Robert Herrick    August  24 1591 –  October 15 1674  17th-century English lyric poet and cleric

A Meditation for His Mistress You are a tulip seen today, But (Dearest) of so short a stay; That where you grew, scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, (and in an hour.) You are a sparkling Rose i'th'bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew, or stood. You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with Tendrils love entwine, Yet dried, ere you distill your Wine. You are like Balm enclosed (well) In Amber, or some Crystal shell, Yet lost, ere you transfuse your smell. You are a dainty Violet, Yet withered, ere you can be set Within the Virgin's Coronet. You are the Queen all flowers among, But die you must (fair Maid) ere long, As He, the maker of this song. Crutches Thou see'st me, Lucia, this year droop; Three zodiacs fill'd more, I shall stoop; Let crutches then provided be To shore up my debility: Then, while thou laugh'st, I'll sighing cry, A ruin underpropt am I: Don will I then my beadsman's gown; And when so feeble I am grown As my weak shoulders cannot bear The burden of a grasshopper; Yet with the bench of aged sires, When I and they keep termly fires, With my weak voice I'll sing, or say Some odes I made of Lucia;— Then will I heave my wither'd hand To Jove the mighty, for to stand Thy faithful friend, and to pour down Upon thee many a benison. Comfort To A Youth That Had Lost His Love What needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints? In endless mirth, She thinks not on What's said or done   In earth: She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan   She hears; Nor does she mind, Or think on't now, That ever thou   Wast kind:— But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here,   Thy love. —Forbear, therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep   No more. Eternity O years!  and age!  farewell: Behold I go, Where I do know Infinity to dwell. And these mine eyes shall see All times, how they Are lost i' th' sea Of vast eternity:— Where never moon shall sway The stars; but she, And night, shall be Drown'd in one endless day. His Poetry His Pillar Only a little more I have to write: Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night. 'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away. O Time, that cut'st down all, And scarce leav'st here Memorial Of any men that were; —How many lie forgot In vaults beneath, And piece-meal rot Without a fame in death? Behold this living stone I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee. Pillars let some set up If so they please; Here is my hope, And my Pyramides. His Wish To God I would to God, that mine old age might have Before my last, but here a living grave; Some one poor almshouse, there to lie, or stir, Ghost-like, as in my meaner sepulchre; A little piggin, and a pipkin by, To hold things fitting my necessity, Which, rightly us'd, both in their time and place, Might me excite to fore, and after, grace. Thy cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be, Not to adore that, but to worship Thee. So here the remnant of my days I'd spend, Reading Thy bible, and my book; so end. How His Soul Came Ensnared My soul would one day go and seek For roses, and in Julia's cheek A richess of those sweets she found, As in another Rosamond; But gathering roses as she was, Not knowing what would come to pass, it chanced a ringlet of her hair Caught my poor soul, as in a snare; Which ever since has been in thrall; —Yet freedom she enjoys withal. Hymn To The Graces When I love, as some have told Love I shall, when I am old, O ye Graces!  make me fit For the welcoming of it! Clean my rooms, as temples be, To entertain that deity; Give me words wherewith to woo, Suppling and successful too; Winning postures; and withal, Manners each way musical; Sweetness to allay my sour And unsmooth behaviour: For I know you have the skill Vines to prune, though not to kill; And of any wood ye see, You can make a Mercury. Love Lightly Pleased Let fair or foul my mistress be, Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me; Or let her walk, or stand, or sit, The posture her's, I'm pleased with it; Or let her tongue be still, or stir Graceful is every thing from her; Or let her grant, or else deny, My love will fit each history. No Loathsomeness in Love What I fancy I approve, No dislike there is in love: Be my mistress short or tall, And distorted therewithal: Be she likewise one of those, That an acre hath of nose: Be her forehead and her eyes Full of incongruities: Be her cheeks so shallow too, As to show her tongue wag through: Be her lips ill hung, or set, And her grinders black as jet; Has she thin hair, hath she none, She's to me a paragon. Pray And Prosper First offer incense; then, thy field and meads Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads. The spangling dew dredged o'er the grass shall be Turn'd all to mell and manna there for thee. Butter of amber, cream, and wine, and oil, Shall run as rivers all throughout thy soil. Would'st thou to sincere silver turn thy mould? —Pray once, twice pray; and turn thy ground to gold. Request To The Graces Ponder my words, if so any be Known guilty here of incivility, Let what is graceless, discomposed, and rude, With sweetness, smoothness, softness be endued. Teach it to blush, to curtsy, lisp, and show Demure but yet full of temptation, too. Numbers ne'er tickle, or but lightly please, Unless they have some wanton carriages:-- This if ye do, each piece will here be good And graceful made by your neat sisterhood. Purpose No wrath of men, or rage of seas, Can shake a just man's purposes; No threats of tyrants, or the grim Visage of them can alter him; But what he doth at first intend, That he holds firmly to the end. On Julia's Voice So smooth, so sweet, so silvery is thy voice, As, could they hear, the Damned would make no noise, But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber, Melting melodious words to lutes of amber. Sweet Spirit Comfort Me In the hours of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me! The Wake Come, Anthea, let us two Go to feast, as others do: Tarts and custards, creams and cakes, Are the junkets still at wakes; Unto which the tribes resort, Where the business is the sport: Morris-dancers thou shalt see, Marian, too, in pageantry; And a mimic to devise Many grinning properties. Players there will be, and those Base in action as in clothes; Yet with strutting they will please The incurious villages. Near the dying of the day There will be a cudgel-play, Where a coxcomb will be broke, Ere a good word can be spoke: But the anger ends all here, Drench'd in ale, or drown'd in beer. —Happy rusticks!  best content With the cheapest merriment; And possess no other fear, Than to want the Wake next year.

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