Upon A Wife That Died Mad With Jealousy.

In this little vault she lies,
Here, with all her jealousies:
Quiet yet; but if ye make
Any noise they both will wake,
And such spirits raise 'twill then
Trouble death to lay again.

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

Truth And Falsehood.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Entertainment; Or, Porch-Verse, At The Marriage Of Mr. Henry Northly And The Most Witty Mrs. Lettice Yard.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

An Ode For Ben Jonson

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

No Danger To Men Desperate.

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.

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

Upon A Maid

Here she lies, in bed of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty, it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins come, and in a ring
Her supremest requiem sing;
Then depart, but see ye tread
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.

Robert Herrick

Upon An Old Woman.

Old Widow Prouse, to do her neighbours evil,
Would give, some say, her soul unto the devil.
Well, when she's kill'd that pig, goose, cock, or hen,
What would she give to get that soul again?

Robert Herrick

Upon A Child That Died

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth, that lightly covers her.

Robert Herrick

Upon A Maid That Died The Day She Was Married.

That morn which saw me made a bride,
The evening witness'd that I died.
Those holy lights, wherewith they guide
Unto the bed the bashful bride,
Serv'd but as tapers for to burn
And light my relics to their urn.
This epitaph, which here you see,
Supplied the epithalamy.

Robert Herrick

To Jealousy.

O jealousy, that art
The canker of the heart;
And mak'st all hell
Where thou do'st dwell;
For pity be
No fury, or no firebrand to me.

Far from me I'll remove
All thoughts of irksome love:
And turn to snow,
Or crystal grow,
To keep still free,
O! soul-tormenting jealousy, from thee.

Robert Herrick