Weep for the dead, for they have lost this light;And weep for me, lost in an endless night;Or mourn, or make a marble verse for me,Who writ for many. BENEDICTE.
Lost to the world; lost to myself; aloneHere now I rest under this marble stone,In depth of silence, heard and seen of none.
Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness beWith leaves and moss-work for to cover me;And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister!For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:HERE, HERE THE TOMB OF ROBIN HERRICK IS!
Sadly I walk'd within the field,To see what comfort it would yield;And as I went my private way,An olive-branch before me lay;And seeing it, I made a stay,And took it up, and view'd it; thenKissing the omen, said Amen;Be, be it so, and let this beA divination unto me;That in short time my woes shall cease,And love shall crown my end with peace.
If after rude and boisterous seasMy wearied pinnace here finds ease;If so it be I've gain'd the shore,With safety of a faithful oar;If having run my barque on ground,Ye see the aged vessel crown'd;What's to be done? but on the sandsYe dance and sing, and now clap hands.—The first act's doubtful, but (we say)It is the last commends the Play.
Ye silent shades, whose each tree hereSome relique of a saint doth wear;Who for some sweet-heart's sake, did proveThe fire and martyrdom of Love:—Here is the legend of those saintsThat died for love, and their complaints;Their wounded hearts, and names we findEncarved upon the leaves and rind.Give way, give way to me, who comeScorch'd with the self-same martyrdom!And have deserved as much, Love knows,As to be canonized 'mongst thoseWhose deeds and deaths here written areWithin your Greeny-kalendar.—By all those virgins' fillets hungUpon! your boughs, and requiems sungFor saints and souls departed hence,Here honour'd still with frankincense;By all those tears that have been shed,As a drink-offering to the dead;By all those true-love knots, that beWith mottoes carved on every tree;By sweet Saint Phillis! pity me;By dear Saint Iphis! and the restOf all those other saints now blest,Me, me forsaken,—here admitAmong your myrtles to be writ;That my poor name may have the gloryTo live remember'd in your story.
Among the myrtles as I walk'dLove and my sighs thus intertalk'd:Tell me, said I, in deep distress,Where I may find my Shepherdess?—Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this?In every thing that's sweet she is.In yond' carnation go and seek,There thou shalt find her lip and cheek;In that enamell'd pansy by,There thou shalt have her curious eye;In bloom of peach and rose's bud,There waves the streamer of her blood.—'Tis true, said I; and thereuponI went to pluck them one by one,To make of parts an union;But on a sudden all were gone.At which I stopp'd; Said Love, these beThe true resemblances of thee;For as these flowers, thy joys must die;And in the turning of an eye;And all thy hopes of her must wither,Like those short sweets here knit together.
Happily I had a sightOf my dearest dear last night;Make her this day smile on me,And I'll roses give to thee!
A crystal vial Cupid brought,Which had a juice in it:Of which who drank, he said, no thoughtOf Love he should admit.I, greedy of the prize, did drink,And emptied soon the glass;Which burnt me so, that I do thinkThe fire of hell it was.Give me my earthen cups again,The crystal I contemn,Which, though enchased with pearls, containA deadly draught in them.And thou, O Cupid! come not toMy threshold,—since I see,For all I have, or else can do,Thou still wilt cozen me.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThat liquefaction of her clothes!Next, when I cast mine eyes, and seeThat brave vibration each way free;O how that glittering taketh me!
Why I tie about thy wrist,Julia, this my silken twist?For what other reason is't,But to shew thee how in partThou my pretty captive art?But thy bond-slave is my heart;'Tis but silk that bindeth thee,Knap the thread and thou art free;But 'tis otherwise with me;I am bound, and fast bound so,That from thee I cannot go;If I could, I would not so.
As shews the air when with a rain-bow graced,So smiles that ribbon 'bout my Julia's waist;Or like——Nay, 'tis that Zonulet of love,Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.
How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art,In each thy dainty and peculiar part!First, for thy Queen-ship on thy head is setOf flowers a sweet commingled coronet;About thy neck a carkanet is bound,Made of the Ruby, Pearl, and Diamond;A golden ring, that shines upon thy thumb;About thy wrist the rich Dardanium;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, Calcedon.
When I behold a forest spreadWith silken trees upon thy head;And when I see that other dressOf flowers set in comeliness;When I behold another graceIn the ascent of curious lace,Which, like a pinnacle, doth shewThe top, and the top-gallant too;Then, when I see thy tresses boundInto an oval, square, or round,And knit in knots far more than I.Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie;Next, when those lawny films I seePlay with a wild civility;And all those airy silks to flow,Alluring me, and tempting so—I must confess, mine eye and heartDotes less on nature than on art.
See'st thou that cloud as silver clear,Plump, soft, and swelling every where?'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.
Some ask'd me where the Rubies grew:And nothing I did say,But with my finger pointed toThe lips of Julia.Some ask'd how Pearls did grow, and where:Then spoke I to my girl,To part her lips, and shew me thereThe quarrelets of Pearl.
I dreamt the Roses one time wentTo meet and sit in Parliament;The place for these, and for the restOf flowers, was thy spotless breast.Over the which a state was drawnOf tiffany, or cob-web lawn;Then in that Parly all those powersVoted the Rose the Queen of flowers;But so, as that herself should beThe Maid of Honour unto thee.
Droop, droop no more, or hang the head,Ye roses almost withered;Now strength, and newer purple get,Each here declining violet.O primroses! let this day beA resurrection unto ye;And to all flowers allied in blood,Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood.For health on Julia's cheek hath shedClaret and cream commingled;And those, her lips, do now appearAs beams of coral, but more clear.
Dew sate on Julia's hair,And spangled too,Like leaves that laden areWith trembling dew;Or glitter'd to my sight,As when the beamsHave their reflected lightDanced by the streams.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones; come, and buy:If so be you ask me whereThey do grow? I answer, thereWhere my Julia's lips do smile;—There's the land, or cherry-isle;Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay,It chanced a bee did fly that way,After a dew, or dew-like shower,To tipple freely in a flower;For some rich flower, he took the lipOf Julia, and began to sip;But when he felt he suck'd from thenceHoney, and in the quintessence,He drank so much he scarce could stir;So Julia took the pilferer.And thus surprised, as filchers use,He thus began himself t'excuse:'Sweet lady-flower, I never broughtHither the least one thieving thought;But taking those rare lips of yoursFor some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,I thought I might there take a taste,Where so much sirup ran at waste.Besides, know this, I never stingThe flower that gives me nourishing;But with a kiss, or thanks, do payFor honey that I bear away.'—This said, he laid his little scripOf honey 'fore her ladyship,And told her, as some tears did fall,That, that he took, and that was all.At which she smiled, and bade him goAnd take his bag; but thus much know,When next he came a-pilfering so,He should from her full lips deriveHoney enough to fill his hive.
Under a lawn, than skies more clear,Some ruffled Roses nestling were,And snugging there, they seem'd to lieAs in a flowery nunnery;They blush'd, and look'd more fresh than flowersQuickened of late by pearly showers;And all, because they were possestBut of the heat of Julia's breast,Which, as a warm and moisten'd spring,Gave them their ever-flourishing.
My soul would one day go and seekFor roses, and in Julia's cheekA richess of those sweets she found,As in another Rosamond;But gathering roses as she was,Not knowing what would come to pass,it chanced a ringlet of her hairCaught my poor soul, as in a snare;Which ever since has been in thrall;—Yet freedom she enjoys withal.
When I thy singing next shall hear,I'll wish I might turn all to ear,To drink-in notes and numbers, suchAs blessed souls can't hear too muchThen melted down, there let me lieEntranced, and lost confusedly;And by thy music strucken mute,Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike 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 nightWill 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 meetThy silvery feet,My soul I'll pour into thee.
Why dost thou wound and break my heart,As if we should for ever part?Hast thou not heard an oath from me,After a day, or two, or three,I would come back and live with thee?Take, if thou dost distrust that vow,This second protestation now:—Upon thy cheek that spangled tear,Which sits as dew of roses there,That tear shall scarce be dried beforeI'll kiss the threshold of thy door;Then weep not, Sweet, but thus much know,—I'm half returned before I go.
When that day comes, whose evening says I'm goneUnto that watery desolation;Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then pray,That my wing'd ship may meet no Remora.Those deities which circum-walk the seas,And look upon our dreadful passages,Will from all dangers re-deliver me,For one drink-offering poured out by thee,Mercy and Truth live with thee! and forbear,In my short absence, to unsluice a tear;But yet for love's-sake, let thy lips do this,—Give my dead picture one engendering kiss;Work that to life, and let me ever dwellIn thy remembrance, Julia. So farewell.
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;—Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth winGrace with the gods who's sorry for his sin.That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come,And go with me to chuse my burial room:My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.
Immortal clothing I put onSo soon as, Julia, I am goneTo mine eternal mansion.Thou, thou art here, to human sightClothed all with incorrupted light;—But yet how more admir'dly brightWilt thou appear, when thou art setIn thy refulgent thronelet,That shin'st thus in thy counterfeit!
Whatsoever thing I see,Rich or poor although it be,—'Tis a mistress unto me.Be my girl or fair or brown,Does she smile, or does she frown;Still I write a sweet-heart down.Be she rough, or smooth of skin;When I touch, I then beginFor to let affection in.Be she bald, or does she wearLocks incurl'd of other hair;I shall find enchantment there.Be she whole, or be she rent,So my fancy be content,She's to me most excellent.Be she fat, or be she lean;Be she sluttish, be she clean;I'm a man for every scene.
I held Love's head while it did ache;But so it chanced to be,The cruel pain did his forsake,And forthwith came to me.Ai me! how shall my grief be still'd?Or where else shall we findOne like to me, who must be kill'dFor being too-too-kind?
I could but see thee yesterdayStung by a fretful bee;And I the javelin suck'd away,And heal'd the wound in thee.A thousand thorns, and briars, and stingsI have in my poor breast;Yet ne'er can see that salve which bringsMy passions any rest.As Love shall help me, I admireHow thou canst sit and smileTo see me bleed, and not desireTo staunch the blood the while.If thou, composed of gentle mould,Art so unkind to me;What dismal stories will be toldOf those that cruel be!
When I thy parts run o'er, I can't espyIn any one, the least indecency;But every line and limb diffused thenceA fair and unfamiliar excellence;So that the more I look, the more I proveThere's still more cause why I the more should love.
What conscience, say, is it in thee,When I a heart had one, [won]To take away that heart from me,And to retain thy own?For shame or pity, now inclineTo play a loving part;Either to send me kindly thine,Or give me back my heart.Covet not both; but if thou dostResolve to part with neither;Why! yet to shew that thou art just,Take me and mine together.
I dare not ask a kiss,I dare not beg a smile;Lest having that, or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall be,Only to kiss that airThat lately kissed thee,
Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be;Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.Bid that heart stay, and it will stayTo 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 keepA heart to weep for thee.Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree;Or bid me die, and I will dareE'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.
Anthea laugh'd, and, fearing lest excessMight stretch the cords of civil comelinessShe with a dainty blush rebuked her face,And call'd each line back to his rule and space.
Let fair or foul my mistress be,Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me;Or let her walk, or stand, or sit,The posture her's, I'm pleased with it;Or let her tongue be still, or stirGraceful is every thing from her;Or let her grant, or else deny,My love will fit each history.
Give me one kiss,And no more:If so be, thisMakes you poorTo enrich you,I'll restoreFor that one, two-Thousand score.
Clear are her eyes,Like purest skies;Discovering from thenceA baby thereThat turns each sphere,Like an Intelligence.
Her pretty feetLike snails did creepA little out, and then,As if they played at Bo-peep,Did soon draw in again.
Come, come awayOr let me go;Must I here stayBecause you're slow,And will continue so;—Troth, lady, no.I scorn to beA slave to state;And since I'm free,I will not wait,Henceforth at such a rate,For needy fate.If you desireMy spark should glow,The peeping fireYou must blow;Or I shall quickly growTo frost, or snow.
—AND, cruel maid, because I seeYou scornful of my love, and me,I'll trouble you no more, but goMy way, where you shall never knowWhat is become of me; there IWill find me out a path to die,Or learn some way how to forgetYou and your name for ever;—yetEre I go hence, know this from me,What will in time your fortune be;This to your coyness I will tell;And having spoke it once, Farewell.—The lily will not long endure,Nor the snow continue pure;The rose, the violet, one daySee both these lady-flowers decay;And you must fade as well as they.And it may chance that love may turn,And, like to mine, make your heart burnAnd weep to see't; yet this thing do,That my last vow commends to you;When you shall see that I am dead,For pity let a tear be shed;And, with your mantle o'er me cast,Give my cold lips a kiss at last;If twice you kiss, you need not fearThat I shall stir or live more here.Next hollow out a tomb to coverMe, me, the most despised lover;And write thereon, THIS, READER, KNOW;LOVE KILL'D THIS MAN. No more, but so.
You say I love not, 'cause I do not playStill with your curls, and kiss the time away.You blame me, too, because I can't deviseSome sport, to please those babies in your eyes;By Love's religion, I must here confess it,The most I love, when I the least express it.Shall griefs find tongues; full casks are ever foundTo give, if any, yet but little sound.Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,That chiding streams betray small depth below.So when love speechless is, she doth expressA depth in love, and that depth bottomless.Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such,Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.
My faithful friend, if you can seeThe fruit to grow up, or the tree;If you can see the colour comeInto the blushing pear or plum;If you can see the water growTo cakes of ice, or flakes of snow;If you can see that drop of rainLost in the wild sea once again;If you can see how dreams do creepInto the brain by easy sleep:——Then there is hope that you may seeHer love me once, who now hates me.
To my revenge, and to her desperate fears,Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears!In the wild air, when thou hast roll'd about,And, like a blasting planet, found her out;Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye—then glareLike to a dreadful comet in the air:Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sightFor thy revenge to be most opposite,Then, like a globe, or ball of wild-fire, fly,And break thyself in shivers on her eye!
A sweet disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness;A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction;An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals the crimson stomacher;A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibbons to flow confusedly;A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat;A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility;—Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.
Pardon my trespass, Silvia! I confessMy kiss out-went the bounds of shamefacedness:—None is discreet at all times; no, not JoveHimself, at one time, can be wise and love.
Let us, though late, at last, my Silvia, wed;And loving lie in one devoted bed.Thy watch may stand, my minutes fly post haste;No sound calls back the year that once is past.Then, sweetest Silvia, let's no longer stay;True love, we know, precipitates delay.Away with doubts, all scruples hence remove!No man, at one time, can be wise, and love.
We two are last in hell; what may we fearTo be tormented or kept pris'ners here IAlas! if kissing be of plagues the worst,We'll wish in hell we had been last and first.
You say you're sweet: how should we knowWhether that you be sweet or no?—From powders and perfumes keep free;Then we shall smell how sweet you be!
Three lovely sisters working were,As they were closely set,Of soft and dainty maiden-hair,A curious Armilet.I, smiling, ask'd them what they did,Fair Destinies all three?Who told me they had drawn a threadOf life, and 'twas for me.They shew'd me then how fine 'twas spunAnd I replied thereto;'I care not now how soon 'tis done,Or cut, if cut by you.'
By those soft tods of wool,With which the air is full;By all those tinctures thereThat paint the hemisphere;By dews and drizzling rain,That swell the golden grain;By all those sweets that beI'th' flowery nunnery;By silent nights, and theThree forms of Hecate;By all aspects that blessThe sober sorceress,While juice she strains, and pithTo make her philtres with;By Time, that hastens onThings to perfection;And by your self, the bestConjurement of the rest;—O, my Electra! beIn love with none but me.
Sapho, I will chuse to goWhere the northern winds do blowEndless ice, and endless snow;Rather than I once would seeBut a winter's face in thee,—To benumb my hopes and me.
How Love came in, I do not know,Whether by th'eye, or ear, or no;Or whether with the soul it came,At first, infused with the same;Whether in part 'tis here or there,Or, like the soul, whole every where.This troubles me; but I as wellAs any other, this can tell;That when from hence she does depart,The outlet then is from the heart.
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes,Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies;Nor be you proud, that you can seeAll hearts your captives, yours, yet free;Be you not proud of that rich hairWhich wantons with the love-sick air;Whenas that ruby which you wear,Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,Will last to be a precious stone,When all your world of beauty's gone.
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 tellThy pity by Love's chronicle)O, Dianeme, rather killMe, 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 thou please,By sudden death, to give me ease;And thus devised,—do thou but this,—Bequeath to me one parting kiss!So sup'rabundant joy shall beThe executioner of me.