Anacreontic Verse.

Brisk methinks I am, and fine
When I drink my cap'ring wine:
Then to love I do incline,
When I drink my wanton wine:
And I wish all maidens mine,
When I drink my sprightly wine:
Well I sup and well I dine,
When I drink my frolic wine;
But I languish, lower, and pine,
When I want my fragrant wine.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

Devotion Makes The Deity.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Tuck. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Blame The Reward Of Princes.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To His Kinswoman, Mrs. Penelope Wheeler.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Anacreontic

Born I was to be old,
And for to die here;
After that, in the mould
Long for to lie here.
But before that day comes,
Still I be bousing;
For I know, in the tombs
There's no carousing.

Robert Herrick

Anacreontic

Why must Poets, when they sing,
Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
Witness many a modern strain:
Poets! would ye sing with fire,
Wine, not water, must inspire.
Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
How within thy crystal frame
Does the rosy nectar flame!
Not so beauteous on the vine
Did the clustering rubies shine,
When the potent God of day
Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
When with proudness and delight
Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
Still the vintage-God admires.
Hail sweet antidote of wo!
Chiefest blessing mortals know!
Nay, the mighty powers divine
Own the magic force of wine.
Wearied with the world's affairs,
Jove himself, t...

Thomas Oldham

A Bacchanalian Verse.

Drink up
Your cup,
But not spill wine;
For if you
    Do,
'Tis an ill sign;

That we
Foresee
You are cloy'd here,
If so, no
    Ho,
But avoid here.

Robert Herrick

Anacreontic.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank,
    I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,
    'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint
    Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
    To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip
    Now blushes through the wave at me;
Every roseate drop I sip
    Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;
    For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
    And--in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,
    And may that eyelid never shine
Beneath a darker, bitterer tear
    Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

Thomas Moore

How He Would Drink His Wine.

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus
I see't in's puris naturalibus:
Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine;
'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine.
What madman's he, that when it sparkles so,
Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?

Robert Herrick

A Bacchanalian Verse.

Fill me a mighty bowl
Up to the brim,
That I may drink
Unto my Jonson's soul.

Crown it again, again;
And thrice repeat
That happy heat,
To drink to thee, my Ben.

Well I can quaff, I see,
To th' number five
Or nine; but thrive
In frenzy ne'er like thee.

Robert Herrick