To His Nephew, To Be Prosperous In His Art Of Painting.

On, as thou hast begun, brave youth, and get
The palm from Urbin, Titian, Tintoret,
Brugel and Coxu, and the works outdo
Of Holbein and that mighty Rubens too.
So draw and paint as none may do the like,
No, not the glory of the world, Vandyke.

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

Temptations.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Virgin Mary.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Scare-Fire.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

I Call And I Call

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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

To The Painter, To Draw Him A Picture.

Come, skilful Lupo, now, and take
Thy bice, thy umber, pink, and lake;
And let it be thy pencil's strife,
To paint a Bridgeman to the life:
Draw him as like too, as you can,
An old, poor, lying, flattering man:
His cheeks bepimpled, red and blue;
His nose and lips of mulberry hue.
Then, for an easy fancy, place
A burling iron for his face:
Next, make his cheeks with breath to swell,
And for to speak, if possible:
But do not so, for fear lest he
Should by his breathing, poison thee.

Robert Herrick

To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter To His Majesty.[1]

    Once I beheld the fairest of her kind,
    And still the sweet idea charms my mind:
    True, she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long,
    Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;
    But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize;
    I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.
    Such are thy pictures, Kneller: such thy skill,
    That Nature seems obedient to thy will;
    Comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught;
    Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.
    At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
    Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree,
    We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.

        Shadows are but privations of the light;
    Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;
    With us approach, retir...

John Dryden

To His Worthy Friend, M. Arthur Bartly.

When after many lusters thou shalt be
Wrapt up in sear-cloth with thine ancestry;
When of thy ragg'd escutcheons shall be seen
So little left, as if they ne'er had been;
Thou shalt thy name have, and thy fame's best trust,
Here with the generation of my Just.

Robert Herrick

Lines To A Promising Young Artist.

These bays be thine; and, tho' not form'd to shine
Clear as thy colour, faultless as thy line,
Yet shall the Muse essay, in humble verse,
Thy merits, lovely Painting! to rehearse.
As when the demon of the winter storm
Robs each sweet flow'ret of its beauteous form,
The Spirit of the stream, in crystal wave,
Sleeps whilst the chilling blasts above him rave,
Till the Sun spreads his animating fires,
And sullen Darkness from the scene retires,
Then mountain-nymphs discard their robes of snow,
And in green mantles smile in roseate glow,
And rivers, loosen'd from their icy chain,
Spread joy and richness thro' the verdant plain,
Thus, in those climes where skies are ever fair,
Each infant Science breath'd a genial air,
Climes where the Earth her stores to all resign...

John Carr

Upon A Painted Gentlewoman

Men say you're fair; and fair ye are, 'tis true;
But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

Robert Herrick

Epistle To Mr Jervas, With Mr Dryden's Translation Of Fresnoy's 'Art Of Painting.'

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine through long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear ...

Alexander Pope