Upon Woman And Mary.

So long, it seem'd, as Mary's faith was small,
Christ did her woman, not her Mary call;
But no more woman, being strong in faith,
But Mary call'd then, as St. Ambrose saith.

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

Rapine Brings Ruin.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To His Peculiar Friend, Sir Edward Fish, Knight Baronet.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

More Modest, More Manly.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Doomsday.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Another. (Virgin Mary)

As sunbeams pierce the glass, and streaming in,
No crack or schism leave i' th' subtle skin:
So the Divine Hand worked and brake no thread,
But, in a mother, kept a maidenhead.

Robert Herrick

Upon Some Women.

Thou who wilt not love, do this,
Learn of me what woman is.
Something made of thread and thrum.
A mere botch of all and some.
Pieces, patches, ropes of hair;
Inlaid garbage everywhere.
Outside silk and outside lawn;
Scenes to cheat us neatly drawn.
False in legs, and false in thighs;
False in breast, teeth, hair, and eyes;
False in head, and false enough;
Only true in shreds and stuff.

Robert Herrick

To Mistress Mary Willand.

One more by thee, love, and desert have sent,
T' enspangle this expansive firmament.
O flame of beauty! come, appear, appear
A virgin taper, ever shining here.

Robert Herrick

The Virgin Mary.

To work a wonder, God would have her shown
At once a bud and yet a rose full-blown.

Robert Herrick

The Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary was, as I have read,
The House of God, by Christ inhabited;
Into the which He entered, but, the door
Once shut, was never to be open'd more.

Robert Herrick

To the Virgin Mary

Mother of Him we call the Christ,
No halo round thy brows we paint,
Incense and prayer we offer not,
Nor mind to title thee as saint.

And yet, no womans name, of all
With honour from the ages sent,
Mary, is aureoled like thine,
With love and grief and glory blent!

Oh wisely was it that He chose,
Who the unwritten future reads,
To teach the after-world, through thee,
What cherishers Messiah needs.

Thou heardst the angels prophecy,
The tidings which the shepherds brought,
Anna and Simeon praising God,
And sawst that star the Wise Men sought!

Ah, who of us could bear, like thee,
With meekness, Gods triumphal light;
Then, still believing, with His Charge,
At midnight take an exiles flight?

Throughout the Son...

Mary Hannay Foott