To The Lady Mary Villars, Governess To The Princess Henrietta.

When I of Villars do but hear the name,
It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham,
Who was your brave exalted uncle here,
Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere,
Who spurned at envy, and could bring with ease
An end to all his stately purposes.
For his love then, whose sacred relics show
Their resurrection and their growth in you;
And for my sake, who ever did prefer
You above all those sweets of Westminster;
Permit my book to have a free access
To kiss your hand, most dainty governess.

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

To The Earl Of Westmoreland.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Trigg. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Dirge Of Jephthah's Daughter: Sung By The Virgin-Martyr

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Good Manners At Meat.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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To The High And Noble Prince George, Duke, Marquis, And Earl Of Buckingham.

Never my book's perfection did appear
Till I had got the name of Villars here:
Now 'tis so full that when therein I look
I see a cloud of glory fills my book.
Here stand it still to dignify our Muse,
Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose
Your name to be a laureate wreath to her
Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.

Robert Herrick

To The Right Honourable Edward, Earl Of Dorset.

If I dare write to you, my lord, who are
Of your own self a public theatre,
And, sitting, see the wiles, ways, walks of wit,
And give a righteous judgment upon it,
What need I care, though some dislike me should,
If Dorset say what Herrick writes is good?
We know y'are learn'd i' th' Muses, and no less
In our state-sanctions, deep or bottomless.
Whose smile can make a poet, and your glance
Dash all bad poems out of countenance;
So that an author needs no other bays
For coronation than your only praise,
And no one mischief greater than your frown
To null his numbers, and to blast his crown.
Few live the life immortal. He ensures
His fame's long life who strives to set up yours.

Robert Herrick

Upon His Kinswoman, Mistress Elizabeth Herrick.

Sweet virgin, that I do not set
The pillars up of weeping jet
Or mournful marble, let thy shade
Not wrathful seem, or fright the maid
Who hither at her wonted hours
Shall come to strew thy earth with flowers.
No; know, bless'd maid, when there's not one
Remainder left of brass or stone,
Thy living epitaph shall be,
Though lost in them, yet found in me;
Dear, in thy bed of roses then,
Till this world shall dissolve as men,
Sleep while we hide thee from the light,
Drawing thy curtains round: Good-night.

Robert Herrick

To The Right Honourable Philip, Earl Of Pembroke And Montgomery.

How dull and dead are books that cannot show
A prince of Pembroke, and that Pembroke you!
You who are high born, and a lord no less
Free by your fate than fortune's mightiness,
Who hug our poems, honour'd sir, and then
The paper gild and laureate the pen.
Nor suffer you the poets to sit cold,
But warm their wits and turn their lines to gold.
Others there be who righteously will swear
Those smooth-paced numbers amble everywhere,
And these brave measures go a stately trot;
Love those, like these, regard, reward them not.
But you, my lord, are one whose hand along
Goes with your mouth or does outrun your tongue;
Paying before you praise, and, cockering wit,
Give both the gold and garland unto it.

Robert Herrick

Upon His Kinswoman, Mrs. M. S.

Here lies a virgin, and as sweet
As e'er was wrapt in winding sheet.
Her name if next you would have known,
The marble speaks it, Mary Stone:
Who dying in her blooming years,
This stone for name's sake melts to tears.
If, fragrant virgins, you'll but keep
A fast, while jets and marbles weep,
And praying, strew some roses on her,
You'll do my niece abundant honour.

Robert Herrick

To His Dear Valentine, Mistress Margaret Falconbridge.

Now is your turn, my dearest, to be set
A gem in this eternal coronet:
'Twas rich before, but since your name is down
It sparkles now like Ariadne's crown.
Blaze by this sphere for ever: or this do,
Let me and it shine evermore by you.

Robert Herrick