Upon Bunce. Epig.

Money thou ow'st me; prethee fix a day
For payment promis'd, though thou never pay:
Let it be Dooms-day; nay, take longer scope;
Pay when th'art honest; let me have some hope.

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

The Delaying Bride.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

True Friendship.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Reape.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Sappho.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Upon Huncks. Epig.

Huncks has no money, he does swear or say,
About him, when the tavern's shot's to pay.
If he has none in 's pockets, trust me, Huncks
Has none at home in coffers, desks, or trunks.

Robert Herrick

To God.

With golden censers, and with incense, here
Before Thy virgin-altar I appear,
To pay Thee that I owe, since what I see
In, or without, all, all belongs to Thee.
Where shall I now begin to make, for one
Least loan of Thine, half restitution?
Alas! I cannot pay a jot; therefore
I'll kiss the tally, and confess the score.
Ten thousand talents lent me, Thou dost write;
'Tis true, my God, but I can't pay one mite.

Robert Herrick

Upon Paske, A Draper.

Paske, though his debt be due upon the day
Demands no money by a craving way;
For why, says he, all debts and their arrears
Have reference to the shoulders, not the ears.

Robert Herrick

Upon Bungy.

Bungy does fast; looks pale; puts sackcloth on;
Not out of conscience, or religion:
Or that this younker keeps so strict a Lent,
Fearing to break the king's commandement:
But being poor, and knowing flesh is dear,
He keeps not one, but many Lents i' th' year.

Robert Herrick

To His Peculiar Friend, Mr. Thomas Shapcott, Lawyer.

I've paid thee what I promis'd; that's not all;
Besides I give thee here a verse that shall
(When hence thy circummortal part is gone),
Arch-like, hold up thy name's inscription.
Brave men can't die, whose candid actions are
Writ in the poet's endless calendar:
Whose vellum and whose volume is the sky,
And the pure stars the praising poetry.
Farewell

Robert Herrick

Upon The Bishop Of Lincoln's Imprisonment.

Never was day so over-sick with showers
But that it had some intermitting hours;
Never was night so tedious but it knew
The last watch out, and saw the dawning too;
Never was dungeon so obscurely deep
Wherein or light or day did never peep;
Never did moon so ebb, or seas so wane,
But they left hope-seed to fill up again.
So you, my lord, though you have now your stay,
Your night, your prison, and your ebb, you may
Spring up afresh, when all these mists are spent,
And star-like, once more gild our firmament.
Let but that mighty Cæsar speak, and then
All bolts, all bars, all gates shall cleave; as when
That earthquake shook the house, and gave the stout
Apostles way, unshackled, to go out.
This, as I wish for, so I hope to see;
Though you, my lord, have bee...

Robert Herrick