A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick

     Bell-man of night, if I about shall go
     For to deny my Master, do thou crow!
     Thou stop'st Saint Peter in the midst of sin;
     Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin;
     Better it is, premonish'd, for to shun
     A sin, than fall to weeping when 'tis done.

     Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
     My private protonotary?
     Can I not woo thee, to pass by
     A short and sweet iniquity?
     I'll cast a mist and cloud upon
     My delicate transgression,
     So utter dark, as that no eye
     Shall see the hugg'd impiety.
     Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please
     And wind all other witnesses;
     And wilt not thou with gold be tied,
     To lay thy pen and ink aside,
     That in the mirk and tongueless night,
     Wanton I may, and thou not write?
     —It will not be:  And therefore, now,
     For times to come, I'll make this vow;
     From aberrations to live free:
     So I'll not fear the judge, or thee.

     Open thy gates
     To him who weeping waits,
     And might come in,
     But that held back by sin.
     Let mercy be
     So kind, to set me free,
     And I will straight
     Come in, or force the gate.

     In numbers, and but these few,
     I sing thy birth, oh JESU!
     Thou pretty Baby, born here,
     With sup'rabundant scorn here;
     Who for thy princely port here,
     Hadst for thy place
     Of birth, a base
     Out-stable for thy court here.

     Instead of neat enclosures
     Of interwoven osiers;
     Instead of fragrant posies
     Of daffadils and roses,
     Thy cradle, kingly stranger,
     As gospel tells,
     Was nothing else,
     But, here, a homely manger.

     But we with silks, not cruels,
     With sundry precious jewels,
     And lily-work will dress thee;
     And as we dispossess thee
     Of clouts, we'll make a chamber,
     Sweet babe, for thee,
     Of ivory,
     And plaster'd round with amber.

     The Jews, they did disdain thee;
     But we will entertain thee
     With glories to await here,
     Upon thy princely state here,
     And more for love than pity:
     From year to year
     We'll make thee, here,
     A free-born of our city.

     Go, pretty child, and bear this flower
     Unto thy little Saviour;
     And tell him, by that bud now blown,
     He is the Rose of Sharon known.
     When thou hast said so, stick it there
     Upon his bib or stomacher;
     And tell him, for good handsel too,
     That thou hast brought a whistle new,
     Made of a clean straight oaten reed,
     To charm his cries at time of need;
     Tell him, for coral, thou hast none,
     But if thou hadst, he should have one;
     But poor thou art, and known to be
     Even as moneyless as he.
     Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss
     From those melifluous lips of his;—
     Then never take a second on,
     To spoil the first impression.

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

     In the hour of my distress,
     When temptations me oppress,
     And when I my sins confess,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When I lie within my bed,
     Sick in heart, and sick in head,
     And with doubts discomforted,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the house doth sigh and weep,
     And the world is drown'd in sleep,
     Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the artless doctor sees
     No one hope, but of his fees,
     And his skill runs on the lees,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When his potion and his pill,
     Has, or none, or little skill,
     Meet for nothing but to kill,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the passing-bell doth toll,
     And the furies in a shoal
     Come to fright a parting soul,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the tapers now burn blue,
     And the comforters are few,
     And that number more than true,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the priest his last hath pray'd,
     And I nod to what is said,
     'Cause my speech is now decay'd,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When, God knows, I'm tost about
     Either with despair, or doubt;
     Yet, before the glass be out,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the tempter me pursu'th
     With the sins of all my youth,
     And half damns me with untruth,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the flames and hellish cries
     Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
     And all terrors me surprise,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     When the Judgment is reveal'd,
     And that open'd which was seal'd;
     When to Thee I have appeal'd,
     Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

     Thou bidst me come away,
     And I'll no longer stay,
     Than for to shed some tears
     For faults of former years;
     And to repent some crimes
     Done in the present times;
     And next, to take a bit
     Of bread, and wine with it;
     To don my robes of love,
     Fit for the place above;
     To gird my loins about
     With charity throughout;
     And so to travel hence
     With feet of innocence;
     These done, I'll only cry,
     'God, mercy!' and so die.

     Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep;
     And Time seems then not for to fly, but creep;
     Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she
     Had broke her wheel, or crack'd her axletree.
     Just so it is with me, who list'ning, pray
     The winds to blow the tedious night away,
     That I might see the cheerful peeping day.
     Sick is my heart; O Saviour!  do Thou please
     To make my bed soft in my sicknesses;
     Lighten my candle, so that I beneath
     Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death;
     Let me thy voice betimes i' th' morning hear;
     Call, and I'll come; say Thou the when and where:
     Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run,
     And make no one stop till my race be done.

     O years!  and age!  farewell:
     Behold I go,
     Where I do know
     Infinity to dwell.

     And these mine eyes shall see
     All times, how they
     Are lost i' th' sea
     Of vast eternity:—

     Where never moon shall sway
     The stars; but she,
     And night, shall be
     Drown'd in one endless day.

     In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
     While we sit by sorrow's streams,
     Tears and terrors are our themes,
     Reciting:

     But when once from hence we fly,
     More and more approaching nigh
     Unto young eternity,
     Uniting

     In that whiter Island, where
     Things are evermore sincere:
     Candour here, and lustre there,
     Delighting:—

     There no monstrous fancies shall
     Out of hell an horror call,
     To create, or cause at all
     Affrighting.

     There, in calm and cooling sleep,
     We our eyes shall never steep,
     But eternal watch shall keep,
     Attending

     Pleasures such as shall pursue
     Me immortalized, and you;
     And fresh joys, as never too
     Have ending.