Robert Herrick
¶[1591-1674]
¶206 Cherry-Ripe
¶Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones; come and buy.If so be you ask me whereThey do grow, I answer: ThereWhere my Julia's lips do smile;There's the land, or cherry-isle.Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
¶207 A Child's Grace
¶Here a little child I standHeaving up my either hand;Cold as paddocks though they be.Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on us all. Amen.
¶208 The Mad Maid's Song
¶GooD-MORROw to the day so fair,Good-morning, sir, to you;Good-morrow to mine own torn hairBedabbled with the dew.
¶Good-morning to this primrose too.Good-morrow to each maidThat will with flowers the tomb bestrewWherein my love is laid.
¶Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!For pity, sir, find out that beeWhich bore my love away.[335]I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,I'll seek him in your eyes;Nay, now I think they've made his graver th' bed of strawberries.
¶I'll seek him there; I know ere thisThe cold, cold earth doth shake him;But I will go, or send a kissBy you, sir, to awake him.
¶Pray hurt him not; though he be dead.He knows well who do love him.And who with green turfs rear his head.And who do rudely move him.
¶He's soft and tender (pray take heed);With bands of cowslips bind him.And bring him home—but 'tis decreedThat I shall never find him!
¶209 To THE VirginsGather ye rose-buds while ye may.Old Time is still a-flying:And this same flower that smiles to-day.To-morrow will be dying.
¶The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,The higher he's a-gettingThe sooner will his race be run.And nearer he's to setting.
¶That age is best which is the first.When youth and blood are warmer;But being sf>ent, the worse, and worstTimes, still succeed the former.
¶Then be not coy, but use your time;And while ye may, go marry:For having lost but once your prime.You may for ever tarry.
To DlANEME
¶SWEET, be not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike sparkle in their skies;Nor be you proud, that you can seeAll hearts your captives; yours yet free:Be you not proud of that rich hairWhich wantons with the lovesick air;When as that ruby which you wear,Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,Will last to be a precious stoneWhen all your world of beauty's gone.
A Sweet Disorder
¶A SWEET disorder in the dressKindles in clothes a wantonness:—A lawn about the shoulders thrownInto a fine distraction,—An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals the crimson stomacher,—A cuff neglectful, and therebyRibbands to flow confusedly,—A winning wave, deserving note,In the tempestuous petticoat,—A careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civility,—Do more bewitch me, than when artIs too precise in every part.
Whenas in Silks
¶WHENAS in silks my Julia goesThen , then (methinks) how sweedy flowsThat liquefaction of her clothes.
¶Next , when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free;O how that glittering taketh me!
p. 337¶2 / j To ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM
Any Thing
¶BID me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be:Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
¶A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou canst find,That heart I'll give to thee.
¶Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,To honour thy decree:Or bid it languish quite away,And ' t shall do so for thee.
¶Bid me to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see:And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.
¶Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree:Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en Death, to die for thee.
¶Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me,And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.
214 To DAFFODILS
¶FAIR Daffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon:As yet the early-rising SunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,[338]Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And , having pray'd together, weWill go with you along.
¶We have short time to stay, as you,We have as short a Spring!As quick a growth to meet decayAs you, or any thing.We die,As your hours do, and dryAwayLike to the Summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dewNe'er to be found again.
To BLOSSOMS
¶FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast?Your date is not so past,But you may stay yet here awhileTo blush and gently smile,And goat last.
¶What , were ye born to beAn hour or half's delight,And so to bid good-night?' T was pity Nature brought ye forthMerely to show your worth,And lose you quite.
¶But you are lovely leaves, where weMay read how soon things haveTheir end, though ne'er so brave:And after they have shown their prideLike you, awhile, they glideInto the grave.
Corinna's Maying
¶GET up, get up for shame! The blooming mornUpon her wings presents the god unshorn.See how Aurora throws her fairFresh-quilted colours through the air:Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and seeThe dew-bespangling herb and tree!Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east,Above an hour since, yet you not drest;Nay ! not so much as out of bed?When all the birds have matins said,And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin,Nay , profanation, to keep in,When as a thousand virgins on this daySpring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May .
¶Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seenTo come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,And sweet as Flora. Taken o careFor jewels for your gown or hair:Fear not; the leaves will strewGems in abundance upon you:Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.Come , and receive them while the lightHangs on the dew-locks of the night,And Titan on the eastern hillRetires himself, or else stands stillTill you come forth! Was h , dress, be brief in praying:Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
¶Come , my Corinna, come; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each street a park,Made green and trimm'd with trees! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr branch! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark, a tabernacle is,Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.[340]Can such delights be in the streetAnd open fields, and we not see't?Come , we'll abroad: and let's obeyThe proclamation made for May ,And sin no more, as we have done, by stayingBut, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
¶There's not a budding boy or girl this dayBut is got up and gone to bring in May .A deal of youth, ere this, is comeBack, and with white-thorn laden home.Some have dispatch'd their cakes and cream,Before that we have left to dream:And some have wept and woo'd, and plighted troth,And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:Many a green-gown has been given,Many a kiss, both odd and even:Many a glance, too, has been sentFrom out the eye, love's firmament:Many a jest told of the keys betrayingThis night, and locks pick'd: yet we're not a-Maying.
¶Come , let us go, while we are in our prime,And take the harmless folly of the time!We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore we know our liberty.Our life is short, and our days runAs fast away as does the sun.And , as a vapour or a drop of rain,Once lost, can ne'er be found again,So when or you or I are madeA fable, song, or fleeting shade,All love, all liking, all delightLies drowned with us in endless night.Then , while time serves, and we are but decaying,Come , my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.