Robert Herrick

Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood, Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

If thou dislik’st the piece thou light’st on first, Think that of all that I have writ the worst; But if thou read’st my book unto the end, And still dost this and that verse reprehend, O perverse man! If all disgustful be, The extreme scab take thee and thine, for me.

Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For with the flow'ry earth The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow And my retorted hairs. Homer, this health to thee, In sack of such a kind That it would make thee see Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil I'll call forth To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid, and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose. Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat; O Bacchus! cool thy rays! Or frantic, I shall eat Thy thyrse, and bite the bays. Round, round the roof does run; And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text That this presents to me. Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire. And when all bodies meet, In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.

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 murk 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.

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find A way to measure out the wind? Distinguish all those floods that are Mixed in that wat’ry theater, And taste thou them as saltless there, As in their channel first they were. Tell me the people that do keep Within the kingdoms of the deep; Or fetch me back that cloud again, Beshivered into seeds of rain. Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears Of corn, when summer shakes his ears; Show me that world of stars, and whence They noiseless spill their influence. This if thou canst; then show me Him That rides the glorious cherubim.

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

Let’s call for Hymen if agreed thou art – Delays in love but crucify the heart. Love’s thorny tapers yet neglected lie; Speak thou the word, they’ll kindle by and by. The nimble hours woo us on to wed, And Genius waits to have us both to bed. Behold, for us the naked Graces stay With maunds of roses for us to strew the way. Besides, the most religious prophet stands Ready to join as well our hearts as hands. June yet smiles; but if she chance to chide, Ill luck ’twill bode to th’bridegroom and the bride. Tell me Anthea, dost thou fondly dread The loss of that we call a maidenhead? Come, I’ll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire Is not by marriage quenched, but flames the higher.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof: Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipp'd, unflead; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There plac'd by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink, Spic'd to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart, Which, fir'd with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee.