Biancha, letMe pay the debtI owe thee for a kissThou lend'st to me;And I to theeWill render ten for this.If thou wilt say,Ten will not payFor that so rich a one;I'll clear the sum,If it will comeUnto a million.He must of right,To th' utmost mite,Make payment for his pleasure,(By this I guess)Of happinessWho has a little measure.
I have lost, and lately, theseMany dainty mistresses:—Stately Julia, prime of all;Sapho next, a principal:Smooth Anthea, for a skinWhite, and heaven-like crystalline:Sweet Electra, and the choiceMyrha, 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 byTheir departures hence, and die.
Come, bring your sampler, and with artDraw in't a wounded heart,And dropping here and there;Not that I think that any dartCan make your's bleed a tear,Or pierce it any where;Yet do it to this end,—that IMay byThis secret see,Though you can makeThat heart to bleed, your's ne'er will acheFor me,
You may vow I'll not forgetTo pay the debtWhich to thy memory stands as dueAs faith can seal it you.—Take then tribute of my tears;So long as I have fearsTo prompt me, I shall everLanguish and look, but thy return see never.Oh then to lessen my despair,Print thy lips into the air,So by thisMeans, I may kiss thy kiss,Whenas some kindWindShall hither waft it:—And, in lieu,My lips shall send a thousand back to you.
Thou see'st me, Lucia, this year droop;Three zodiacs fill'd more, I shall stoop;Let crutches then provided beTo shore up my debility:Then, while thou laugh'st, I'll sighing cry,A ruin underpropt am I:Don will I then my beadsman's gown;And when so feeble I am grownAs my weak shoulders cannot bearThe burden of a grasshopper;Yet with the bench of aged sires,When I and they keep termly fires,With my weak voice I'll sing, or saySome odes I made of Lucia;—Then will I heave my wither'd handTo Jove the mighty, for to standThy faithful friend, and to pour downUpon thee many a benison.
Anthea, I am going henceWith some small stock of innocence;But yet those blessed gates I seeWithstanding entrance unto me;To pray for me do thou begin;—The porter then will let me in.
Now is the time when all the lights wax dim;And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from himWho was thy servant: Dearest, bury meUnder that holy-oak, or gospel-tree;Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think uponMe, when thou yearly go'st procession;Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tombIn which thy sacred reliques shall have room;For my embalming, Sweetest, there will beNo spices wanting, when I'm laid by thee.
One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come,And bring those dew-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 showThe 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 lostThe 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.
Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to seeMe, day by day, to steal away from thee?Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come,And haste away to mine eternal home;'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kiss:—Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bringPart of the cream from that religious spring,With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;That done, then wind me in that very sheetWhich wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst imploreThe Gods' protection, but the night before;Follow me weeping to my turf, and thereLet fall a primrose, and with it a tear:Then lastly, let some weekly strewings beDevoted to the memory of me;Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keepStill in the cool and silent shades of sleep.
You are a Tulip seen to-day,But, Dearest, of so short a stay,That where you grew, scarce man can say.You are a lovely July-flower;Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower,Will force you hence, and in an hour.You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud,Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and bloodCan show where you or grew or stood.You are a full-spread fair-set Vine,And can with tendrils love entwine;Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.You are like Balm, enclosed wellIn amber, or some crystal shell;Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.You are a dainty Violet;Yet wither'd, ere you can be setWithin the virgins coronet.You are the Queen all flowers among;But die you must, fair maid, ere long,As he, the maker of this song.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow 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 worstTimes, 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 for ever tarry.
Let others to the printing-press run fast;Since after death comes glory, I'll not haste.
All has been plunder'd from me but my wit:Fortune herself can lay no claim to it.
Things are uncertain; and the more we get,The more on icy pavements we are set.
No man such rare parts hath, that he can swim,If favour or occasion help not him.
Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to seeMyself now live; this age best pleaseth me!
Want is a softer wax, that takes thereon,This, that, and every base impression,
For all our works a recompence is sure;'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.
When words we want, Love teacheth to indite;And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
Beauty no other thing is, than a beamFlash'd out between the middle and extreme.
Though frankincense the deities require,We must not give all to the hallow'd fire.Such be our gifts, and such be our expense,As for ourselves to leave some frankincense.
When all birds else do of their music fail,Money's the still-sweet-singing nightingale!
Knew'st thou one month would take thy life away,Thou'dst weep; but laugh, should it not last a day.
Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,Above, they are the Angels' spiced wine.
Love's of itself too sweet; the best of allIs, when love's honey has a dash of gall.
Great cities seldom rest; if there be noneT' invade from far, they'll find worse foes at home.
Those ends in war the best contentment bring,Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.
Twixt truth and error, there's this difference knownError is fruitful, truth is only one.
Dread not the shackles; on with thine intent,Good wits get more fame by their punishment.
Man may want land to live in; but for allNature finds out some place for burial.
If little labour, little are our gains;Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may;The morrow's life too late is; Live to-day.
While fates permit us, let's be merry;Pass all we must the fatal ferry;And this our life, too, whirls away,With the rotation of the day.
Every time seems short to beThat's measured by felicity;But one half-hour that's made up hereWith grief, seems longer than a year.
True mirth resides not in the smiling skin;The sweetest solace is to act no sin.
In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning partWithout the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Love is a circle, that doth restless moveIn the same sweet eternity of Love.
Here we are all, by day; by night we're hurl'dBy dreams, each one into a several world.
In man, ambition is the common'st thing;Each one by nature loves to be a king.
What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore;Ships have been drown'd, where late they danced before.
Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.
Wrinkles no more are, or no less,Than beauty turn'd to sourness.
Good things, that come of course, far less do pleaseThan those which come by sweet contingencies.
Let's live in haste; use pleasures while we may;Could life return, 'twould never lose a day.
Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not letHis gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.
Man knows where first he ships himself; but heNever can tell where shall his landing be.
Great men by small means oft are overthrown;He's lord of thy life, who contemns his own.
Who with a little cannot be content,Endures an everlasting punishment.
Man is composed here of a twofold part;The first of nature, and the next of art;Art presupposes nature; nature, shePrepares the way for man's docility.
No wrath of men, or rage of seas,Can shake a just man's purposes;No threats of tyrants, or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.
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.
Man is a watch, wound up at first, but neverWound up again; Once down, he's down for ever.The watch once down, all motions then do cease;The man's pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.
I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,And lik'st the best? Still thou repli'st, The dead.—I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;Then sure thou'lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.
Live by thy Muse thou shalt, when others die,Leaving no fame to long posterity;When monarchies trans-shifted are, and gone,Here shall endure thy vast dominion.
I call, I call: who do ye call?The maids to catch this cowslip ball!But since these cowslips fading be,Troth, leave the flowers, and maids, take me!Yet, if that neither you will do,Speak but the word, and I'll take you,
First, April, she with mellow showersOpens the way for early flowers;Then after her comes smiling May,In a more rich and sweet array;Next enters June, and brings us moreGems than those two that went before;Then, lastly, July comes, and sheMore wealth brings in than all those three.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here a-while,To blush and gently smile;And go at last.What, were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight;And so to bid good-night?'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,Merely to show your worth,And lose you quite.But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their pride,Like you, a-while;—they glideInto the grave.
Love in a shower of blossoms cameDown, and half drown'd me with the same;The blooms that fell were white and red;But with such sweets commingled,As whether (this) I cannot tell,My sight was pleased more, or my smell;But true it was, as I roll'd there,Without a thought of hurt or fear,Love turn'd himself into a bee,And with his javelin wounded me;—-From which mishap this use I make;Where most sweets are, there lies a snake;Kisses and favours are sweet things;But those have thorns, and these have stings.
Go, happy Rose, and interwoveWith other flowers, bind my Love.Tell her, too, she must not beLonger flowing, longer free,That so oft has fetter'd me.Say, if she's fretful, I have bandsOf pearl and gold, to bind her hands;Tell her, if she struggle still,I have myrtle rods at will,For to tame, though not to kill.Take thou my blessing thus, and goAnd tell her this,—but do not so!—Lest a handsome anger flyLike a lightning from her eye,And burn thee up, as well as I!
The Rose was sick, and smiling died;And, being to be sanctified,About the bed, there sighing stoodThe sweet and flowery sisterhood.Some hung the head, while some did bring,To wash her, water from the spring;Some laid her forth, while others wept,But all a solemn fast there kept.The holy sisters some among,The sacred dirge and trental sung;But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere,As heaven had spent all perfumes there!At last, when prayers for the dead,And rites, were all accomplished,They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,And closed her up as in a tomb.
From this bleeding hand of mine,Take this sprig of Eglantine:Which, though sweet unto your smell,Yet the fretful briar will tell,He who plucks the sweets, shall proveMany thorns to be in love.
Stay while ye will, or go,And leave no scent behind ye:Yet trust me, I shall knowThe place where I may find ye.Within my Lucia's cheek,(Whose livery ye wear)Play ye at hide or seek,I'm sure to find ye there.
Ah, Cruel Love! must I endureThy many scorns, and find no cure?Say, are thy medicines made to beHelps to all others but to me?I'll leave thee, and to Pansies come:Comforts you'll afford me some:You can ease my heart, and doWhat Love could ne'er be brought unto.
Frolic virgins once these were,Overloving, living here;Being here their ends deniedRan for sweet-hearts mad, and died.Love, in pity of their tears,And their loss in blooming years,For their restless here-spent hours,Gave them hearts-ease turn'd to flowers.
These fresh beauties, we can prove,Once were virgins, sick of love,Turn'd to flowers: still in some,Colours go and colours come.
Ask me why I send you hereThis sweet Infanta of the year?Ask me why I send to youThis Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?I will whisper to your ears,—The sweets of love are mixt with tears.Ask me why this flower does showSo yellow-green, and sickly too?Ask me why the stalk is weakAnd bending, yet it doth not break?I will answer,—these discoverWhat fainting hopes are in a lover.
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tearsSpeak grief in you,Who were but bornjust as the modest mornTeem'd her refreshing dew?Alas, you have not known that showerThat mars a flower,Nor felt th' unkindBreath of a blasting wind,Nor are ye worn with years;Or warp'd as we,Who think it strange to see,Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make knownThe reason whyYe droop and weep;Is it for want of sleep,Or childish lullaby?Or that ye have not seen as yetThe violet?Or brought a kissFrom that Sweet-heart, to this?—No, no, this sorrow shownBy your tears shed,Would have this lecture read,That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed nightHas not as yet begunTo make a seizure on the light,Or to seal up the sun.No marigolds yet closed are,No shadows great appear;Nor doth the early shepherds' starShine like a spangle here.Stay but till my Julia closeHer life-begetting eye;And let the whole world then disposeItself to live or die.
Fair Daffadils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd together, weWill 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 any thing.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Welcome, maids of honour,You do bringIn the Spring;And wait upon her.She has virgins many,Fresh and fair;Yet you areMore sweet than any.You're the maiden posies;And so graced,To be placed'Fore damask roses.—Yet, though thus respected,By and byYe do lie,Poor girls, neglected.
To gather flowers, Sappha went,And homeward she did bringWithin her lawny continent,The treasure of the Spring.She smiling blush'd, and blushing smiled,And sweetly blushing thus,She look'd as she'd been got with childBy young Favonius.Her apron gave, as she did pass,An odour more divine,More pleasing too, than ever wasThe lap of Proserpine.
You have beheld a smiling roseWhen virgins' hands have drawnO'er it a cobweb-lawn:And here, you see, this lily shows,Tomb'd in a crystal stone,More fair in this transparent caseThan when it grew alone,And had but single grace.You see how cream but naked is,Nor dances in the eyeWithout a strawberry;Or some fine tincture, like to this,Which draws the sight thereto,More by that wantoning with it,Than when the paler hueNo mixture did admit.You see how amber through the streamsMore gently strokes the sight,With some conceal'd delight,Than when he darts his radiant beamsInto the boundless air;Where either too much light his worthDoth all at once impair,Or set it little forth.Put purple grapes or cherries in-To glass, and they will sendMore beauty to commendThem, from that clean and subtle skin,Than if they naked stood,And had no other pride at all,But their own flesh and blood,And tinctures natural.Thus lily, rose, grape, cherry, cream,And strawberry do stirMore love, when they transferA weak, a soft, a broken beam;Than if they should discoverAt full their proper excellence,Without some scene cast over,To juggle with the sense.Thus let this crystall'd lily beA rule, how far to teachYour nakedness must reach;And that no further than we seeThose glaring colours laidBy art's wise hand, but to this endThey should obey a shade,Lest they too far extend.—So though you're white as swan or snow,And have the power to moveA world of men to love;Yet, when your lawns and silks shall flow,And that white cloud divideInto a doubtful twilight;—then,Then will your hidden prideRaise greater fires in men.