of roses still smelt there. I could never break my sleep, Fold mine arms, sob, sigh, or weep: Never beg, or humbly woo With oaths and lies, as others do. I could never walk alone; Put a shirt of sackcloth on: Never keep a fast, or pray For good luck in love that day. But have hitherto liv'd free As the air that circles me: And kept credit with my heart, Neither broke i' th' whole, or part.

Would ye have fresh cheese and cream? Julia's breast can give you them: And, if more, each nipple cries: To your cream here's strawberries.

End. Ah! Lycidas, come tell me why Thy whilom merry oat By thee doth so neglected lie, And never purls a note? I prithee speak. Lyc. I will. End. Say on. Lyc. 'Tis thou, and only thou, That art the cause, Endymion. End. For love's sake, tell me how. Lyc. In this regard: that thou do'st play Upon another plain, And for a rural roundelay Strik'st now a courtly strain. Thou leav'st our hills, our dales, our bowers, Our finer fleeced sheep, Unkind to us, to spend thine hours Where shepherds should not keep. I mean the court: Let Latmos be My lov'd Endymion's court. End. But I the courtly state would see. Lyc. Then see it in report. What has the court to do with swains, Where Phyllis is not known? Nor does it mind the rustic strains Of us, or Corydon. Break, if thou lov'st us, this delay. End. Dear Lycidas, e're long I vow, by Pan, to come away And pipe unto thy song. Then Jessamine, with Florabell, And dainty Amaryllis, With handsome-handed Drosomell Shall prank thy hook with lilies. Lyc. Then Tityrus, and Corydon, And Thyrsis, they shall follow With all the rest; while thou alone Shalt lead like young Apollo. And till thou com'st, thy Lycidas, In every genial cup, Shall write in spice: Endymion 'twas That kept his piping up. And, my most lucky swain, when I shall live to see Endymion's moon to fill up full, remember me: Meantime, let Lycidas have leave to pipe to thee.

Bright tulips, we do know You had your coming hither, And fading-time does show That ye must quickly wither. Your sisterhoods may stay, And smile here for your hour; But die ye must away, Even as the meanest flower. Come, virgins, then, and see Your frailties, and bemoan ye; For, lost like these, 'twill be As time had never known ye.

That love last long, let it thy first care be To find a wife that is most fit for thee. Be she too wealthy or too poor, be sure Love in extremes can never long endure.

Reach, with your whiter hands, to me Some crystal of the spring; And I about the cup shall see Fresh lilies flourishing. Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this, To th' glass your lips incline; And I shall see by that one kiss The water turn'd to wine.

To this white temple of my heroes here, Beset with stately figures everywhere Of such rare saintships, who did here consume Their lives in sweets, and left in death perfume, Come, thou brave man! And bring with thee a stone Unto thine own edification. High are these statues here, besides no less Strong than the heavens for everlastingness: Where build aloft; and, being fix'd by these, Set up thine own eternal images.

A golden fly one show'd to me, Clos'd in a box of ivory, Where both seem'd proud: the fly to have His burial in an ivory grave; The ivory took state to hold A corpse as bright as burnish'd gold. One fate had both, both equal grace; The buried, and the burying-place. Not Virgil's gnat, to whom the spring All flowers sent to's burying; Not Martial's bee, which in a bead Of amber quick was buried; Nor that fine worm that does inter Herself i' th' silken sepulchre; Nor my rare Phil,[K] that lately was With lilies tomb'd up in a glass; More honour had than this same fly, Dead, and closed up in ivory.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies, Close thou up thy poet's eyes: And his last breath, let it be Taken in by none but thee.

If thou ask me, dear, wherefore I do write of thee no more, I must answer, sweet, thy part Less is here than in my heart.

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus I see't in's puris naturalibus: Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine; 'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine. What madman's he, that when it sparkles so, Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?

Jealous girls these sometimes were, While they liv'd or lasted here: Turn'd to flowers, still they be Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.

To fetch me wine my Lucia went, Bearing a crystal continent: But, making haste, it came to pass She brake in two the purer glass, Then smil'd, and sweetly chid her speed; So with a blush beshrew'd the deed.

Good precepts we must firmly hold, By daily learning we wax old.

If I dare write to you, my lord, who are Of your own self a public theatre, And, sitting, see the wiles, ways, walks of wit, And give a righteous judgment upon it, What need I care, though some dislike me should, If Dorset say what Herrick writes is good? We know y'are learn'd i' th' Muses, and no less In our state-sanctions, deep or bottomless. Whose smile can make a poet, and your glance Dash all bad poems out of countenance; So that an author needs no other bays For coronation than your only praise, And no one mischief greater than your frown To null his numbers, and to blast his crown. Few live the life immortal. He ensures His fame's long life who strives to set up yours.

Thou'rt hence removing (like a shepherd's tent), And walk thou must the way that others went: Fall thou must first, then rise to life with these, Mark'd in thy book for faithful witnesses.

What though the heaven be lowering now, And look with a contracted brow? We shall discover, by-and-by, A repurgation of the sky; And when those clouds away are driven, Then will appear a cheerful heaven.

I held Love's head while it did ache; But so it chanc'd to be, The cruel pain did his forsake, And forthwith came to me. Ay me! how shall my grief be still'd? Or where else shall we find One like to me, who must be kill'd For being too-too kind?

Next is your lot, fair, to be number'd one, Here, in my book's canonisation: Late you come in; but you a saint shall be, In chief, in this poetic liturgy.

First, for your shape, the curious cannot show Any one part that's dissonant in you: And 'gainst your chaste behaviour there's no plea, Since you are known to be Penelope. Thus fair and clean you are, although there be A mighty strife 'twixt form and chastity.

Fair and foul days trip cross and pile; the fair Far less in number than our foul days are.

Why, madam, will ye longer weep, Whenas your baby's lull'd asleep? And (pretty child) feels now no more Those pains it lately felt before. All now is silent; groans are fled: Your child lies still, yet is not dead; But rather like a flower hid here To spring again another year.

Come thou, who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest. Thou art of what I did intend The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet. Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride. We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave. And, hugging close, we will not fear Lust entering here, Where all desires are dead or cold As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here the slaves and pris'ners be From shackles free: And weeping widows long oppress'd Do here find rest. The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause. Here those long suits of chancery lie Quiet, or die: And all Star-Chamber bills do cease, Or hold their peace. Here needs no Court for our Request, Where all are best, All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown: Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. In this securer place we'll keep, As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie As robes laid by; To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn: Or, like old testaments engrost, Lock'd up, not lost. And for a while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next at that great Platonick year, And then meet here.

One more by thee, love, and desert have sent, T' enspangle this expansive firmament. O flame of beauty! come, appear, appear A virgin taper, ever shining here.

What now we like anon we disapprove: The new successor drives away old love.

Born I was to meet with age, And to walk life's pilgrimage. Much I know of time is spent, Tell I can't what's resident. Howsoever, cares, adieu! I'll have nought to say to you: But I'll spend my coming hours Drinking wine and crown'd with flowers.

Fortune did never favour one Fully, without exception; Though free she be, there's something yet Still wanting to her favourite.

Live, live with me, and thou shall see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee; What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board. The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed With crawling woodbine over-spread; By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown Made of the fleece's purest down. The tongues of kids shall be thy meat, Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread, With cream of cowslips buttered; Thy feasting-tables shall be hills With daisies spread and daffodils, Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody. I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets. A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave; So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it. On holidays, when virgins meet To dance the heyes with nimble feet, Thou shall come forth, and then appear The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-fac'd plum, all simp'ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribands to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth. Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love. These, nay, and more, thine own shall be If thou wilt love, and live with me.

When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay But here a-while, to languish and decay, Like to these garden-glories, which here be The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee; With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry: Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die.

Rare are thy cheeks, Susanna, which do show Ripe cherries smiling, while that others blow.

Clear are her eyes, Like purest skies, Discovering from thence A baby there That turns each sphere, Like an Intelligence.

Her pretty feet Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at Bo-Peep, Did soon draw in again.

For civil, clean, and circumcised wit, And for the comely carriage of it, Thou art the man, the only man best known, Mark'd for the true wit of a million: From whom we'll reckon. Wit came in but since The calculation of thy birth, brave Mince.

Fly me not, though I be grey: Lady, this I know you'll say; Better look the roses red When with white commingled. Black your hairs are, mine are white; This begets the more delight, When things meet most opposite: As in pictures we descry Venus standing Vulcan by.

If accusation only can draw blood, None shall be guiltless, be he ne'er so good.

As thou deserv'st, be proud; then gladly let The Muse give thee the Delphic coronet.

Goddess, I begin an art; Come thou in, with thy best part For to make the texture lie Each way smooth and civilly; And a broad-fac'd owl shall be Offer'd up with vows to thee.

'Tis evening, my sweet, And dark, let us meet; Long time w'ave here been a-toying, And never, as yet, That season could get Wherein t'ave had an enjoying. For pity or shame, Then let not love's flame Be ever and ever a-spending; Since now to the port The path is but short, And yet our way has no ending. Time flies away fast, Our hours do waste, The while we never remember How soon our life, here, Grows old with the year That dies with the next December.

Fortune no higher project can devise Than to sow discord 'mongst the enemies.

Preposterous is that government, and rude, When kings obey the wilder multitude.

Give way, and be ye ravish'd by the sun, And hang the head whenas the act is done, Spread as he spreads, wax less as he does wane; And as he shuts, close up to maids again.

Give me one kiss And no more: If so be this Makes you poor, To enrich you, I'll restore For that one two Thousand score.

Thou know'st, my Julia, that it is thy turn This morning's incense to prepare and burn. The chaplet and Inarculum[L] here be, With the white vestures, all attending thee. This day the queen-priest thou art made, t' appease Love for our very many trespasses. One chief transgression is, among the rest, Because with flowers her temple was not dressed; The next, because her altars did not shine With daily fires; the last, neglect of wine; For which her wrath is gone forth to consume Us all, unless preserved by thy perfume. Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus, O pious priestess! make a peace for us. For our neglect Love did our death decree; That we escape. Redemption comes by thee.

Born I was to be old, And for to die here: After that, in the mould Long for to lie here. But before that day comes Still I be bousing, For I know in the tombs There's no carousing.

Eaten I have; and though I had good cheer, I did not sup, because no friends were there. Where mirth and friends are absent when we dine Or sup, there wants the incense and the wine.

All things o'er-ruled are here by chance: The greatest man's inheritance, Where'er the lucky lot doth fall, Serves but for place of burial.

Ursley, she thinks those velvet patches grace The candid temples of her comely face; But he will say, whoe'er those circlets seeth, They be but signs of Ursley's hollow teeth.

Here we securely live and eat The cream of meat, And keep eternal fires, By which we sit, and do divine As wine And rage inspires. If full we charm, then call upon Anacreon To grace the frantic thyrse; And having drunk, we raise a shout Throughout To praise his verse. Then cause we Horace to be read, Which sung, or said, A goblet to the brim Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd, Around We quaff to him. Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours In wine and flowers, And make the frolic year, The month, the week, the instant day To stay The longer here. Come then, brave knight, and see the cell Wherein I dwell, And my enchantments too, Which love and noble freedom is; And this Shall fetter you. Take horse, and come, or be so kind To send your mind, Though but in numbers few, And I shall think I have the heart, Or part Of Clipseby Crew.

Nor is my number full till I inscribe Thee, sprightly Soame, one of my righteous tribe; A tribe of one lip, leaven, and of one Civil behaviour, and religion; A stock of saints, where ev'ry one doth wear A stole of white, and canonised here; Among which holies be thou ever known, Brave kinsman, mark'd out with the whiter stone Which seals thy glory, since I do prefer Thee here in my eternal calender.

Go I must; when I am gone, Write but this upon my stone: Chaste I lived, without a wife, That's the story of my life. Strewings need none, every flower Is in this word, bachelour.

Our mortal parts may wrapp'd in sear-cloths lie: Great spirits never with their bodies die.

Out of the world he must, who once comes in. No man exempted is from death, or sin.

Let me sleep this night away, Till the dawning of the day; Then at th' opening of mine eyes I, and all the world, shall rise.

'Tis worse than barbarous cruelty to show No part of pity on a conquered foe.

Here, here I live with what my board Can with the smallest cost afford. Though ne'er so mean the viands be, They well content my Prew and me. Or pea, or bean, or wort, or beet, Whatever comes, content makes sweet. Here we rejoice, because no rent We pay for our poor tenement, Wherein we rest, and never fear The landlord or the usurer. The quarter-day does ne'er affright Our peaceful slumbers in the night. We eat our own and batten more, Because we feed on no man's score; But pity those whose flanks grow great, Swell'd with the lard of others' meat. We bless our fortunes when we see Our own beloved privacy; And like our living, where we're known To very few, or else to none.

He who commends the vanquished, speaks the power And glorifies the worthy conqueror.

Some parts may perish, die thou canst not all: The most of thee shall 'scape the funeral.

If ye will with Mab find grace, Set each platter in his place; Rake the fire up, and get Water in, ere sun be set. Wash your pails, and cleanse your dairies; Sluts are loathsome to the fairies; Sweep your house, who doth not so, Mab will pinch her by the toe.

Did I or love, or could I others draw To the indulgence of the rugged law, The first foundation of that zeal should be By reading all her paragraphs in thee, Who dost so fitly with the laws unite, As if you two were one hermaphrodite. Nor courts[t] thou her because she's well attended With wealth, but for those ends she was intended: Which were,—and still her offices are known,— Law is to give to ev'ry one his own; To shore the feeble up against the strong, To shield the stranger and the poor from wrong. This was the founder's grave and good intent: To keep the outcast in his tenement, To free the orphan from that wolf-like man, Who is his butcher more than guardian; To dry the widow's tears, and stop her swoons, By pouring balm and oil into her wounds. This was the old way; and 'tis yet thy course To keep those pious principles in force. Modest I will be; but one word I'll say, Like to a sound that's vanishing away, Sooner the inside of thy hand shall grow Hisped and hairy, ere thy palm shall know A postern-bribe took, or a forked fee, To fetter Justice, when she might be free. Eggs I'll not shave; but yet, brave man, if I Was destin'd forth to golden sovereignty, A prince I'd be, that I might thee prefer To be my counsel both and chancellor.

Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never Wound up again: once down, he's down for ever. The watch once down, all motions then do cease; And man's pulse stop'd, all passions sleep in peace.

As in our clothes, so likewise he who looks, Shall find much farcing buckram in our books.

When I behold a forest spread With silken trees upon thy head, And when I see that other dress Of flowers set in comeliness; When I behold another grace In the ascent of curious lace, Which like a pinnacle doth show The top, and the top-gallant too. Then, when I see thy tresses bound Into an oval, square, or round, And knit in knots far more than I Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie; Next, when those lawny films I see Play with a wild civility, And all those airy silks to flow, Alluring me, and tempting so: I must confess mine eye and heart Dotes less on Nature than on Art.

Sweet Bridget blush'd, and therewithal Fresh blossoms from her cheeks did fall. I thought at first 'twas but a dream, Till after I had handled them And smelt them, then they smelt to me As blossoms of the almond tree.

I played with Love, as with the fire The wanton Satyr did; Nor did I know, or could descry What under there was hid. That Satyr he but burnt his lips; But mine's the greater smart, For kissing Love's dissembling chips The fire scorch'd my heart.

If men can say that beauty dies, Marbles will swear that here it lies. If, reader, then thou canst forbear In public loss to shed a tear, The dew of grief upon this stone Will tell thee pity thou hast none.

One of the five straight branches of my hand Is lop'd already, and the rest but stand Expecting when to fall, which soon will be; First dies the leaf, the bough next, next the tree.

Angry if Irene be But a minute's life with me: Such a fire I espy Walking in and out her eye, As at once I freeze and fry.

Upon her cheeks she wept, and from those showers Sprang up a sweet nativity of flowers.