Upon Craw.

Craw cracks in sirrop; and does stinking say,
Who can hold that, my friends, that will away?

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

Upon Parson Beanes.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Eyes Before The Ears.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To The Ladies.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Julia.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

To Cedars.

If 'mongst my many poems I can see
One only worthy to be wash'd by thee,
I live for ever, let the rest all lie
In dens of darkness or condemn'd to die.

Robert Herrick

Upon Rump.

Rump is a turn-broach, yet he seldom can
Steal a swoln sop out of a dripping-pan.

Robert Herrick

Upon Lulls.

Lulls swears he is all heart; but you'll suppose
By his proboscis that he is all nose.

Robert Herrick

The Hag.

The staff is now greas'd;
And very well pleas'd,
She cocks out her arse at the parting,
To an old ram goat
That rattles i' th' throat,
Half-choked with the stink of her farting.

In a dirty hair-lace
She leads on a brace
Of black boar-cats to attend her:
Who scratch at the moon,
And threaten at noon
Of night from heaven for to rend her.

A-hunting she goes,
A cracked horn she blows,
At which the hounds fall a-bounding;
While th' moon in her sphere
Peeps trembling for fear,
And night's afraid of the sounding.

Robert Herrick

Upon Brock. Epig.

To cleanse his eyes, Tom Brock makes much ado,
But not his mouth, the fouler of the two.
A clammy rheum makes loathsome both his eyes:
His mouth, worse furr'd with oaths and blasphemies.

Robert Herrick

Upon A Sour-Breath Lady. Epig.

Fie, quoth my lady, what a stink is here?
When 'twas her breath that was the carrionere.

Robert Herrick