The Hesperides & Noble Numbers: Vol. 1 and 2

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.

356. UPON JUDITH. EPIG.

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.

359. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP, EARL OF
PEMBROKE AND MONTGOMERY.

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.

Cockering, pampering.

Chop-cherry, another name of cherry-bob.

365. TO THE MOST LEARNED, WISE, AND ARCH-ANTIQUARY,
M. JOHN SELDEN.

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.

Daphne, i.e., the laurel

366. UPON HIMSELF.

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.

367. UPON WRINKLES.

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

370. PRAY AND PROSPER.

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.

Beads, prayers.
Mell, honey.
Sincere silver, pure silver.

371. HIS LACHRYMÆ; OR, MIRTH TURNED TO
MOURNING.

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.

375. TO THE MOST FAIR AND LOVELY MISTRESS
ANNE SOAME, NOW LADY ABDIE.

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.

Factors, workers.
Respasses, raspberries.
Pomander, ball of scent.

376. UPON HIS KINSWOMAN, MISTRESS ELIZABETH
HERRICK.

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.

377. A PANEGYRIC TO SIR LEWIS PEMBERTON.

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.

Vigil, watchman.
Button'd-staff, staff with a knob at its end.
Yirkt, scourged.
Redeem, buy back.
Suppling, tender.
Trebius, friend of the epicure Lucullus; cp. Juv. v. 19.

378. TO HIS VALENTINE ON ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

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.

382. UPON M. BEN. JONSON. EPIG.

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.

383. ANOTHER.

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

384. TO HIS NEPHEW, TO BE PROSPEROUS IN HIS ART
OF PAINTING.

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.

Urbin, Raphael.
Brugel, Jan Breughel, Dutch landscape painter (1569-1625), or his father or brother.
Coxu, Michael van Coxcie, Flemish painter (1497-1592).

386. A VOW TO MARS.

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.

387. TO HIS MAID, PREW.

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.

388. A CANTICLE TO APOLLO.

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.

389. A JUST MAN.

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

390. UPON A HOARSE SINGER.

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

391. HOW PANSIES OR HEART'S-EASE CAME FIRST.

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.

392. TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, SIR EDWARD FISH,
KNIGHT BARONET.

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.

393. LAR'S PORTION AND THE POET'S PART.

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.

Peculiar, his own property.

394. UPON MAN.

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.

395. LIBERTY.

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.

396. LOTS TO BE LIKED.

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

397. GRIEFS.

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

399. THE DREAM.

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.

402. CLOTHES DO BUT CHEAT AND COZEN US.

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.

403. TO DIANEME.

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.

404. UPON ELECTRA.

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.

405. TO HIS BOOK.

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.

The farting tanner, etc., see Note.

406. OF LOVE.

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.

407. UPON HIMSELF.

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.

408. ANOTHER.

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

412. THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

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.

413. TO SPRINGS AND FOUNTAINS.

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.

414. UPON JULIA'S UNLACING HERSELF.

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.

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.

421. A PASTORAL SUNG TO THE KING:
MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS.

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.

Quintell, quintain or tilting board.
Bents, grasses.
Pales, the goddess of sheepfolds.

The Hesperides & Noble Numbers: Vol. 1 and 2

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