Robert Herrick

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; Candor here and luster 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.

In sober mornings do thou not rehearse The holy incantation of a verse; But when that men have both well drunk, and fed, Let my enchantments then be sung, or read. When laurel spurts i' th' fire, and when the hearth Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth; When up the thyrse is raised, and when the sound Of sacred orgies flies: "A round, a round;" When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

Be the mistress of my choice, Clean in manners, clear in voice; Be she witty, more than wise, Pure enough, though not precise; Be she showing in her dress, Like a civil wilderness, That the curious may detect Order in a sweet neglect; Be she rolling in her eye, Tempting all the passers by; And each ringlet of her hair, An enchantment, or a snare, For to catch the lookers on; But herself held fast by none. Let her Lucrece all day be, Thais in the night, to me. Be she such, as neither will Famish me, nor overfill.

I dreamed this mortal part of mine Was metamorphosed to a vine, Which crawling one and every way Enthralled my dainty Lucia. Methought her long small legs and thighs I with my tendrils did surprise; Her belly, buttocks, and her waist By my soft nervelets were embraced. About her head I writhing hung, And with rich clusters (hid among The leaves) her temples I behung, So that my Lucia seemed to me Young Bacchus ravished by his tree. My curls about her neck did crawl, And arms and hands they did enthrall, So that she could not freely stir (All parts there made one prisoner). But when I crept with leaves to hide Those parts which maids keep unespied, Such fleeting pleasures there I took That with the fancy I awoke; And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine More like a stock than like a vine.

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses: Stately Julia, prime of all; Sappho next, a principal; Smooth Anthea, for a skin White, and heaven-like crystalline; Sweet Electra, and the choice Myrrha, for the lute, and voice; Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla; all are gone; Only Herrick's left alone For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.

In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid, From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.

Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week, And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek. Six days he hollows so much breath away That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!

Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me Behold that circummortal purity; Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay, Ravished in that fair Via Lactea .

Here lies Jonson with the rest Of the poets; but the best. Reader, would’st thou more have known? Ask his story, not this stone. That will speak what this can’t tell Of his glory. So farewell.