Love scorch'd my finger, but did spare
 The burning of my heart;
 To signify in love my share
 Should be a little part.
Little I love; but if that he
 Would but that heat recall;
 That joint to ashes burnt should be,[E]
 Ere I would love at all.

86. TO DEAN BOURN, A RUDE RIVER IN DEVON, BY
WHICH SOMETIMES HE LIVED.

Dean Bourn, farewell; I never look to see
 Dean, or thy watery[F] incivility.
Thy rocky bottom, that doth tear thy streams
 And makes them frantic even to all extremes,
 To my content I never should behold,
 Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold.
 Rocky thou art, and rocky we discover
 Thy men, and rocky are thy ways all over.
 O men, O manners, now and ever known
 To be a rocky generation!
 A people currish, churlish as the seas,
 And rude almost as rudest savages,
 With whom I did, and may re-sojourn when
 Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men.

87. KISSING USURY.

Bianca, let
 Me pay the debt
 I owe thee for a kiss
 Thou lend'st to me,
 And I to thee
 Will render ten for this.
If thou wilt say
 Ten will not pay
 For that so rich a one;
 I'll clear the sum,
 If it will come
 Unto a million.
By this, I guess,
 Of happiness
 Who has a little measure,
 He must of right
 To th' utmost mite
 Make payment for his pleasure.

88. TO JULIA.

How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art
 In each thy dainty and peculiar part!
 First, for thy queenship, on thy head is set
 Of flowers a sweet commingled coronet:
 About thy neck a carcanet is bound,
 Made of the ruby, pearl and diamond:
 A golden ring that shines upon thy thumb:
 About thy wrist, the rich dardanium.[G]
 Between thy breasts (than down of swans more white)
 There plays the sapphire with the chrysolite.
 No part besides must of thyself be known,
 But by the topaz, opal, chalcedon.

Carcanet, necklace.

89. TO LAURELS.

A funeral stone
 Or verse I covet none,
 But only crave
 Of you that I may have
 A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
 Which being seen,
 Blest with perpetual green,
 May grow to be
 Not so much call'd a tree
 As the eternal monument of me.

90. HIS CAVALIER.

Give me that man that dares bestride
 The active sea-horse, and with pride
 Through that huge field of waters ride.
Who with his looks, too, can appease
 The ruffling winds and raging seas,
 In midst of all their outrages.
This, this a virtuous man can do,
 Sail against rocks, and split them too;
 Ay, and a world of pikes pass through.

91. ZEAL REQUIRED IN LOVE.

I'll do my best to win whene'er I woo:
 That man loves not who is not zealous too.

92. THE BAG OF THE BEE.

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 stripp'd them,
 And, taking thence from each his flame,
 With rods of myrtle whipp'd them.
Which done, to still their wanton cries,
 When quiet grown she'd seen them,
 She kiss'd, and wip'd their dove-like eyes,
 And gave the bag between them.

93. LOVE KILLED BY LACK.

Let me be warm, let me be fully fed,
 Luxurious love by wealth is nourished.
 Let me be lean, and cold, and once grown poor,
 I shall dislike what once I lov'd before.

94. TO HIS MISTRESS.

Choose me your valentine,
 Next let us marry—
 Love to the death will pine
 If we long tarry.
Promise, and keep your vows,
 Or vow ye never—
 Love's doctrine disallows
 Troth-breakers ever.
You have broke promise twice,
 Dear, to undo me,
 If you prove faithless thrice
 None then will woo ye.

95. TO THE GENEROUS READER.

See and not see, and if thou chance t'espy
 Some aberrations in my poetry,
 Wink at small faults; the greater, ne'ertheless,
 Hide, and with them their father's nakedness.
 Let's do our best, our watch and ward to keep;
 Homer himself, in a long work, may sleep.

96. TO CRITICS.

I'll write, because I'll give
 You critics means to live;
 For should I not supply
 The cause, th' effect would die.

97. DUTY TO TYRANTS.

Good princes must be pray'd for; for the bad
 They must be borne with, and in rev'rence had.
 Do they first pill thee, next pluck off thy skin?
 Good children kiss the rods that punish sin.
 Touch not the tyrant; let the gods alone
 To strike him dead that but usurps a throne.

Pill, plunder.

98. BEING ONCE BLIND, HIS REQUEST TO BIANCA.

When age or chance has made me blind,
 So that the path I cannot find,
 And when my falls and stumblings are
 More than the stones i' th' street by far,
 Go thou afore, and I shall well
 Follow thy perfumes by the smell;
 Or be my guide, and I shall be
 Led by some light that flows from thee.
 Thus held or led by thee, I shall
 In ways confus'd nor slip or fall.

100. NO WANT WHERE THERE'S LITTLE.

To bread and water none is poor;
 And having these, what need of more?
 Though much from out the cess be spent,
 Nature with little is content.

Cess, the parish assessment for church purposes.

101. BARLEY-BREAK; OR, LAST IN HELL.

We two are last in hell; what may we fear
 To be tormented or kept pris'ners here?
 Alas! if kissing be of plagues the worst,
 We'll wish in hell we had been last and first.

Barley-break, a country game resembling prisoners' base. See Note.
Hell, the "middle den," the occupants of which had to catch the other players.

102. THE DEFINITION OF BEAUTY.

Beauty no other thing is than a beam
 Flashed out between the middle and extreme.

103. TO DIANEME.

Dear, though to part it be a hell,
 Yet, Dianeme, now farewell:
 Thy frown last night did bid me go,
 But whither only grief does know.
 I do beseech thee ere we part,
 If merciful as fair thou art,
 Or else desir'st that maids should tell
 Thy pity by love's chronicle,
 O Dianeme, rather kill
 Me, than to make me languish still!
 'Tis cruelty in thee to th' height
 Thus, thus to wound, not kill outright;
 Yet there's a way found, if you please,
 By sudden death to give me ease;
 And thus devis'd, do thou but this—
 Bequeath to me one parting kiss,
 So sup'rabundant joy shall be
 The executioner of me.

104. TO ANTHEA LYING IN BED.

So looks Anthea, when in bed she lies
 O'ercome or half betray'd by tiffanies,
 Like to a twilight, or that simpering dawn
 That roses show when misted o'er with lawn.
 Twilight is yet, till that her lawns give way;
 Which done, that dawn turns then to perfect day.

Tiffanies, gauzes.
Lawn, fine linen.

105. TO ELECTRA.

More white than whitest lilies far,
 Or snow, or whitest swans you are:
 More white than are the whitest creams,
 Or moonlight tinselling the streams:
 More white than pearls, or Juno's thigh,
 Or Pelops' arm of ivory.
 True, I confess, such whites as these
 May me delight, not fully please;
 Till like Ixion's cloud you be
 White, warm, and soft to lie with me.

Pelops' arm, which Jove gave him to replace the one eaten by Ceres at the feast of Tantalus.
Ixion's cloud, to which Jove, for his deception, gave the form of Juno.

106. A COUNTRY-LIFE: TO HIS BROTHER,
MR. THO. HERRICK.

Thrice, and above, bless'd, my soul's half, art thou
 In thy both last and better vow:
 Could'st leave the city, for exchange, to see
 The country's sweet simplicity:
 And it to know and practise, with intent
 To grow the sooner innocent
 By studying to know virtue, and to aim
 More at her nature than her name.
 The last is but the least; the first doth tell
 Ways less to live than to live well:
 And both are known to thee, who now can'st live
 Led by thy conscience; to give
 Justice to soon-pleased nature; and to show
 Wisdom and she together go
 And keep one centre: this with that conspires
 To teach man to confine desires
 And know that riches have their proper stint
 In the contented mind, not mint:
 And can'st instruct that those who have the itch
 Of craving more are never rich.
 These things thou know'st to th' height, and dost prevent
 That plague; because thou art content
 With that heav'n gave thee with a wary hand,
 More blessed in thy brass than land,
 To keep cheap nature even and upright;
 To cool, not cocker appetite.
 Thus thou canst tersely live to satisfy
 The belly chiefly, not the eye;
 Keeping the barking stomach wisely quiet,
 Less with a neat than needful diet.
 But that which most makes sweet thy country life
 Is the fruition of a wife:
 Whom, stars consenting with thy fate, thou hast
 Got not so beautiful as chaste:
 By whose warm side thou dost securely sleep,
 While love the sentinel doth keep,
 With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affright
 Thy silken slumbers in the night.
 Nor has the darkness power to usher in
 Fear to those sheets that know no sin;
 But still thy wife, by chaste intentions led,
 Gives thee each night a maidenhead.
 The damask'd meadows and the pebbly streams
 Sweeten and make soft your dreams:
 The purling springs, groves, birds, and well-weav'd bowers,
 With fields enamelled with flowers,
 Present their shapes; while fantasy discloses
 Millions of lilies mix'd with roses.
 Then dream ye hear the lamb by many a bleat
 Woo'd to come suck the milky teat:
 While Faunus in the vision comes to keep
 From rav'ning wolves the fleecy sheep.
 With thousand such enchanting dreams, that meet
 To make sleep not so sound as sweet:
 Nor can these figures so thy rest endear
 As not to rise when Chanticlere
 Warns the last watch; but with the dawn dost rise
 To work, but first to sacrifice;
 Making thy peace with heav'n, for some late fault,
 With holy-meal and spirting-salt.
 Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us,
 Jove for our labour all things sells us.
 Nor are thy daily and devout affairs
 Attended with those desp'rate cares
 Th' industrious merchant has; who, for to find
 Gold, runneth to the Western Inde,
 And back again, tortured with fears, doth fly,
 Untaught to suffer poverty.
 But thou at home, bless'd with securest ease,
 Sitt'st, and believ'st that there be seas
 And watery dangers; while thy whiter hap
 But sees these things within thy map.
 And viewing them with a more safe survey
 Mak'st easy fear unto thee say,—
 "A heart thrice wall'd with oak and brass that man
 Had, first durst plough the ocean".
 But thou at home, without or tide or gale,
 Can'st in thy map securely sail:
 Seeing those painted countries, and so guess
 By those fine shades their substances:
 And, from thy compass taking small advice,
 Buy'st travel at the lowest price.
 Nor are thine ears so deaf but thou canst hear,
 Far more with wonder than with fear,
 Fame tell of states, of countries, courts, and kings,
 And believe there be such things:
 When of these truths thy happier knowledge lies
 More in thine ears than in thine eyes.
 And when thou hear'st by that too true report
 Vice rules the most or all at court,
 Thy pious wishes are, though thou not there,
 Virtue had, and mov'd her sphere.
 But thou liv'st fearless; and thy face ne'er shows
 Fortune when she comes or goes,
 But with thy equal thoughts prepared dost stand,
 To take her by the either hand;
 Nor car'st which comes the first, the foul or fair:
 A wise man ev'ry way lies square,
 And, like a surly oak with storms perplex'd,
 Grows still the stronger, strongly vex'd.
 Be so, bold spirit; stand centre-like, unmov'd;
 And be not only thought, but prov'd
 To be what I report thee; and inure
 Thyself, if want comes to endure:
 And so thou dost, for thy desires are
 Confin'd to live with private lar:
 Not curious whether appetite be fed
 Or with the first or second bread,
 Who keep'st no proud mouth for delicious cates:
 Hunger makes coarse meats delicates.
 Canst, and unurg'd, forsake that larded fare,
 Which art, not nature, makes so rare,
 To taste boil'd nettles, colworts, beets, and eat
 These and sour herbs as dainty meat,
 While soft opinion makes thy Genius say,
 Content makes all ambrosia.
 Nor is it that thou keep'st this stricter size
 So much for want as exercise:
 To numb the sense of dearth, which should sin haste it,
 Thou might'st but only see't, not taste it.
 Yet can thy humble roof maintain a choir
 Of singing crickets by the fire:
 And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbs
 Till that the green-eyed kitling comes,
 Then to her cabin blest she can escape
 The sudden danger of a rape:
 And thus thy little well-kept stock doth prove
 Wealth cannot make a life, but love.
 Nor art thou so close-handed but canst spend,
 Counsel concurring with the end,
 As well as spare, still conning o'er this theme,
 To shun the first and last extreme.
 Ordaining that thy small stock find no breach,
 Or to exceed thy tether's reach:
 But to live round, and close, and wisely true
 To thine own self, and known to few.
 Thus let thy rural sanctuary be
 Elysium to thy wife and thee;
 There to disport yourselves with golden measure:
 For seldom use commends the pleasure.
 Live, and live blest, thrice happy pair; let breath,
 But lost to one, be the other's death.
 And as there is one love, one faith, one troth,
 Be so one death, one grave to both.
 Till when, in such assurance live ye may,
 Nor fear or wish your dying day.

Brass, money.
Cocker, pamper.
Neat, dainty.
Spirting-salt, the "saliente mica" of Horace, See Note.
Lar, the "closet-gods," or gods of the house.
Colworts, cabbages.
Size or assize, a fixed allowance of food, a ration.

107. DIVINATION BY A DAFFODIL.

When a daffodil I see,
 Hanging down his head towards me,
 Guess I may what I must be:
 First, I shall decline my head;
 Secondly, I shall be dead;
 Lastly, safely buried.

108. TO THE PAINTER, TO DRAW HIM A PICTURE.

Come, skilful Lupo, now, and take
 Thy bice, thy umber, pink, and lake;
 And let it be thy pencil's strife,
 To paint a Bridgeman to the life:
 Draw him as like too, as you can,
 An old, poor, lying, flattering man:
 His cheeks bepimpled, red and blue;
 His nose and lips of mulberry hue.
 Then, for an easy fancy, place
 A burling iron for his face:
 Next, make his cheeks with breath to swell,
 And for to speak, if possible:
 But do not so, for fear lest he
 Should by his breathing, poison thee.

Bice, properly a brown grey, but by transference from "blue bice" and "green bice," used for blue and green.
Burling iron, pincers for extracting knots.

111. A LYRIC TO MIRTH.

While the milder fates consent,
 Let's enjoy our merriment:
 Drink, and dance, and pipe, and play;
 Kiss our dollies night and day:
 Crowned with clusters of the vine,
 Let us sit, and quaff our wine.
 Call on Bacchus, chant his praise;
 Shake the thyrse, and bite the bays:
 Rouse Anacreon from the dead,
 And return him drunk to bed:
 Sing o'er Horace, for ere long
 Death will come and mar the song:
 Then shall Wilson and Gotiere
 Never sing or play more here.

Wilson, Dr. John Wilson, the singer and composer, one of the king's musicians (1594-1673).
Gotiere, Jacques Gaultier, a French lutist at the court of Charles I.

112. TO THE EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

When my date's done, and my grey age must die,
 Nurse up, great lord, this my posterity:
 Weak though it be, long may it grow and stand,
 Shored up by you, brave Earl of Westmoreland.

113. AGAINST LOVE.

Whene'er my heart love's warmth but entertains,
 Oh frost! oh snow! oh hail! forbid the banes.
 One drop now deads a spark, but if the same
 Once gets a force, floods cannot quench the flame.
 Rather than love, let me be ever lost,
 Or let me 'gender with eternal frost.

114. UPON JULIA'S RIBAND.

As shows the air when with a rainbow grac'd,
 So smiles that riband 'bout my Julia's waist:
 Or like—nay 'tis that zonulet of love,
 Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.

115. THE FROZEN ZONE; OR, JULIA DISDAINFUL.

Whither? say, whither shall I fly,
 To slack these flames wherein I fry?
 To the treasures, shall I go,
 Of the rain, frost, hail, and snow?
 Shall I search the underground,
 Where all damps and mists are found?
 Shall I seek (for speedy ease)
 All the floods and frozen seas?
 Or descend into the deep,
 Where eternal cold does keep?
 These may cool; but there's a zone
 Colder yet than anyone:
 That's my Julia's breast, where dwells
 Such destructive icicles,
 As that the congelation will
 Me sooner starve than those can kill.

116. AN EPITAPH UPON A SOBER MATRON.

With blameless carriage, I lived here
 To the almost seven and fortieth year.
 Stout sons I had, and those twice three
 One only daughter lent to me:
 The which was made a happy bride
 But thrice three moons before she died.
 My modest wedlock, that was known
 Contented with the bed of one.

117. TO THE PATRON OF POETS, M. END. PORTER.

Let there be patrons, patrons like to thee,
 Brave Porter! poets ne'er will wanting be:
 Fabius and Cotta, Lentulus, all live
 In thee, thou man of men! who here do'st give
 Not only subject-matter for our wit,
 But likewise oil of maintenance to it:
 For which, before thy threshold, we'll lay down
 Our thyrse for sceptre, and our bays for crown.
 For, to say truth, all garlands are thy due:
 The laurel, myrtle, oak, and ivy too.

118. THE SADNESS OF THINGS FOR SAPPHO'S SICKNESS.

Lilies will languish; violets look ill;
 Sickly the primrose; pale the daffodil;
 That gallant tulip will hang down his head,
 Like to a virgin newly ravished;
 Pansies will weep, and marigolds will wither,
 And keep a fast and funeral together;
 Sappho droop, daisies will open never,
 But bid good-night, and close their lids for ever.

119. LEANDER'S OBSEQUIES.

When as Leander young was drown'd
 No heart by Love receiv'd a wound,
 But on a rock himself sat by,
 There weeping sup'rabundantly.
 Sighs numberless he cast about,
 And, all his tapers thus put out,
 His head upon his hand he laid,
 And sobbing deeply, thus he said:
 "Ah, cruel sea," and, looking on't,
 Wept as he'd drown the Hellespont.
 And sure his tongue had more express'd
 But that his tears forbade the rest.

120. HOPE HEARTENS.

None goes to warfare but with this intent—
 The gains must dead the fears of detriment.

121. FOUR THINGS MAKE US HAPPY HERE.

Health is the first good lent to men;
 A gentle disposition then:
 Next, to be rich by no by-ways;
 Lastly, with friends t'enjoy our days.

122. HIS PARTING FROM MRS. DOROTHY KENNEDY.

When I did go from thee I felt that smart
 Which bodies do when souls from them depart.
 Thou did'st not mind it; though thou then might'st see
 Me turn'd to tears; yet did'st not weep for me.
 'Tis true, I kiss'd thee; but I could not hear
 Thee spend a sigh t'accompany my tear.
 Methought 'twas strange that thou so hard should'st prove,
 Whose heart, whose hand, whose every part spake love.
 Prithee, lest maids should censure thee, but say
 Thou shed'st one tear, whenas I went away;
 And that will please me somewhat: though I know,
 And Love will swear't, my dearest did not so.

123. THE TEAR SENT TO HER FROM STAINES.

Glide, gentle streams, and bear
 Along with you my tear
 To that coy girl
 Who smiles, yet slays
 Me with delays,
 And strings my tears as pearl.
See! see, she's yonder set,
 Making a carcanet
 Of maiden-flowers!
 There, there present
 This orient
 And pendant pearl of ours.
Then say I've sent one more
 Gem to enrich her store;
 And that is all
 Which I can send,
 Or vainly spend,
 For tears no more will fall.
Nor will I seek supply
 Of them, the spring's once dry;
 But I'll devise,
 Among the rest,
 A way that's best
 How I may save mine eyes.
Yet say—should she condemn
 Me to surrender them
 Then say my part
 Must be to weep
 Out them, to keep
 A poor, yet loving heart.
Say too, she would have this;
 She shall: then my hope is,
 That when I'm poor
 And nothing have
 To send or save,
 I'm sure she'll ask no more.

Carcanet, necklace.

124. UPON ONE LILY, WHO MARRIED WITH A MAID
CALLED ROSE.

What times of sweetness this fair day foreshows,
 Whenas the Lily marries with the Rose!
 What next is look'd for? but we all should see
 To spring from thee a sweet posterity.

125. AN EPITAPH UPON A CHILD.

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

127. THE HOUR-GLASS.

That hour-glass which there you see
 With water fill'd, sirs, credit me,
 The humour was, as I have read,
 But lovers' tears incrystalled.
 Which, as they drop by drop do pass
 From th' upper to the under-glass,
 Do in a trickling manner tell,
 By many a watery syllable,
 That lovers' tears in lifetime shed
 Do restless run when they are dead.

Humour, moisture.

128. HIS FAREWELL TO SACK.

Farewell thou thing, time past so known, so dear
 To me as blood to life and spirit; near,
 Nay, thou more near than kindred, friend, man, wife,
 Male to the female, soul to body; life
 To quick action, or the warm soft side
 Of the resigning, yet resisting bride.
 The kiss of virgins, first fruits of the bed,
 Soft speech, smooth touch, the lips, the maidenhead:
 These and a thousand sweets could never be
 So near or dear as thou wast once to me.
 O thou, the drink of gods and angels! wine
 That scatter'st spirit and lust, whose purest shine
 More radiant than the summer's sunbeams shows;
 Each way illustrious, brave, and like to those
 Comets we see by night, whose shagg'd portents
 Foretell the coming of some dire events,
 Or some full flame which with a pride aspires,
 Throwing about his wild and active fires;
 'Tis thou, above nectar, O divinest soul!
 Eternal in thyself, that can'st control
 That which subverts whole nature, grief and care,
 Vexation of the mind, and damn'd despair.
 'Tis thou alone who, with thy mystic fan,
 Work'st more than wisdom, art, or nature can
 To rouse the sacred madness and awake
 The frost-bound blood and spirits, and to make
 Them frantic with thy raptures flashing through
 The soul like lightning, and as active too.
 'Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three
 Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee.
 Horace, Anacreon, both had lost their fame,
 Had'st thou not fill'd them with thy fire and flame.
 Phœbean splendour! and thou, Thespian spring!
 Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing
 Their true-pac'd numbers and their holy lays,
 Which makes them worthy cedar and the bays.
 But why, why longer do I gaze upon
 Thee with the eye of admiration?
 Since I must leave thee, and enforc'd must say
 To all thy witching beauties, Go, away.
 But if thy whimpering looks do ask me why,
 Then know that nature bids thee go, not I.
 'Tis her erroneous self has made a brain
 Uncapable of such a sovereign
 As is thy powerful self. Prithee not smile,
 Or smile more inly, lest thy looks beguile
 My vows denounc'd in zeal, which thus much show thee
 That I have sworn but by thy looks to know thee.
 Let others drink thee freely, and desire
 Thee and their lips espous'd, while I admire
 And love thee, but not taste thee. Let my muse
 Fail of thy former helps, and only use
 Her inadult'rate strength: what's done by me
 Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.

Shagg'd, rough-haired.
Mystic fan, the "mystica vannus Iacchi" of Georgic, i. 166.
Cedar, i.e., cedar oil, used for the preservation of manuscripts.

130. UPON MRS. ELIZABETH WHEELER, UNDER THE
NAME OF AMARILLIS.