Robert Herrick

See'st thou that cloud as silver clear,
Plump, soft, and swelling every where?
'Tis Julia's bed, and she sleeps there.

Fain would I kiss my Julia's dainty leg,
Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

The publisher's freak, by which Herrick's three chief Fairy poems ("The Fairy Temple; or, Oberon's Chapel," "Oberon's Feast," and "Oberon's Palace") are separated from each other, is greatly to be regretted. The last two, both dedicated to Shapcott, are distinctly connected by their opening lines, and "Oberon's Chapel," dedicated to Mr. John Merrifield, Herrick's other fairy-loving lawyer, of course belongs to the same group. All three were probably first written in 1626 and cannot be dissociated from Drayton's _Nymphidia_, published in 1627, and Sir Simeon Steward's "A Description of the King of Fayries clothes, brought to him on New-yeares day in the morning, 1626 [O. S.], by his Queenes Chambermaids". In 1635 there was published a little book of a dozen leaves, most kindly transcribed for this edition by Mr. E. Gordon Duff, from the un...

Ah, Posthumus!    our years hence fly
And leave no sound:    nor piety,
Or prayers, or vow
Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
But we must on,
As fate does lead or draw us; none,
None, Posthumus, could e'er decline
The doom of cruel Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground
Must all be left, no one plant found
To follow thee,
Save only the curst cypress-tree!
--A merry mind
Looks forward, scorns what's left behind;
Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may,
And here enjoy our holiday.

We've seen the past best times, and these
Will ne'er return; we see the seas,
And moons to wane,
But they fill up their ebbs again;
But vanish'd man,
Like to a lily lost, ne'er can,
Ne'er can repullulate, or bring
His days...

Here, here I live,
And somewhat give
Of what I have
To those who crave,
Little or much,
My alms is such;
But if my deal
Of oil and meal
Shall fuller grow,
More I'll bestow;
Meantime be it
E'en but a bit,
Or else a crumb,
The scrip hath some.

You ask me what I do, and how I live?
And, noble friend, this answer I must give:
Drooping, I draw on to the vaults of death,
O'er which you'll walk, when I am laid beneath.

Some would know
Why I so
Long still do tarry,
And ask why
Here that I
Live and not marry.
Thus I those
Do oppose:
What man would be here
Slave to thrall,
If at all
He could live free here?

    When I behold Thee, almost slain,
    With one and all parts full of pain:
    When I Thy gentle heart do see
    Pierced through and dropping blood for me,
    I'll call, and cry out, thanks to Thee.

    Vers. But yet it wounds my soul to think
    That for my sin Thou, Thou must drink,
    Even Thou alone, the bitter cup
    Of fury and of vengeance up.

    Chor. Lord, I'll not see Thee to drink all
    The vinegar, the myrrh, the gall:

Vers. Chor. But I will sip a little wine;
        Which done, Lord, say: The rest is Mine.

Give me that man that dares bestride
The active sea-horse, and with pride
Through that huge field of waters ride.

Who with his looks, too, can appease
The ruffling winds and raging seas,
In midst of all their outrages.

This, this a virtuous man can do,
Sail against rocks, and split them too;
Ay, and a world of pikes pass through.

My many cares and much distress
Has made me like a wilderness;
Or, discompos'd, I'm like a rude
And all confused multitude:
Out of my comely manners worn,
And, as in means, in mind all torn.

Dearest of thousands, now the time draws near
That with my lines my life must full-stop here.
Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shed
Over my turf when I am buried.
Then for effusions, let none wanting be,
Or other rites that do belong to me;
As love shall help thee, when thou dost go hence
Unto thy everlasting residence.

The only comfort of my life
Is, that I never yet had wife;
Nor will hereafter; since I know
Who weds, o'er-buys his weal with woe

Hence they have borne my Lord; behold! the stone
Is rolled away and my sweet Saviour's gone.
Tell me, white angel, what is now become
Of Him we lately sealed up in this tomb?
Is He, from hence, gone to the shades beneath,
To vanquish hell as here He conquered death?
If so, I'll thither follow without fear,
And live in hell if that my Christ stays there.

Of all the good things whatsoe'er we do,
God is the {ARCHÊ}, and the {TELOS} too.

Look how our foul days do exceed our fair;
And as our bad, more than our good works are,
E'en so those lines, pen'd by my wanton wit,
Treble the number of these good I've writ.
Things precious are least numerous: men are prone
To do ten bad for one good action.

Here, Here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Prue and me:
Or pea or bean, or wort or beet,
Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.
Here we rejoice, because no rent
We pay for our poor tenement;
Wherein we rest, and never fear
The landlord or the usurer.
The quarter-day does ne'er affright
Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
We eat our own, and batten more,
Because we feed on no man's score;
But pity those whose flanks grow great,
Swell'd with the lard of other's meat.
We bless our fortunes, when we see
Our own beloved privacy;
And like our living, where we're known
To very few, or else to none.

Why dost thou wound and break my heart,
As if we should for ever part?
Hast thou not heard an oath from me,
After a day, or two, or three,
I would come back and live with thee?
Take, if thou dost distrust that vow,
This second protestation now:
Upon thy cheek that spangled tear,
Which sits as dew of roses there,
That tear shall scarce be dried before
I'll kiss the threshold of thy door;
Then weep not, Sweet, but thus much know,
I'm half returned before I go.

I do believe that die I must,
And be return'd from out my dust:
I do believe that when I rise,
Christ I shall see, with these same eyes:
I do believe that I must come,
With others, to the dreadful doom:
I do believe the bad must go
From thence, to everlasting woe:
I do believe the good, and I,
Shall live with Him eternally:
I do believe I shall inherit
Heaven, by Christ's mercies, not my merit.
I do believe the One in Three,
And Three in perfect unity:
Lastly, that JESUS is a deed
Of gift from God: and here's my creed.

Give me a man that is not dull,
When all the world with rifts is full;
But unamazed dares clearly sing,
When as the roof's a-tottering;
And though it falls, continues still
Tickling the Cittern with his quill.