Upon A Hoarse Singer.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear,
'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

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

On Himself.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Death

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

God's Grace.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Hour-Glass

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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On Himself.

I'll sing no more, nor will I longer write
Of that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.
I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers;
No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.
I'll write no more, nor will I tell or sing
Of Cupid and his witty cozening:
I'll sing no more of death, or shall the grave
No more my dirges and my trentalls have.

Robert Herrick

Upon Her Voice.

Let but thy voice engender with the string,
And angels will be born while thou dost sing.

Robert Herrick

Upon Julia's Voice

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.

Robert Herrick

On Himself.

Ask me why I do not sing
To the tension of the string
As I did not long ago,
When my numbers full did flow?
Grief, ay, me! hath struck my lute
And my tongue, at one time, mute.

Robert Herrick

His Lachrymæ; Or, Mirth Turned To Mourning.

Call me no more,
As heretofore,
The music of a feast;
Since now, alas!
The mirth that was
In me is dead or ceas'd.

Before I went,
To banishment,
Into the loathed west,
I could rehearse
A lyric verse,
And speak it with the best.

But time, ay me!
Has laid, I see,
My organ fast asleep,
And turn'd my voice
Into the noise
Of those that sit and weep.

Robert Herrick

Upon Comely, A Good Speaker But An Ill Singer. Epig.

Comely acts well; and when he speaks his part,
He doth it with the sweetest tones of art:
But when he sings a psalm, there's none can be
More curs'd for singing out of tune than he.

Robert Herrick