A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick

     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.

     You've 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
     You're left here to lament
     Your poor estates alone.

     Am I despised, because you say;
     And I dare swear, that I am gray?
     Know, Lady, you have but your day!
     And time will come when you shall wear
     Such frost and snow upon your hair;
     And when, though long, it comes to pass,
     You question with your looking-glass,
     And in that sincere crystal seek
     But find no rose-bud in your cheek,
     Nor any bed to give the shew
     Where such a rare carnation grew:-
     Ah!  then too late, close in your chamber keeping,
     It will be told
     That you are old,—
     By those true tears you're weeping.

     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 plow
     Loathed furrows in your brow:
     And the dimness of your eye
     Will no other thing imply,
     But you must die
     As well as I.

     Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's
     Soft and soul-melting murmurings,
     Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew
     A Robin-red-breast; who at view,
     Not seeing her at all to stir,
     Brought leaves and moss to cover her:
     But while he, perking, there did pry
     About the arch of either eye,
     The lid began to let out day,—
     At which poor Robin flew away;
     And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved,
     He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.

     No fault in women, to refuse
     The offer which they most would chuse.
     —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.

     About the sweet bag of a bee
     Two Cupids fell at odds;
     And whose the pretty prize should be
     They vow'd to ask the Gods.

     Which Venus hearing, thither came,
     And for their boldness stript them;
     And taking thence from each his flame,
     With rods of myrtle whipt them.

     Which done, to still their wanton cries,
     When quiet grown she'd seen them,
     She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes,
     And gave the bag between them.

     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.

     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.

     These springs were maidens once that loved,
     But lost to that they most approved:
     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 changed but in their name.

     As is your name, so is your comely face
     Touch'd every where with such diffused grace,
     As that in all that admirable round,
     There is not one least solecism found;
     And as that part, so every portion else
     Keeps line for line with beauty's parallels.

     When I love, as some have told
     Love I shall, when I am old,
     O ye Graces!  make me fit
     For the welcoming of it!
     Clean my rooms, as temples be,
     To entertain that deity;
     Give me words wherewith to woo,
     Suppling and successful too;
     Winning postures; and withal,
     Manners each way musical;
     Sweetness to allay my sour
     And unsmooth behaviour:
     For I know you have the skill
     Vines to prune, though not to kill;
     And of any wood ye see,
     You can make a Mercury.

     I will confess
     With cheerfulness,
     Love is a thing so likes me,
     That, let her lay
     On me all day,
     I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

     I will not, I,
     Now blubb'ring cry,
     It, ah!  too late repents me
     That I did fall
     To love at all—
     Since love so much contents me.

     No, no, I'll be
     In fetters free;
     While others they sit wringing
     Their hands for pain,
     I'll entertain
     The wounds of love with singing.

     With flowers and wine,
     And cakes divine,
     To strike me I will tempt thee;
     Which done, no more
     I'll come before
     Thee and thine altars empty.

     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Like, and dislike ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Stroke ye, to strike ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Love will be-fool ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Heat ye, to cool ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Love, gifts will send ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Stock ye, to spend ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Love will fulfil ye.
     I bring ye love.  QUES. What will love do?
     ANS. Kiss ye, to kill ye.

     A Gyges ring they bear about them still,
     To be, and not seen when and where they will;
     They tread on clouds, and though they sometimes fall,
     They fall like dew, and make no noise at all:
     So silently they one to th' other come,
     As colours steal into the pear or plum,
     And air-like, leave no pression to be seen
     Where'er they met, or parting place has been.

     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 every where.

     1  Has it a speaking virtue?  2  Yes.
     1  How speaks it, say?  2  Do you but this,—
     Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss;
     CHOR.  And this Love's sweetest language is.

     1  Has it a body?  2  Ay, and wings,
     With thousand rare encolourings;
     And as it flies, it gently sings—
     CHOR.  Love honey yields, but never stings.

     What needs complaints,
     When she a place
     Has with the race
     Of saints?
     In endless mirth,
     She thinks not on
     What's said or done
     In earth:
     She sees no tears,
     Or any tone
     Of thy deep groan
     She hears;
     Nor does she mind,
     Or think on't now,
     That ever thou
     Wast kind:—
     But changed above,
     She likes not there,
     As she did here,
     Thy love.
     —Forbear, therefore,
     And lull asleep
     Thy woes, and weep
     No more.

     Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
     To fetch Eurydice from hell;
     And had her, but it was upon
     This short, but strict condition;
     Backward he should not look, while he
     Led her through hell's obscurity.
     But ah!  it happen'd, as he made
     His passage through that dreadful shade,
     Revolve he did his loving eye,
     For gentle fear or jealousy;
     And looking back, that look did sever
     Him and Eurydice for ever.

     Ponder my words, if so that any be
     Known guilty here of incivility;
     Let what is graceless, discomposed, and rude,
     With sweetness, smoothness, softness be endued:
     Teach it to blush, to curtsey, lisp, and show
     Demure, but yet full of temptation, too.
     Numbers ne'er tickle, or but lightly please,
     Unless they have some wanton carriages:—
     This if ye do, each piece will here be good
     And graceful made by your neat sisterhood.

     Sea-born goddess, let me be
     By thy son thus graced, 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 sirop, that I may
     In your temple, when I pray,
     Kiss the altar, and confess
     There's in love no bitterness.

     Whither dost thou hurry 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!

     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
     Daffadils giv'n up to thee.

     Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,
     And we will sit all 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!

     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, dispossess'd of pain,
     Like to a slumbering bride, awake again.

     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.

     The mellow touch of music most doth wound
     The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

     Begin to charm, and as thou strok'st mine ears
     With thine enchantment, melt me into tears.
     Then let thy active hand scud o'er thy lyre,
     And make my spirits frantic with the fire;
     That done, sink down into a silvery strain,
     And make me smooth as balm and oil again.

     Rare is the voice itself:  but when we sing
     To th' lute or viol, then 'tis ravishing.

     Charm me asleep, and melt me so
     With thy delicious numbers;
     That being ravish'd, 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.

     Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
     Wherein to dwell;
     A little house, whose humble roof
     Is weather proof;
     Under the spars of which I lie
     Both soft and dry;
     Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
     Hast set a guard
     Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
     Me, while I sleep.
     Low is my porch, as is my fate;
     Both void of state;
     And yet the threshold of my door
     Is worn by th' poor,
     Who thither come, and freely get
     Good words, or meat.
     Like as my parlour, so my hall
     And kitchen's small;
     A little buttery, and therein
     A little bin,
     Which keeps my little loaf of bread
     Unchipt, unflead;
     Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
     Make me a fire,
     Close by whose living coal I sit,
     And glow like it.
     Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
     The pulse is thine,
     And all those other bits that be
     There placed by thee;
     The worts, the purslain, and the mess
     Of water-cress,
     Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
     And my content
     Makes those, and my beloved beet,
     To be more sweet.
     'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
     With guiltless mirth,
     And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
     Spiced to the brink.
     Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
     That soils my land,
     And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
     Twice ten for one;
     Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
     Her egg each day;
     Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
     Me twins each year;
     The while the conduits of my kine
     Run cream, for wine:
     All these, and better, thou dost send
     Me, to this end,—
     That I should render, for my part,
     A thankful heart;
     Which, fired with incense, I resign,
     As wholly thine;
     —But the acceptance, that must be,
     My Christ, by Thee.

     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 every thing.
     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.

     In all thy need, be thou possest
     Still with a well prepared breast;
     Nor let the shackles make thee sad;
     Thou canst but have what others had.
     And this for comfort thou must know,
     Times that are ill won't still be so:
     Clouds will not ever pour down rain;
     A sullen day will clear again.
     First, peals of thunder we must hear;
     When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.

     First offer incense; then, thy field and meads
     Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads.
     The spangling dew dredged 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.

     Along the dark and silent night,
     With my lantern and my light
     And the tinkling of my bell,
     Thus I walk, and this I tell:
     —Death and dreadfulness call on
     To the general session;
     To whose dismal bar, we there
     All accounts must come to clear:
     Scores of sins we've made here many;
     Wiped out few, God knows, if any.
     Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall
     To make payment, while I call:
     Ponder this, when I am gone:
     —By the clock 'tis almost One.

     Time was upon
     The wing, to fly away;
     And I call'd on
     Him but awhile to stay;
     But he'd be gone,
     For aught that I could say.

     He held out then
     A writing, as he went,
     And ask'd me, when
     False man would be content
     To pay again
     What God and Nature lent.

     An hour-glass,
     In which were sands but few,
     As he did pass,
     He shew'd,—and told me too
     Mine end near was;—
     And so away he flew.

     That flow of gallants which approach
     To kiss thy hand from out the coach;
     That fleet of lackeys which do run
     Before thy swift postilion;
     Those strong-hoof'd mules, which we behold
     Rein'd in with purple, pearl, and gold,
     And shod with silver, prove to be
     The drawers of the axle-tree;
     Thy wife, thy children, and the state
     Of Persian looms and antique plate:
     —All these, and more, shall then afford
     No joy to thee, their sickly lord.

     Life is the body's light; which, once declining,
     Those crimson clouds i' th' cheeks and lips leave shining:-
     Those counter-changed tabbies in the air,
     The sun once set, all of one colour are:
     So, when death comes, fresh tinctures lose their place,
     And dismal darkness then doth smutch the face.

     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.

     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.

     Here a pretty baby lies
     Sung asleep with lullabies;
     Pray be silent, and not stir
     Th' easy earth that covers her.

     Virgins promised when I died,
     That they would each primrose-tide
     Duly, morn and evening, come,
     And with flowers dress my tomb.
     —Having promised, pay your debts
     Maids, and here strew violets.

     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.

     Here she lies, in bed of spice,
     Fair as Eve in paradise;
     For her beauty, it was such,
     Poets could not praise too much.
     Virgins come, and in a ring
     Her supremest REQUIEM sing;
     Then depart, but see ye tread
     Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.

     O thou, the wonder of all days!
     O paragon, and pearl of praise!
     O Virgin-martyr, ever blest
     Above the rest
     Of all the maiden-train!  We come,
     And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

     Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round
     Thy harmless and unhaunted ground;
     And as we sing thy dirge, we will
     The daffadil,
     And other flowers, lay upon
     The altar of our love, thy stone.

     Thou wonder of all maids, liest here,
     Of daughters all, the dearest dear;
     The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
     Of this smooth green,
     And all sweet meads, from whence we get
     The primrose and the violet.

     Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,
     By thy sad loss, our liberty;
     His was the bond and cov'nant, yet
     Thou paid'st the debt;
     Lamented Maid!  he won the day:
     But for the conquest thou didst pay.

     Thy father brought with him along
     The olive branch and victor's song;
     He slew the Ammonites, we know,
     But to thy woe;
     And in the purchase of our peace,
     The cure was worse than the disease.

     For which obedient zeal of thine,
     We offer here, before thy shrine,
     Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
     And to make fine
     And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here
     Four times bestrew thee every year.

     Receive, for this thy praise, our tears;
     Receive this offering of our hairs;
     Receive these crystal vials, fill'd
     With tears, distill'd
     From teeming eyes; to these we bring,
     Each maid, her silver filleting,

     To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
     These laces, ribbons, and these falls,
     These veils, wherewith we use to hide
     The bashful bride,
     When we conduct her to her groom;
     All, all we lay upon thy tomb.

     No more, no more, since thou art dead,
     Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
     No more, at yearly festivals,
     We, cowslip balls,
     Or chains of columbines shall make,
     For this or that occasion's sake.

     No, no; our maiden pleasures be
     Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
     'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;
     Or if we have
     One seed of life left, 'tis to keep
     A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

     Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
     And make this place all paradise;
     May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence
     Fat frankincense;
     Let balm and cassia send their scent
     From out thy maiden-monument.

     May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir
     A wing about thy sepulchre!
     No boisterous winds or storms come hither,
     To starve or wither
     Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
     Love keep it ever flourishing.

     May all shy maids, at wonted hours,
     Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers;
     May virgins, when they come to mourn,
     Male-incense burn
     Upon thine altar; then return,
     And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

     Come pity us, all ye who see
     Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
     Come pity us, ye passers-by,
     Who see or hear poor widows' cry;
     Come pity us, and bring your ears
     And eyes to pity widows' tears.
     CHOR.  And when you are come hither,
     Then we will keep
     A fast, and weep
     Our eyes out all together,

     For Tabitha; who dead lies here,
     Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier.
     O modest matrons, weep and wail!
     For now the corn and wine must fail;
     The basket and the bin of bread,
     Wherewith so many souls were fed,
     CHOR.  Stand empty here for ever;
     And ah!  the poor,
     At thy worn door,
     Shall be relieved never.

     Woe worth the time, woe worth the day,
     That reft us of thee, Tabitha!
     For we have lost, with thee, the meal,
     The bits, the morsels, and the deal
     Of gentle paste and yielding dough,
     That thou on widows did bestow.
     CHOR.  All's gone, and death hath taken
     Away from us
     Our maundy; thus
     Thy widows stand forsaken.

     Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas!  now adieu
     We bid the cruise and pannier too;
     Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish,
     Doled to us in that lordly dish.
     We take our leaves now of the loom
     From whence the housewives' cloth did come;
     CHOR.  The web affords now nothing;
     Thou being dead,
     The worsted thread
     Is cut, that made us clothing.

     Farewell the flax and reaming wool,
     With which thy house was plentiful;
     Farewell the coats, the garments, and
     The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;
     Farewell thy fire and thy light,
     That ne'er went out by day or night:—
     CHOR.  No, or thy zeal so speedy,
     That found a way,
     By peep of day,
     To feed and clothe the needy.

     But ah, alas!  the almond-bough
     And olive-branch is wither'd now;
     The wine-press now is ta'en from us,
     The saffron and the calamus;
     The spice and spikenard hence is gone,
     The storax and the cinnamon;
     CHOR.  The carol of our gladness
     Has taken wing;
     And our late spring
     Of mirth is turn'd to sadness.

     How wise wast thou in all thy ways!
     How worthy of respect and praise!
     How matron-like didst thou go drest!
     How soberly above the rest
     Of those that prank it with their plumes,
     And jet it with their choice perfumes!
     CHOR.  Thy vestures were not flowing;
     Nor did the street
     Accuse thy feet
     Of mincing in their going.

     And though thou here liest dead, we see
     A deal of beauty yet in thee.
     How sweetly shews thy smiling face,
     Thy lips with all diffused grace!
     Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless, white,
     And comely as the chrysolite.
     CHOR.  Thy belly like a hill is,
     Or as a neat
     Clean heap of wheat,
     All set about with lilies.

     Sleep with thy beauties here, while we
     Will shew these garments made by thee;
     These were the coats; in these are read
     The monuments of Dorcas dead:
     These were thy acts, and thou shalt have
     These hung as honours o'er thy grave:—
     CHOR.  And after us, distressed,
     Should fame be dumb,
     Thy very tomb
     Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

     First, for effusions due unto the dead,
     My solemn vows have here accomplished;
     Next, how I love thee, that my grief must tell,
     Wherein thou liv'st for ever.—Dear, farewell!

     When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
     But here awhile, 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!

     I'll write no more of love, but now repent
     Of all those times that I in it have spent.
     I'll write no more of life, but wish 'twas ended,
     And that my dust was to the earth commended.

     Give me a cell
     To dwell,
     Where no foot hath
     A path;
     There will I spend,
     And end,
     My wearied years
     In tears.

     O earth!  earth!  earth!  hear thou my voice, and be
     Loving and gentle for to cover me!
     Banish'd from thee I live;—ne'er to return,
     Unless thou giv'st my small remains an urn.