The Project Gutenberg eBook of Robert Herrick, The Hesperides And Noble Numbers: Edited By Alfred Pollard

Nothing can be more loathsome than to see
Power conjoin'd with Nature's cruelty.

Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.

Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shall be
Writ in my Psalter.

605. POVERTY AND RICHES.

Give Want her welcome if she comes; we find
Riches to be but burdens to the mind.

606. AGAIN.

Who with a little cannot be content,
Endures an everlasting punishment.

607. THE COVETOUS STILL CAPTIVES.

Let's live with that small pittance that we have;
Who covets more, is evermore a slave.

608. LAWS.

When laws full power have to sway, we see
Little or no part there of tyranny.

609. OF LOVE.

I'll get me hence,
Because no fence
Or fort that I can make here,
But love by charms,
Or else by arms
Will storm, or starving take here.

611. TO HIS MUSE.

Go woo young Charles no more to look
Than but to read this in my book:
How Herrick begs, if that he can-
Not like the muse, to love the man,
Who by the shepherds sung, long since,
The star-led birth of Charles the Prince.

Long since, i.e., in the "Pastoral upon the Birth of Prince Charles" (213), where see Note.

612. THE BAD SEASON MAKES THE POET SAD.

Dull to myself, and almost dead to these
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since everything
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
Sick is the land to the heart, and doth endure
More dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.
But if that golden age would come again,
And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;
If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were,
As when the sweet Maria lived here:
I should delight to have my curls half drown'd
In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd;
And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,
Knock at a star with my exalted head.

Knock at a star (sublimi feriam sidera vertice). Horace Ode, i. 1.

613. TO VULCAN.

Thy sooty godhead I desire
Still to be ready with thy fire;
That should my book despised be,
Acceptance it might find of thee.

614. LIKE PATTERN, LIKE PEOPLE.

This is the height of justice: that to do
Thyself which thou put'st other men unto.
As great men lead, the meaner follow on,
Or to the good, or evil action.

615. PURPOSES.

No wrath of men or rage of seas
Can shake a just man's purposes:
No threats of tyrants or the grim
Visage of them can alter him;
But what he doth at first intend,
That he holds firmly to the end.

616. TO THE MAIDS TO WALK ABROAD.

Come, sit we under yonder tree,
Where merry as the maids we'll be;
And as on primroses we sit,
We'll venture, if we can, at wit:
If not, at draw-gloves we will play;
So spend some minutes of the day:
Or else spin out the thread of sands,
Playing at Questions and Commands:
Or tell what strange tricks love can do,
By quickly making one of two.
Thus we will sit and talk, but tell
No cruel truths of Philomel,
Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd on
To kill herself for Demophon.
But fables we'll relate: how Jove
Put on all shapes to get a love;
As now a satyr, then a swan;
A bull but then, and now a man.
Next we will act how young men woo,
And sigh, and kiss as lovers do;
And talk of brides, and who shall make
That wedding-smock, this bridal cake,
That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine,
That smooth and silken columbine.
This done, we'll draw lots who shall buy
And gild the bays and rosemary;
What posies for our wedding rings;
What gloves we'll give and ribandings:
And smiling at ourselves, decree,
Who then the joining priest shall be.
What short, sweet prayers shall be said;
And how the posset shall be made
With cream of lilies, not of kine,
And maiden's-blush, for spiced wine.
Thus, having talked, we'll next commend
A kiss to each, and so we'll end.

Draw-gloves, talking on the fingers.
Philomela, daughter of Pandion, changed into a nightingale.
Phyllis, the S. Phyllis of a former lyric (To Groves).
Gild the bays, see Note to 479.

617. HIS OWN EPITAPH.

As wearied pilgrims, once possest
Of long'd-for lodging, go to rest,
So I, now having rid my way,
Fix here my button'd staff and stay.
Youth, I confess, hath me misled;
But age hath brought me right to bed.

Button'd, knobbed.

618. A NUPTIAL VERSE TO MISTRESS ELIZABETH LEE,
NOW LADY TRACY.

Spring with the lark, most comely bride, and meet
Your eager bridegroom with auspicious feet.
The morn's far spent, and the immortal sun
Corals his cheek to see those rites not done.
Fie, lovely maid! indeed you are too slow,
When to the temple Love should run, not go.
Dispatch your dressing then, and quickly wed;
Then feast, and coy't a little, then to bed.
This day is Love's day, and this busy night
Is yours, in which you challenged are to fight
With such an arm'd, but such an easy foe,
As will, if you yield, lie down conquer'd too.
The field is pitch'd, but such must be your wars,
As that your kisses must outvie the stars.
Fall down together vanquished both, and lie
Drown'd in the blood of rubies there, not die.

Corals, reddens.

619. THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber:
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light
Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silv'ry feet
My soul I'll pour into thee.

620. TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW.

Give me wine, and give me meat,
To create in me a heat,
That my pulses high may beat.

Cold and hunger never yet
Could a noble verse beget;
But your bowls with sack replete.

Give me these, my knight, and try
In a minute's space how I
Can run mad and prophesy.

Then, if any piece prove new
And rare, I'll say, my dearest Crew,
It was full inspired by you.

621. GOOD LUCK NOT LASTING.

If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast:
The happy fortune will not always last.

622. A KISS.

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:
The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.

623. GLORY.

I make no haste to have my numbers read:
Seldom comes glory till a man be dead.

624. POETS.

Wantons we are, and though our words be such,
Our lives do differ from our lines by much.

625. NO DESPITE TO THE DEAD.

Reproach we may the living, not the dead:
'Tis cowardice to bite the buried.

626. TO HIS VERSES.

What will ye, my poor orphans, do
When I must leave the world and you?
Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed,
Or credit ye when I am dead?
Who'll let ye by their fire sit,
Although ye have a stock of wit
Already coin'd to pay for it?
I cannot tell, unless there be
Some race of old humanity
Left, of the large heart and long hand,
Alive, as noble Westmorland,
Or gallant Newark, which brave two
May fost'ring fathers be to you.
If not, expect to be no less
Ill us'd, than babes left fatherless.

Westmorland, Newark, see Notes.

627. HIS CHARGE TO JULIA AT HIS DEATH.

Dearest of thousands, now the time draws near
That with my lines my life must full-stop here.
Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shed
Over my turf when I am buried.
Then for effusions, let none wanting be,
Or other rites that do belong to me;
As love shall help thee, when thou dost go hence
Unto thy everlasting residence.

Effusions, the "due drink-offerings" of the lyric "To his lovely mistresses" (634).

628. UPON LOVE.

In a dream, Love bade me go
To the galleys there to row;
In the vision I ask'd why?
Love as briefly did reply,
'Twas better there to toil, than prove
The turmoils they endure that love.
I awoke, and then I knew
What Love said was too-too true;
Henceforth therefore I will be,
As from love, from trouble free.
None pities him that's in the snare,
And, warned before, would not beware.

629. THE COBBLERS' CATCH.

Come sit we by the fire's side,
And roundly drink we here;
Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'd
And noses tann'd with beer.

633. CONNUBII FLORES, OR THE WELL-WISHES
AT WEDDINGS.

Chorus Sacerdotum. From the temple to your home
May a thousand blessings come!
And a sweet concurring stream
Of all joys to join with them.

Chorus Juvenum. Happy Day,
Make no long stay
Here
In thy sphere;
But give thy place to Night,
That she,
As thee,
May be
Partaker of this sight.
And since it was thy care
To see the younglings wed,
'Tis fit that Night the pair
Should see safe brought to bed.

Chorus Senum. Go to your banquet then, but use delight,
So as to rise still with an appetite.
Love is a thing most nice, and must be fed
To such a height, but never surfeited.
What is beyond the mean is ever ill:
'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill;
Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,
And this remember, virtue keeps the measure.

Chorus Virginum. Lucky signs we have descri'd
To encourage on the bride,
And to these we have espi'd,
Not a kissing Cupid flies
Here about, but has his eyes
To imply your love is wise.

Chorus Pastorum. Here we present a fleece
To make a piece
Of cloth;
Nor, fair, must you be both
Your finger to apply
To housewifery.
Then, then begin
To spin:
And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will come
Into your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.

Chorus Matronarum. Set you to your wheel, and wax
Rich by the ductile wool and flax.
Yarn is an income, and the housewives' thread
The larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.

Chorus Senum. Let wealth come in by comely thrift
And not by any sordid shift;
'Tis haste
Makes waste:
Extremes have still their fault:
The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:
Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sand
Holds none at all, or little in his hand.

Chorus Virginum. Goddess of pleasure, youth and peace,
Give them the blessing of increase:
And thou, Lucina, that dost hear
The vows of those that children bear:
Whenas her April hour draws near,
Be thou then propitious there.

Chorus Juvenum. Far hence be all speech that may anger move:
Sweet words must nourish soft and gentle love.

Chorus Omnium. Live in the love of doves, and having told
The raven's years, go hence more ripe than old.

Nice, dainty.
Painful, painstaking; for the passage cp. Catull. Nupt. Pel. et Thet. 311-314.

634. TO HIS LOVELY MISTRESSES.

One night i' th' year, my dearest beauties, come
And bring those due drink-offerings to my tomb.
When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,
And there to lick th' effused sacrifice:
Though paleness be the livery that I wear,
Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.
Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once show
The least grim look, or cast a frown on you:
Nor shall the tapers when I'm there burn blue.
This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,
Cast on my girls a glance and loving eye,
Or fold mine arms and sigh, because I've lost
The world so soon, and in it you the most.
Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,
Though then I smile and speak no words at all.

Fold mine arms, cp. "crossing his arms in this sad knot" (Tempest).

635. UPON LOVE.

A crystal vial Cupid brought,
Which had a juice in it;
Of which who drank, he said no thought
Of love he should admit.

I, greedy of the prize, did drink,
And emptied soon the glass;
Which burnt me so, that I do think
The fire of hell it was.

Give me my earthen cups again,
The crystal I contemn;
Which, though enchas'd with pearls, contain
A deadly draught in them.

And thou, O Cupid! come not to
My threshold, since I see,
For all I have, or else can do,
Thou still wilt cozen me.

638. THE BEGGAR TO MAB, THE FAIRY QUEEN.

Please your Grace, from out your store,
Give an alms to one that's poor,
That your mickle may have more.
Black I'm grown for want of meat
Give me then an ant to eat,
Or the cleft ear of a mouse
Over-sour'd in drink of souce;
Or, sweet lady, reach to me
The abdomen of a bee;
Or commend a cricket's hip,
Or his huckson, to my scrip.
Give for bread a little bit
Of a pea that 'gins to chit,
And my full thanks take for it.
Flour of fuzz-balls, that's too good
For a man in needihood;
But the meal of milldust can
Well content a craving man.
Any orts the elves refuse
Well will serve the beggar's use.
But if this may seem too much
For an alms, then give me such
Little bits that nestle there
In the prisoner's panier.
So a blessing light upon
You and mighty Oberon:
That your plenty last till when
I return your alms again.

Mickle, much.
Souce, salt-pickle.
Huckson, huckle-bone.
Chit, sprout.
Orts, scraps of food.
Prisoner's panier, the basket which poor prisoners used to hang out of the gaol windows for alms in money or kind.

639. AN END DECREED.

Let's be jocund while we may,
All things have an ending day;
And when once the work is done,
Fates revolve no flax they've spun.

Revolve, i.e., bring back.

640. UPON A CHILD.

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

641. PAINTING SOMETIMES PERMITTED.

If Nature do deny
Colours, let Art supply.

642. FAREWELL FROST, OR WELCOME THE SPRING.

Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appear
Re-cloth'd in fresh and verdant diaper.
Thaw'd are the snows, and now the lusty spring
Gives to each mead a neat enamelling.
The palms put forth their gems, and every tree
Now swaggers in her leafy gallantry.
The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings,
With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.
What gentle winds perspire! As if here
Never had been the northern plunderer
To strip the trees and fields, to their distress,
Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.
And look how when a frantic storm doth tear
A stubborn oak, or holm, long growing there,
But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breeze
That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees:
So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoil
Our salt, our corn, our honey, wine and oil,
Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast
His inconsiderate frenzy off, at last,
The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,
Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.

Gems, buds.
Daulian minstrel, the nightingale Philomela.
Terean sufferings, i.e., at the hands of Tereus.

643. THE HAG.

The hag is astride
This night for to ride,
The devil and she together;
Through thick and through thin,
Now out and then in,
Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a burr
She takes for a spur,
With a lash of a bramble she rides now;
Through brakes and through briars,
O'er ditches and mires,
She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast for his food
Dare now range the wood,
But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;
While mischiefs, by these,
On land and on seas,
At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

644. UPON AN OLD MAN: A RESIDENTIARY.

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.
Twice forty, bating but one year
And thrice three weeks, he lived here.
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence.
Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,
Which from his ghost a promise is,
If here ye will some few tears shed,
He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.

Residentiary, old inhabitant.

645. UPON TEARS.

Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,
Above they are the angels' spiced wine.

646. PHYSICIANS.

Physicians fight not against men; but these
Combat for men by conquering the disease.

647. THE PRIMITIÆ TO PARENTS.

Our household-gods our parents be;
And manners good require that we
The first fruits give to them, who gave
Us hands to get what here we have.

649. UPON LUCY. EPIG.

Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small,
With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.

651. TO SILVIA.

I am holy while I stand
Circum-crost by thy pure hand;
But when that is gone, again
I, as others, am profane.

Circum-crost, marked round with a cross.

652. TO HIS CLOSET-GODS.

When I go hence, ye Closet-Gods, I fear
Never again to have ingression here
Where I have had whatever thing could be
Pleasant and precious to my muse and me.
Besides rare sweets, I had a book which none
Could read the intext but myself alone.
About the cover of this book there went
A curious-comely clean compartlement,
And, in the midst, to grace it more, was set
A blushing, pretty, peeping rubelet.
But now 'tis closed; and being shut and seal'd,
Be it, O be it, never more reveal'd!
Keep here still, Closet-Gods, 'fore whom I've set
Oblations oft of sweetest marmelet.

Ingression, entrance.
Intext, contents.

653. A BACCHANALIAN VERSE.

Fill me a mighty bowl
Up to the brim,
That I may drink
Unto my Jonson's soul.

Crown it again, again;
And thrice repeat
That happy heat,
To drink to thee, my Ben.

Well I can quaff, I see,
To th' number five
Or nine; but thrive
In frenzy ne'er like thee.

To the number five or nine, see Note.

654. LONG-LOOKED-FOR COMES AT LAST.

Though long it be, years may repay the debt;
None loseth that which he in time may get.

655. TO YOUTH.

Drink wine, and live here blitheful, while ye may:
The morrow's life too late is; live to-day.

656. NEVER TOO LATE TO DIE.

No man comes late unto that place from whence
Never man yet had a regredience.

Regredience, return.

657. A HYMN TO THE MUSES.

O you the virgins nine!
That do our souls incline
To noble discipline!
Nod to this vow of mine.
Come, then, and now inspire
My viol and my lyre
With your eternal fire,
And make me one entire
Composer in your choir.
Then I'll your altars strew
With roses sweet and new;
And ever live a true
Acknowledger of you.

658. ON HIMSELF.

I'll sing no more, nor will I longer write
Of that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.
I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers;
No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.
I'll write no more, nor will I tell or sing
Of Cupid and his witty cozening:
I'll sing no more of death, or shall the grave
No more my dirges and my trentalls have.

Trentalls, service for the dead.

660. TO MOMUS.

Who read'st this book that I have writ,
And can'st not mend but carp at it;
By all the Muses! thou shalt be
Anathema to it and me.

661. AMBITION.

In ways to greatness, think on this,
That slippery all ambition is.

662. THE COUNTRY LIFE, TO THE HONOURED M.
END. PORTER, GROOM OF THE BEDCHAMBER
TO HIS MAJESTY.

Sweet country life, to such unknown
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home;
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove
To bring from thence the scorched clove;
Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No, thy ambition's masterpiece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year:
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others larger grounds:
For well thou know'st 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamelled meads
Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,
Thou see'st a present God-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;
And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dew-laps up in meat;
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass as backs with wool,
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantry and plays
Thou hast thy eves and holidays;
On which the young men and maids meet
To exercise their dancing feet;
Tripping the comely country round,
With daffodils and daisies crown'd.
Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast,
Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd;
Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,
Thy shearing feast which never fail;
Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,
That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole;
Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kings
And queens, thy Christmas revellings,
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.
To these, thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net;
Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made;
Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood!
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these,
And lying down have nought t' affright
Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

Cætera desunt ——

Soil'd, manured.
Compost, preparation.
Fox i' th' hole, a hopping game in which boys beat each other with gloves.
Cockrood, a run for snaring woodcocks.
Glade, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catch game. (Willoughby, Ornithologie, i. 3.)