Robert Herrick

Julia, I bring To thee this ring, Made for thy finger fit; To show by this That our love is (Or should be) like to it. Close though it be, The joint is free; So when Love’s yoke is on, It must not gall, Or fret at all With hard oppression. But it must play Still either way, And be, too, such a yoke As not too wide To overslide, Or be so strait to choke. So we who bear This beam must rear Ourselves to such a height As that the stay Of either may Create the burden light. And as this round Is nowhere found To flaw, or else to sever; So let our love As endless prove, And pure as gold for ever.

Fame’s pillar here at last we set, Out-during marble, brass or jet; Charmed and enchanted so As to withstand the blow O f   o v e r t h r o w ; Nor   shall   the   seas, Or     o u t r a g e s Of   storms,   o’erbear What    we    uprear; Tho’   kingdoms   fall, This   pillar   never   shall Decline   or waste at   all; But   stand   for ever   by   his   own Firm   and    well-fixed    foundation.

How Love came in, I do not know, Whether by th’ eye, or eare, or no: Or whether with the soule it came (At first) infused with the same: Whether in part ‘tis here or there, Or, like the soule, whole every where: This troubles me: but as I well As any other, this can tell; That when from hence she does depart, The out-let then is from the heart.

Ah Ben! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. My Ben Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend, And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more.

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 mis-light 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.

God will have all, or none; serve Him, or fall Down before Baal, Bel, or Belial: Either be hot, or cold: God doth despise, Abhorre, and spew out all Neutralities.

I would to God, that mine old age might have Before my last, but here a living grave; Some one poor almshouse, there to lie, or stir, Ghost-like, as in my meaner sepulchre; A little piggin, and a pipkin by, To hold things fitting my necessity, Which, rightly us'd, both in their time and place, Might me excite to fore, and after, grace. Thy cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be, Not to adore that, but to worship Thee. So here the remnant of my days I'd spend, Reading Thy bible, and my book; so end.

From the dull confines of the drooping west To see the day spring from the pregnant east, Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly To thee, blest place of my nativity! Thus, thus with hallow'd foot I touch the ground, With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd. O fruitful genius! that bestowest here An everlasting plenty, year by year. O place! O people! Manners! fram'd to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages! I am a free-born Roman; suffer then That I amongst you live a citizen. London my home is, though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment; Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee! For, rather than I'll to the west return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn. Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; Give thou my sacred relics burial.

When I a verse shall make, Know I have pray'd thee, For old religion's sake, Saint Ben to aid me. 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, shalt be Writ in my psalter.

For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and word, That's not inlaid with Thee, my Lord, Forgive me, God, and blot each line Out of my book, that is not Thine. But if, 'mongst all, Thou find'st here one Worthy thy benediction, That one of all the rest shall be The glory of my work, and me.