Her cheeks were like the cherry,Her skin was white as snow;When she was blithe and merryShe angel-like did show;Her waist exceeding small,The fives did fit her shoe:But now, alas! she 's left me,Falero, lero, loo!
In summer time or winterShe had her heart's desire;I still did scorn to stint herFrom sugar, sack, or fire;The world went round about,No cares we ever knew:But now, alas! she 's left me,Falero, lero, loo!
To maidens' vows and swearingHenceforth no credit give;You may give them the hearing,But never them believe;They are as false as fair,Unconstant, frail, untrue:For mine, alas! hath left me,Falero, lero, loo!
George Wither. 1588-1667
237. The Lover's Resolution
SHALL I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman 's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flow'ry meads in May,If she think not well of me,What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined'Cause I see a woman kind?Or a well disposed natureJoined with a lovely feature?Be she meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget my own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may merit name of Best,If she be not such to me,What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,Shall I play the fool and die?She that bears a noble mind,If not outward helps she find,Thinks what with them he would doThat without them dares her woo;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne'er the more despair;If she love me, this believe,I will die ere she shall grieve;If she slight me when I woo,I can scorn and let her go;For if she be not for me,What care I for whom she be?
George Wither. 1588-1667
238. The Choice
ME so oft my fancy drewHere and there, that I ne'er knewWhere to place desire beforeSo that range it might no more;But as he that passeth byWhere, in all her jollity,Flora's riches in a rowDo in seemly order grow,And a thousand flowers standBending as to kiss his hand;Out of which delightful storeOne he may take and no more;Long he pausing doubteth whetherOf those fair ones he should gather.
First the Primrose courts his eyes,Then the Cowslip he espies;Next the Pansy seems to woo him,Then Carnations bow unto him;Which whilst that enamour'd swainFrom the stalk intends to strain,(As half-fearing to be seen)Prettily her leaves betweenPeeps the Violet, pale to seeThat her virtues slighted be;Which so much his liking winsThat to seize her he begins.
Yet before he stoop'd so lowHe his wanton eye did throwOn a stem that grew more high,And the Rose did there espy.Who, beside her previous scent,To procure his eyes contentDid display her goodly breast,Where he found at full exprestAll the good that Nature showersOn a thousand other flowers;Wherewith he affected takes it,His beloved flower he makes it,And without desire of moreWalks through all he saw before.
So I wand'ring but erewhileThrough the garden of this Isle,Saw rich beauties, I confess,And in number numberless.Yea, so differing lovely too,That I had a world to doEre I could set up my rest,Where to choose and choose the best.
Thus I fondly fear'd, till Fate(Which I must confess in thatDid a greater favour to meThan the world can malice do me)Show'd to me that matchless flower,Subject for this song of our;Whose perfection having eyed,Reason instantly espiedThat Desire, which ranged abroad,There would find a period:And no marvel if it might,For it there hath all delight,And in her hath nature placedWhat each several fair one graced.
Let who list, for me, advanceThe admired flowers of France,Let who will praise and beholdThe reserved Marigold;Let the sweet-breath'd Violet nowUnto whom she pleaseth bow;And the fairest Lily spreadWhere she will her golden head;I have such a flower to wearThat for those I do not care.
Let the young and happy swainsPlaying on the Britain plainsCourt unblamed their shepherdesses,And with their gold curled tressesToy uncensured, until IGrudge at their prosperity.
Let all times, both present, past,And the age that shall be last,Vaunt the beauties they bring forth.I have found in one such worth,That content I neither careWhat the best before me were;Nor desire to live and seeWho shall fair hereafter be;For I know the hand of NatureWill not make a fairer creature.
George Wither. 1588-1667
239. A Widow's Hymn
HOW near me came the hand of Death,When at my side he struck my dear,And took away the precious breathWhich quicken'd my beloved peer!How helpless am I thereby made!By day how grieved, by night how sad!And now my life's delight is gone,—Alas! how am I left alone!
The voice which I did more esteemThan music in her sweetest key,Those eyes which unto me did seemMore comfortable than the day;Those now by me, as they have been,Shall never more be heard or seen;But what I once enjoy'd in themShall seem hereafter as a dream.
Lord! keep me faithful to the trustWhich my dear spouse reposed in me:To him now dead preserve me justIn all that should performed be!For though our being man and wifeExtendeth only to this life,Yet neither life nor death should endThe being of a faithful friend.
peer] companion.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
240. A Welcome
WELCOME, welcome! do I sing,Far more welcome than the spring;He that parteth from you neverShall enjoy a spring for ever.
He that to the voice is nearBreaking from your iv'ry pale,Need not walk abroad to hearThe delightful nightingale.Welcome, welcome, then…
He that looks still on your eyes,Though the winter have begunTo benumb our arteries,Shall not want the summer's sun.Welcome, welcome, then…
He that still may see your cheeks,Where all rareness still reposes,Is a fool if e'er he seeksOther lilies, other roses.Welcome, welcome, then…
He to whom your soft lip yields,And perceives your breath in kissing,All the odours of the fieldsNever, never shall be missing.Welcome, welcome, then…
He that question would anewWhat fair Eden was of old,Let him rightly study you,And a brief of that behold.Welcome, welcome, then…
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
241. The Sirens' Song
STEER, hither steer your winged pines,All beaten mariners!Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,A prey to passengers—Perfumes far sweeter than the bestWhich make the Phoenix' urn and nest.Fear not your ships,Nor any to oppose you save our lips;But come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,Where never storms arise,Exchange, and be awhile our guests:For stars gaze on our eyes.The compass Love shall hourly sing,And as he goes about the ring,We will not missTo tell each point he nameth with a kiss.—Then come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
242. The Rose
A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learned bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWater'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
243. Song
FOR her gait, if she be walking;Be she sitting, I desire herFor her state's sake; and admire herFor her wit if she be talking;Gait and state and wit approve her;For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend herFor a modest. Be she merry,For a kind one her prefer I.Briefly, everything doth lend herSo much grace, and so approve her,That for everything I love her.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
244. Memory
SO shuts the marigold her leavesAt the departure of the sun;So from the honeysuckle sheavesThe bee goes when the day is done;So sits the turtle when she is but one,And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hathMade all the summer as one day:Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrathAs night they sleeping pass away.Those happy creatures are, that know not yetThe pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there beSome that with confidence professThe helpful Art of Memory:But could they teach Forgetfulness,I'd learn; and try what further art could doTo make me love her and forget her too.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
245. In Obitum M.S. Xo Maij, 1614 Epitaphs
MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,Nor Flora's pride!In thee all flowers and roses spring,Mine only died.
William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643
246. On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke Epitaphs
UNDERNEATH this sable herseLies the subject of all verse:Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:Death, ere thou hast slain anotherFair and learn'd and good as she,Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
247. Corinna's going a-Maying
GET up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn.See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew bespangling herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the eastAbove an hour since, yet you not drest;Nay! not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins saidAnd sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay, profanation, to keep in,Whereas a thousand virgins on this daySpring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come, and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night:And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green and trimm'd with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.Can such delights be in the streetAnd open fields, and we not see 't?Come, we'll abroad: and let 's obeyThe proclamation made for May,And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying.
There 's not a budding boy or girl this dayBut is got up and gone to bring in May.A deal of youth ere this is comeBack, and with white-thorn laden home.Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept and woo'd, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance, too, has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks pick'd: yet we're not a-Maying!
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,Once lost, can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delightLies drown'd with us in endless night.Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying.
beads] prayers. green-gown] tumble on the grass.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
248. To the Virgins, to make much of Time
GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-dayTo-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.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
249. To the Western Wind
SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,Made rival with the air,To give Perenna's lip a kiss,And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I'll promise thee,Instead of common showers,Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me,And all beset with flowers.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
250. To Electra
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 beOnly to kiss that airThat lately kissed thee.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
251. To Violets
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 gracedTo be placed'Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,By-and-byYe do lie,Poor girls, neglected.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
252. To Daffodils
FAIR daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stayUntil the hasting dayHas runBut to the evensong;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 anything.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAwayLike to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
253. To Blossoms
FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so pastBut you may stay yet here awhileTo 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 you forthMerely to show your worthAnd 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 prideLike you awhile, they glideInto the grave.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
254. The Primrose
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 mix'd 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.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
255. The Funeral Rites of the Rose
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 sweet smelt everywhere,As Heaven had spent all perfumes there.At last, when prayers for the deadAnd rites were all accomplished,They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,And closed her up as in a tomb.
trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
256. Cherry-Ripe
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.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
257. A Meditation for his Mistress
YOU are a tulip seen to-day,But, dearest, of so short a stayThat where you grew scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,Yet one rude wind or ruffling showerWill 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 virgin's coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among;But die you must, fair maid, ere long,As he, the maker of this song.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
258. Delight in Disorder
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 therebyRibbands 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.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
259. Upon Julia's Clothes
WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThe liquefaction of her clothes!
Next, when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free,—O how that glittering taketh me!
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
260. The Bracelet: To Julia
WHY I tie about thy wrist,Julia, this silken twist;For what other reason is 'tBut to show thee how, in part,Thou 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, soThat from thee I cannot go;If I could, I would not so.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
261. To Daisies, not to shut so soon
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 shepherd's 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.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
262. The Night-piece: To Julia
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'-the-wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;But on, on thy wayNot 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 lightLike tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And when I shall meetThy silv'ry feet,My soul I'll pour into thee.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
263. To Music, to becalm his Fever
CHARM me asleep, and melt me soWith thy delicious numbers,That, being ravish'd, hence I goAway in easy slumbers.Ease my sick head,And make my bed,Thou power that canst severFrom me this ill,And quickly still,Though thou not killMy fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the sameFrom a consuming fireInto a gentle licking flame,And make it thus expire.Then make me weepMy pains asleep;And give me such reposesThat I, poor I,May think therebyI live and die'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like the silent dew,Or like those maiden showersWhich, by the peep of day, do strewA baptim o'er the flowers.Melt, melt my painsWith thy soft strains;That, having ease me given,With full delightI leave this light,And take my flightFor Heaven.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
264. To Dianeme
SWEET, be not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike 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 stoneWhen all your world of beauty's gone.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
265. To Oenone
WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee,When I a heart had one,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 show that thou art just,Take me and mine together!
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
266. To Anthea, who may command him Anything
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 weepWhile I have eyes to see:And, having none, yet will I keepA heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despairUnder 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 partTo live and die for thee.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
267. To the Willow-tree
THOU art to all lost love the best,The only true plant found,Wherewith young men and maids distrest,And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead,Or laid aside forlorn:Then willow-garlands 'bout the headBedew'd with tears are worn.
When with neglect, the lovers' bane,Poor maids rewarded beFor their love lost, their only gainIs but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,When weary of the light,The love-spent youth and love-sick maidCome to weep out the night.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
268. The Mad Maid's Song
GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,Good-morning, sir, to you;Good-morrow to mine own torn hairBedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this primrose too,Good-morrow to each maidThat will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that beeWhich bore my love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graveI' th' bed of strawberries.
I'll seek him there; I know ere thisThe cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,He knows well who do love him,And who with green turfs rear his head,And who do rudely move him.
He 's soft and tender (pray take heed);With bands of cowslips bind him,And bring him home—but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him!
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
269. Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love
WHAT needs complaints,When she a placeHas with the raceOf saints?
In endless mirthShe thinks not onWhat 's said or doneIn Earth.
She sees no tears,Or any toneOf thy deep groanShe hears:
Nor does she mindOr think on 't nowThat ever thouWast kind;
But changed above,She likes not there,As she did here,Thy love.
Forbear therefore,And lull asleepThy woes, and weepNo more.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
270. To Meadows
YE have been fresh and green,Ye have been fill'd with flowers,And ye the walks have beenWhere maids have spent their hours.
You have beheld how theyWith wicker arks did comeTo kiss and bear awayThe richer cowslips home.
You've heard them sweetly sing,And seen them in a round:Each virgin like a spring,With honeysuckles crown'd.
But now we see none hereWhose silv'ry feet did treadAnd with dishevell'd hairAdorn'd this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spentYour stock and needy grown,You're left here to lamentYour poor estates, alone.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
271. A Child's Grace
HERE a little child I standHeaving up my either hand;Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on us all. Amen.
paddocks] frogs.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
272. Epitaph upon a Child that died
HERE she lies, a pretty bud,Lately made of flesh and blood:Who as soon fell fast asleepAs her little eyes did peep.Give her strewings, but not stirThe earth that lightly covers her.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
273. Another
HERE a pretty baby liesSung asleep with lullabies:Pray be silent and not stirTh' easy earth that covers her.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
274. His Winding-sheet
COME thou, who are the wine and witOf all I've writ:The grace, the glory, and the bestPiece of the rest.Thou art of what I did intendThe all and end;And what was made, was made to meetThee, thee, my sheet.Come then and be to my chaste sideBoth bed and bride:We two, as reliques left, will haveOnce rest, one grave:And hugging close, we will not fearLust entering here:Where all desires are dead and coldAs is the mould;And all affections are forgot,Or trouble not.Here, here, the slaves and prisoners beFrom shackles free:And weeping widows long oppress'dDo here find rest.The wronged client ends his lawsHere, and his cause.Here those long suits of Chancery lieQuiet, or die:And all Star-Chamber bills do ceaseOr hold their peace.Here needs no Court for our RequestWhere all are best,All wise, all equal, and all justAlike i' th' dust.Nor need we here to fear the frownOf court or crown:Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,There all are kings.In this securer place we'll keepAs lull'd asleep;Or for a little time we'll lieAs robes laid by;To be another day re-worn,Turn'd, but not torn:Or like old testaments engross'd,Lock'd up, not lost.And for a while lie here conceal'd,To be reveal'dNext at the great Platonick year,And then meet here.
Platonick year] the perfect or cyclic year, when the sun, moon, and five planets end their revolutions together and start anew. See Timaeus, p. 39.
Robert Herrick. 1591-1674
275. Litany to the Holy Spirit
IN the hour of my distress,When temptations me oppress,And when I my sins confess,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,Sick in heart and sick in head,And with doubts discomforted,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep,And the world is drown'd in sleep,Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing bell doth toll,And the Furies in a shoalCome to fright a parting soul,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,And the comforters are few,And that number more than true,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath pray'd,And I nod to what is said,'Cause my speech is now decay'd,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When, God knows, I'm toss'd aboutEither with despair or doubt;Yet before the glass be out,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu'thWith the sins of all my youth,And half damns me with untruth,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the flames and hellish criesFright mine ears and fright mine eyes,And all terrors me surprise,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the Judgment is reveal'd,And that open'd which was seal'd,When to Thee I have appeal'd,Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
Francis Quarles. 1592-1644
276. A Divine Rapture
E'EN like two little bank-dividing brooks,That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,Where in a greater current they conjoin:So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.
E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,E'en so we joined; we both became entire;No need for either to renew a suit,For I was flax, and He was flames of fire:Our firm-united souls did more than twine;So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs, that commandThe servile quarters of this earthly ball,Should tender in exchange their shares of land,I would not change my fortunes for them all:Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:The world 's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.
Francis Quarles. 1592-1644
277. Respice Finem Epigram
MY soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;Judge not the play before the play is done:Her plot hath many changes; every daySpeaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669
278. A Contemplation upon Flowers
BRAVE flowers—that I could gallant it like you,And be as little vain!You come abroad, and make a harmless show,And to your beds of earth again.You are not proud: you know your birth:For your embroider'd garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but IWould have it ever Spring:My fate would know no Winter, never die,Nor think of such a thing.O that I could my bed of earth but viewAnd smile, and look as cheerfully as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear,But rather to take truce!How often have I seen you at a bier,And there look fresh and spruce!You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breathLike yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669
279. A Renunciation
WE, that did nothing study but the wayTo love each other, with which thoughts the dayRose with delight to us and with them set,Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could giveBeyond ourselves, nor did desire to liveBeyond that wish, all these now cancel must,As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,Witness the chaste desires that never brakeInto unruly heats; witness that breastWhich in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest—'Tis no default in us: I dare acquiteThy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and whiteAs thy pure self. Cross planets did envyUs to each other, and Heaven did untieFaster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars,When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!
Since then some higher Destinies command,Let us not strive, nor labour to withstandWhat is past help. The longest date of griefCan never yield a hope of our relief:Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,That must new fortunes try, like turtle-dovesDislodged from their haunts. We must in tearsUnwind a love knit up in many years.In this last kiss I here surrender theeBack to thyself.—So, thou again art free:Thou in another, sad as that, resendThe truest heart that lover e'er did lend.Now turn from each: so fare our sever'd heartsAs the divorced soul from her body parts.
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669
280. Exequy on his Wife
ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint,Instead of dirges this complaint;And for sweet flowers to crown thy herseReceive a strew of weeping verseFrom thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st seeQuite melted into tears for thee.Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,My task hath been to meditateOn thee, on thee! Thou art the book,The library whereon I look,Tho' almost blind. For thee, loved clay,I languish out, not live, the day….Thou hast benighted me; thy setThis eve of blackness did beget,Who wast my day (tho' overcastBefore thou hadst thy noontide past):And I remember must in tearsThou scarce hadst seen so many yearsAs day tells hours. By thy clear sunMy love and fortune first did run;But thou wilt never more appearFolded within my hemisphere,Since both thy light and motion,Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone,And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wishThe earth now interposed is….I could allow thee for a timeTo darken me and my sad clime;Were it a month, a year, or ten,I would thy exile live till then,And all that space my mirth adjourn—So thou wouldst promise to return,And putting off thy ashy shroudAt length disperse this sorrow's cloud.But woe is me! the longest dateToo narrow is to calculateThese empty hopes: never shall IBe so much blest as to descryA glimpse of thee, till that day comeWhich shall the earth to cinders doom,And a fierce fever must calcineThe body of this world—like thine,My little world! That fit of fireOnce off, our bodies shall aspireTo our souls' bliss: then we shall riseAnd view ourselves with clearer eyesIn that calm region where no nightCan hide us from each other's sight.Meantime thou hast her, earth: much goodMay my harm do thee! Since it stoodWith Heaven's will I might not callHer longer mine, I give thee allMy short-lived right and interestIn her whom living I loved best.Be kind to her, and prithee lookThou write into thy Doomsday bookEach parcel of this rarityWhich in thy casket shrined doth lie,As thou wilt answer Him that lent—Not gave—thee my dear monument.So close the ground, and 'bout her shadeBlack curtains draw: my bride is laid.Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bedNever to be disquieted!My last good-night! Thou wilt not wakeTill I thy fate shall overtake:Till age, or grief, or sickness mustMarry my body to that dustIt so much loves; and fill the roomMy heart keeps empty in thy tomb.Stay for me there: I will not failTo meet thee in that hollow vale.And think not much of my delay:I am already on the way,And follow thee with all the speedDesire can make, or sorrows breed.Each minute is a short degreeAnd every hour a step towards thee….'Tis true—with shame and grief I yield—Thou, like the van, first took'st the field;And gotten hast the victoryIn thus adventuring to dieBefore me, whose more years might craveA just precedence in the grave.But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,Beats my approach, tells thee I come;And slow howe'er my marches beI shall at last sit down by thee.The thought of this bids me go onAnd wait my dissolutionWith hope and comfort. Dear—forgiveThe crime—I am content to liveDivided, with but half a heart,Till we shall meet and never part.
George Herbert. 1593-1632
281. Virtue
SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!The bridal of the earth and sky—The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and braveBids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave,And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.
George Herbert. 1593-1632
282. Easter
I GOT me flowers to straw Thy way,I got me boughs off many a tree;But Thou wast up by break of day,And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.
Yet though my flowers be lost, they sayA heart can never come too late;Teach it to sing Thy praise this day,And then this day my life shall date.
George Herbert. 1593-1632
283. Discipline
THROW away Thy rod,Throw away Thy wrath;O my God,Take the gentle path!
For my heart's desireUnto Thine is bent:I aspireTo a full consent.
Not a word or lookI affect to own,But by book,And Thy Book alone.
Though I fail, I weep;Though I halt in pace,Yet I creepTo the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove;Love will do the deed;For with loveStony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;Love 's a man of war,And can shoot,And can hit from far.
Who can 'scape his bow?That which wrought on Thee,Brought Thee low,Needs must work on me.
Throw away Thy rod;Though man frailties hath,Thou art God:Throw away Thy wrath!
George Herbert. 1593-1632
284. A Dialogue
Man. SWEETEST Saviour, if my soulWere but worth the having,Quickly should I then controlAny thought of waving.But when all my care and painsCannot give the name of gainsTo Thy wretch so full of stains,What delight or hope remains?
Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine,Thine the poise and measure?If I say, 'Thou shalt be Mine,'Finger not My treasure.What the gains in having theeDo amount to, only HeWho for man was sold can see;That transferr'd th' accounts to Me.
Man. But as I can see no meritLeading to this favour,So the way to fit me for itIs beyond my savour.As the reason, then, is Thine,So the way is none of mine;I disclaim the whole design;Sin disclaims and I resign.
Saviour. That is all: if that I couldGet without repining;And My clay, My creature, wouldFollow My resigning;That as I did freely partWith My glory and desert,Left all joys to feel all smart——
Man. Ah, no more! Thou break'st my heart!
savour] savoir, knowing.
George Herbert. 1593-1632
285. The Pulley
WHEN God at first made Man,Having a glass of blessings standing by—Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way,Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should (said He)Bestow this jewel also on My creature,He would adore My gifts instead of Me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness;Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to My breast.
George Herbert. 1593-1632
286. Love
LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slackFrom my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioningIf I lack'd anything.
'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'Love said, 'You shall be he.''I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,I cannot look on Thee.'Love took my hand and smiling did reply,'Who made the eyes but I?'
'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shameGo where it doth deserve.''And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?''My dear, then I will serve.''You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'So I did sit and eat.
James Shirley. 1596-1666
287. A Hymn
O FLY, my Soul! What hangs uponThy drooping wings,And weighs them downWith love of gaudy mortal things?
The Sun is now i' the east: each shadeAs he doth riseIs shorter made,That earth may lessen to our eyes.
O be not careless then and playUntil the Star of PeaceHide all his beams in dark recess!Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,When all the shadows do increase.
James Shirley. 1596-1666
288. Death the Leveller
THE glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against Fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill:But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,Then boast no more your mighty deeds!Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds.Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb:Only the actions of the justSmell sweet and blossom in their dust.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
289. Song
ASK me no more where Jove bestows,When June is past, the fading rose;For in your beauty's orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars 'lightThat downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit, and thereFixed become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or westThe Phoenix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
290. Persuasions to Joy: a Song
IF the quick spirits in your eyeNow languish and anon must die;If every sweet and every graceMust fly from that forsaken face;Then, Celia, let us reap our joysEre Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must growFor ever free from aged snow;If those bright suns must know no shade,Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;Then fear not, Celia, to bestowWhat, still being gather'd, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle bringsIn vain, or else in vain his wings.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
291. To His Inconstant Mistress
WHEN thou, poor ExcommunicateFrom all the joys of Love, shalt seeThe full reward and glorious fateWhich my strong faith shall purchase me,Then curse thine own inconstancy!
A fairer hand than thine shall cureThat heart which thy false oaths did wound;And to my soul a soul more pureThan thine shall by Love's hand be bound,And both with equal glory crown'd.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complainTo Love, as I did once to thee;When all thy tears shall be as vainAs mine were then: for thou shalt beDamn'd for thy false apostasy.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
292. The Unfading Beauty
HE that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires:As old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,Gentle thoughts and calm desires,Hearts with equal love combined,Kindle never-dying fires.Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
293. Ingrateful Beauty threatened
KNOW, Celia, since thou art so proud,'Twas I that gave thee thy renown.Thou hadst in the forgotten crowdOf common beauties lived unknown,Had not my verse extoll'd thy name,And with it imp'd the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine;I gave it to thy voice and eyes;Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies;Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphereLightning on him that fix'd thee there.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,Lest what I made I uncreate;Let fools thy mystic form adore,I know thee in thy mortal state.Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,Knew her themselves through all her veils.
imp'd] grafted with new feathers.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
294. Epitaph On the Lady Mary Villiers
THE Lady Mary Villiers liesUnder this stone; with weeping eyesThe parents that first gave her birth,And their sad friends, laid her in earth.If any of them, Reader, wereKnown unto thee, shed a tear;Or if thyself possess a gemAs dear to thee, as this to them,Though a stranger to this place,Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:For thou perhaps at thy returnMay'st find thy Darling in an urn.
Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639?
295. Another
THIS little vault, this narrow room,Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;The dawning beam, that 'gan to clearOur clouded sky, lies darken'd here,For ever set to us: by DeathSent to enflame the World Beneath.'Twas but a bud, yet did containMore sweetness than shall spring again;A budding Star, that might have grownInto a Sun when it had blown.This hopeful Beauty did createNew life in Love's declining state;But now his empire ends, and weFrom fire and wounding darts are free;His brand, his bow, let no man fear:The flames, the arrows, all lie here.
Jasper Mayne. 1604-1672
296. Time
TIME is the feather'd thing,And, whilst I praiseThe sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,Takes wing,Leaving behind him as he fliesAn unperceived dimness in thine eyes.His minutes, whilst they're told,Do make us old;And every sand of his fleet glass,Increasing age as it doth pass,Insensibly sows wrinkles thereWhere flowers and roses do appear.Whilst we do speak, our fireDoth into ice expire,Flames turn to frost;And ere we canKnow how our crow turns swan,Or how a silver snowSprings there where jet did grow,Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.Since then the Night hath hurl'dDarkness, Love's shade,Over its enemy the Day, and madeThe worldJust such a blind and shapeless thingAs 'twas before light did from darkness spring,Let us employ its treasureAnd make shade pleasure:Let 's number out the hours by blisses,And count the minutes by our kisses;Let the heavens new motions feelAnd by our embraces wheel;And whilst we try the wayBy which Love doth conveySoul unto soul,And mingling soMakes them such raptures knowAs makes them entranced lieIn mutual ecstasy,Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!
William Habington. 1605-1654
297. To Roses in the Bosom of Castara
YE blushing virgins happy areIn the chaste nunnery of her breasts—For he'd profane so chaste a fair,Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!How rich a perfume do ye yield!In some close garden cowslips soAre sweeter than i' th' open field.
In those white cloisters live secureFrom the rude blasts of wanton breath!—Each hour more innocent and pure,Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,Your glorious sepulchre shall be.There wants no marble for a tombWhose breast hath marble been to me.
William Habington. 1605-1654
298. Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam
WHEN I survey the brightCelestial sphere;So rich with jewels hung, that NightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear:
My soul her wings doth spreadAnd heavenward flies,Th' Almighty's mysteries to readIn the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator's name.
No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast lookWe shall discernIn it, as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the conquerorThat far-stretch'd power,Which his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour:
That from the farthest North,Some nation may,Yet undiscover'd, issue forth,And o'er his new-got conquest sway:
Some nation yet shut inWith hills of iceMay be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.
And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your empires fall,And every kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desiresAnd all the pride of life confute:—
For they have watch'd since firstThe World had birth:And found sin in itself accurst,And nothing permanent on Earth.
Thomas Randolph. 1605-1635
299. A Devout Lover
I HAVE a mistress, for perfections rareIn every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;And wheresoe'er my fancy would begin,Still her perfection lets religion in.We sit and talk, and kiss away the hoursAs chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
Thomas Randolph. 1605-1635
300. An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to hasten Him into the Country
COME, spur away,I have no patience for a longer stay,But must go downAnd leave the chargeable noise of this great town:I will the country see,Where old simplicity,Though hid in gray,Doth look more gayThan foppery in plush and scarlet clad.Farewell, you city wits, that areAlmost at civil war—'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.
More of my daysI will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;Or to make sportFor some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.Then, worthy Stafford, say,How shall we spend the day?With what delightsShorten the nights?When from this tumult we are got secure,Where mirth with all her freedom goes,Yet shall no finger lose;Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?
There from the treeWe'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;And every dayGo see the wholesome country girls make hay,Whose brown hath lovelier graceThan any painted faceThat I do knowHyde Park can show:Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet(Though some of them in greater stateMight court my love with plate)The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.