330. THE ADMONITION.

Seest thou those diamonds which she wears In that rich carcanet; Or those, on her dishevell'd hairs, Fair pearls in order set? Believe, young man, all those were tears By wretched wooers sent, In mournful hyacinths and rue, That figure discontent; Which when not warmed by her view, By cold neglect, each one Congeal'd to pearl and stone; Which precious spoils upon her She wears as trophies of her honour. Ah then, consider, what all this implies: She that will wear thy tears would wear thine eyes.

Carcanet, necklace.

331. TO HIS HONOURED KINSMAN, SIR WILLIAM SOAME. EPIG.

I can but name thee, and methinks I call All that have been, or are canonical For love and bounty to come near, and see Their many virtues volum'd up in thee; In thee, brave man! whose incorrupted fame Casts forth a light like to a virgin flame; And as it shines it throws a scent about, As when a rainbow in perfumes goes out. So vanish hence, but leave a name as sweet As benjamin and storax when they meet.

Benjamin, gum benzoin. Storax or Styrax, another resinous gum.

332. ON HIMSELF.

Ask me why I do not sing To the tension of the string As I did not long ago, When my numbers full did flow? Grief, ay, me! hath struck my lute And my tongue, at one time, mute.

333. TO LAR.

No more shall I, since I am driven hence, Devote to thee my grains of frankincense; No more shall I from mantle-trees hang down, To honour thee, my little parsley crown; No more shall I (I fear me) to thee bring My chives of garlic for an offering; No more shall I from henceforth hear a choir Of merry crickets by my country fire. Go where I will, thou lucky Lar stay here, Warm by a glitt'ring chimney all the year.

Chives, shreds.

334. THE DEPARTURE OF THE GOOD DEMON.

What can I do in poetry Now the good spirit's gone from me? Why, nothing now but lonely sit And over-read what I have writ.

335. CLEMENCY.

For punishment in war it will suffice If the chief author of the faction dies; Let but few smart, but strike a fear through all; Where the fault springs there let the judgment fall.

336. HIS AGE, DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, M. JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF POSTHUMUS.

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 ere 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 curs'd 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.

W'ave 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 to see a second spring.

But on we must, and thither tend, Where Anchus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed: Thus has infernal Jove decreed; We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade. Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport.

Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when We two are dead, The world with us is buried. Then live we free As is the air, and let us be Our own fair wind, and mark each one Day with the white and lucky stone.

We are not poor, although we have No roofs of cedar, nor our brave Baiae, nor keep Account of such a flock of sheep; Nor bullocks fed To lard the shambles: barbels bred To kiss our hands; nor do we wish For Pollio's lampreys in our dish.

If we can meet and so confer Both by a shining salt-cellar, And have our roof, Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof, And ceiling free From that cheap candle bawdery; We'll eat our bean with that full mirth As we were lords of all the earth.

Well then, on what seas we are toss'd, Our comfort is, we can't be lost. Let the winds drive Our barque, yet she will keep alive Amidst the deeps. 'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps The pinnace up; which, though she errs I' th' seas, she saves her passengers.

Say, we must part (sweet mercy bless Us both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness), Can we so far Stray to become less circular Than we are now? No, no, that self-same heart, that vow Which made us one, shall ne'er undo, Or ravel so to make us two.

Live in thy peace; as for myself, When I am bruised on the shelf Of time, and show My locks behung with frost and snow; When with the rheum, The cough, the ptisick, I consume Unto an almost nothing; then The ages fled I'll call again,

And with a tear compare these last Lame and bad times with those are past; While Baucis by, My old lean wife, shall kiss it dry. And so we'll sit By th' fire, foretelling snow and sleet, And weather by our aches, grown Now old enough to be our own

True calendars, as puss's ear Washed o'er's, to tell what change is near: Then to assuage The gripings of the chine by age, I'll call my young Iuelus to sing such a song I made upon my Julia's breast; And of her blush at such a feast.

Then shall he read that flower of mine, Enclos'd within a crystal shrine; A primrose next; A piece, then, of a higher text, For to beget In me a more transcendent heat Than that insinuating fire, Which crept into each aged sire,

When the fair Helen, from her eyes, Shot forth her loving sorceries; At which I'll rear Mine aged limbs above my chair, And, hearing it, Flutter and crow as in a fit Of fresh concupiscence, and cry: No lust there's like to poetry.

Thus, frantic-crazy man, God wot, I'll call to mind things half-forgot, And oft between Repeat the times that I have seen! Thus ripe with tears, And twisting my Iuelus' hairs, Doting, I'll weep and say, in truth, Baucis, these were my sins of youth.

Then next I'll cause my hopeful lad, If a wild apple can be had, To crown the hearth, Lar thus conspiring with our mirth; Then to infuse Our browner ale into the cruse, Which sweetly spic'd, we'll first carouse Unto the Genius of the house.

Then the next health to friends of mine, Loving the brave Burgundian wine, High sons of pith, Whose fortunes I have frolicked with; Such as could well Bear up the magic bough and spell; And dancing 'bout the mystic thyrse, Give up the just applause to verse:

To those, and then again to thee, We'll drink, my Wickes, until we be Plump as the cherry, Though not so fresh, yet full as merry As the cricket, The untam'd heifer, or the pricket, Until our tongues shall tell our ears We're younger by a score of years.

Thus, till we see the fire less shine From th' embers than the kitling's eyne, We'll still sit up, Sphering about the wassail-cup To all those times Which gave me honour for my rhymes. The coal once spent, we'll then to bed, Far more than night-bewearied.

Posthumus, the name is taken from Horace, Ode ii. 14, from which the beginning of this lyric is translated. Repullulate, be born again. Anchus and rich Tullus. Herrick is again translating from Horace (Ode iv. 7, 14). Baiae, the favourite sea-side resort of the Romans in the time of Horace. Pollio, Vedius Pollio, who fed his lampreys with human flesh. Ob., B.C. 15. Bawdery, dirt (with no moral meaning). Circular, self-sufficing, the "in se ipso totus teres atque rotundus" of Horace. Sat. ii. 7, 86. Iuelus, the son of AEneas. Pith, marrow. Thyrse, bacchic staff. Pricket, a buck in his second year.

337. A SHORT HYMN TO VENUS.

Goddess, I do love a girl, Ruby-lipp'd and tooth'd with pearl; If so be I may but prove Lucky in this maid I love, I will promise there shall be Myrtles offer'd up to thee.

338. TO A GENTLEWOMAN ON JUST DEALING.

True to yourself and sheets, you'll have me swear; You shall, if righteous dealing I find there. Do not you fall through frailty; I'll be sure To keep my bond still free from forfeiture.

339. THE HAND AND TONGUE.

Two parts of us successively command: The tongue in peace; but then in war the hand.

340. UPON A DELAYING LADY.

Come, come away, Or let me go; Must I here stay Because y'are slow, And will continue so? Troth, lady, no.

I scorn to be A slave to state: And, since I'm free, I will not wait Henceforth at such a rate For needy fate.

If you desire My spark should glow, The peeping fire You must blow, Or I shall quickly grow To frost or snow.

341. TO THE LADY MARY VILLARS, GOVERNESS TO THE PRINCESS HENRIETTA.

When I of Villars do but hear the name, It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham, Who was your brave exalted uncle here, Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere, Who spurned at envy, and could bring with ease An end to all his stately purposes. For his love then, whose sacred relics show Their resurrection and their growth in you; And for my sake, who ever did prefer You above all those sweets of Westminster; Permit my book to have a free access To kiss your hand, most dainty governess.

342. UPON HIS JULIA.

Will ye hear what I can say Briefly of my Julia? Black and rolling is her eye, Double-chinn'd and forehead high; Lips she has all ruby red, Cheeks like cream enclareted; And a nose that is the grace And proscenium of her face. So that we may guess by these The other parts will richly please.

343. TO FLOWERS.

In time of life I graced ye with my verse; Do now your flowery honours to my hearse. You shall not languish, trust me; virgins here Weeping shall make ye flourish all the year.

344. TO MY ILL READER.

Thou say'st my lines are hard, And I the truth will tell— They are both hard and marr'd If thou not read'st them well.

345. THE POWER IN THE PEOPLE.

Let kings command and do the best they may, The saucy subjects still will bear the sway.

346. A HYMN TO VENUS AND CUPID.

Sea-born goddess, let me be By thy son thus grac'd and thee; That whene'er I woo, I find Virgins coy but not unkind. Let me when I kiss a maid Taste her lips so overlaid With love's syrup, that I may, In your temple when I pray, Kiss the altar and confess There's in love no bitterness.

347. ON JULIA'S PICTURE.

How am I ravish'd! when I do but see The painter's art in thy sciography? If so, how much more shall I dote thereon When once he gives it incarnation?

Sciography, the profile or section of a building.

348. HER BED.

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

349. HER LEGS.

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

350. UPON HER ALMS.

See how the poor do waiting stand For the expansion of thy hand. A wafer dol'd by thee will swell Thousands to feed by miracle.

351. REWARDS.

Still to our gains our chief respect is had; Reward it is that makes us good or bad.

352. NOTHING NEW.

Nothing is new; we walk where others went; There's no vice now but has his precedent.

353. THE RAINBOW.

Look how the rainbow doth appear But in one only hemisphere; So likewise after our decease No more is seen the arch of peace. That cov'nant's here, the under-bow, That nothing shoots but war and woe.

354. THE MEADOW-VERSE; OR, ANNIVERSARY TO MISTRESS BRIDGET LOWMAN.

Come with the spring-time forth, fair maid, and be This year again the meadow's deity. Yet ere ye enter give us leave to set Upon your head this flowery coronet; To make this neat distinction from the rest, You are the prime and princess of the feast; To which with silver feet lead you the way, While sweet-breath nymphs attend on you this day. This is your hour, and best you may command, Since you are lady of this fairy land. Full mirth wait on you, and such mirth as shall Cherish the cheek but make none blush at all.

Meadow-verse, to be recited at a rustic feast.

355. THE PARTING VERSE, THE FEAST THERE ENDED.

Loth to depart, but yet at last each one Back must now go to's habitation; Not knowing thus much when we once do sever, Whether or no that we shall meet here ever. As for myself, since time a thousand cares And griefs hath filed upon my silver hairs, 'Tis to be doubted whether I next year Or no shall give ye a re-meeting here. If die I must, then my last vow shall be, You'll with a tear or two remember me. Your sometime poet; but if fates do give Me longer date and more fresh springs to live, Oft as your field shall her old age renew, Herrick shall make the meadow-verse for you.

356. UPON JUDITH. EPIG.

Judith has cast her old skin and got new, And walks fresh varnish'd to the public view; Foul Judith was and foul she will be known For all this fair transfiguration.

359. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP, EARL OF PEMBROKE AND MONTGOMERY.

How dull and dead are books that cannot show A prince of Pembroke, and that Pembroke you! You who are high born, and a lord no less Free by your fate than fortune's mightiness, Who hug our poems, honour'd sir, and then The paper gild and laureate the pen. Nor suffer you the poets to sit cold, But warm their wits and turn their lines to gold. Others there be who righteously will swear Those smooth-paced numbers amble everywhere, And these brave measures go a stately trot; Love those, like these, regard, reward them not. But you, my lord, are one whose hand along Goes with your mouth or does outrun your tongue; Paying before you praise, and, cockering wit, Give both the gold and garland unto it.

Cockering, pampering.

360. AN HYMN TO JUNO.

Stately goddess, do thou please, Who are chief at marriages, But to dress the bridal bed When my love and I shall wed; And a peacock proud shall be Offered up by us to thee.

362. UPON SAPPHO SWEETLY PLAYING AND SWEETLY SINGING.

When thou dost play and sweetly sing— Whether it be the voice or string Or both of them that do agree Thus to entrance and ravish me— This, this I know, I'm oft struck mute, And die away upon thy lute.

364. CHOP-CHERRY.

Thou gav'st me leave to kiss, Thou gav'st me leave to woo; Thou mad'st me think, by this And that, thou lov'dst me too.

But I shall ne'er forget How, for to make thee merry, Thou mad'st me chop, but yet Another snapp'd the cherry.

Chop-cherry, another name of cherry-bob.

365. TO THE MOST LEARNED, WISE, AND ARCH-ANTIQUARY, M. JOHN SELDEN.

I, who have favour'd many, come to be Grac'd now, at last, or glorified by thee, Lo! I, the lyric prophet, who have set On many a head the delphic coronet, Come unto thee for laurel, having spent My wreaths on those who little gave or lent. Give me the daphne, that the world may know it, Whom they neglected thou hast crown'd a poet. A city here of heroes I have made Upon the rock whose firm foundation laid, Shall never shrink; where, making thine abode, Live thou a Selden, that's a demi-god.

Daphne, i.e., the laurel

366. UPON HIMSELF.

Thou shalt not all die; for, while love's fire shines Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines, And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's Fame and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.

367. UPON WRINKLES.

Wrinkles no more are or no less Than beauty turned to sourness.

370. PRAY AND PROSPER.

First offer incense, then thy field and meads Shall smile and smell the better by thy beads. The spangling dew, dredg'd 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.

Beads, prayers. Mell, honey. Sincere silver, pure silver.

371. HIS LACHRYMAE; OR, MIRTH TURNED TO MOURNING.

Call me no more, As heretofore, The music of a feast; Since now, alas! The mirth that was In me is dead or ceas'd.

Before I went, To banishment, Into the loathed west, I could rehearse A lyric verse, And speak it with the best.

But time, ay me! Has laid, I see, My organ fast asleep, And turn'd my voice Into the noise Of those that sit and weep.

375. TO THE MOST FAIR AND LOVELY MISTRESS ANNE SOAME, NOW LADY ABDIE.

So smell those odours that do rise From out the wealthy spiceries; So smells the flower of blooming clove, Or roses smother'd in the stove; So smells the air of spiced wine, Or essences of jessamine; So smells the breath about the hives When well the work of honey thrives, And all the busy factors come Laden with wax and honey home; So smell those neat and woven bowers All over-arch'd with orange flowers, And almond blossoms that do mix To make rich these aromatics; So smell those bracelets and those bands Of amber chaf'd between the hands, When thus enkindled they transpire A noble perfume from the fire; The wine of cherries, and to these The cooling breath of respasses; The smell of morning's milk and cream, Butter of cowslips mix'd with them; Of roasted warden or bak'd pear, These are not to be reckon'd here, Whenas the meanest part of her, Smells like the maiden pomander. Thus sweet she smells, or what can be More lik'd by her or lov'd by me.

Factors, workers. Respasses, raspberries. Pomander, ball of scent.

376. UPON HIS KINSWOMAN, MISTRESS ELIZABETH HERRICK.

Sweet virgin, that I do not set The pillars up of weeping jet Or mournful marble, let thy shade Not wrathful seem, or fright the maid Who hither at her wonted hours Shall come to strew thy earth with flowers. No; know, bless'd maid, when there's not one Remainder left of brass or stone, Thy living epitaph shall be, Though lost in them, yet found in me; Dear, in thy bed of roses then, Till this world shall dissolve as men, Sleep while we hide thee from the light, Drawing thy curtains round: Good-night.

377. A PANEGYRIC TO SIR LEWIS PEMBERTON.

Till I shall come again let this suffice, I send my salt, my sacrifice To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far As to thy Genius and thy Lar; To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen, The fat-fed smoking temple, which in The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines Invites to supper him who dines, Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef, Not represent but give relief To the lank stranger and the sour swain, Where both may feed and come again; For no black-bearded vigil from thy door Beats with a button'd-staff the poor; But from thy warm love-hatching gates each may Take friendly morsels and there stay To sun his thin-clad members if he likes, For thou no porter keep'st who strikes. No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants, Or staying there is scourg'd with taunts Of some rough groom, who, yirkt with corns, says: "Sir, Y'ave dipped too long i' th' vinegar; And with our broth, and bread, and bits, sir friend, Y'ave fared well: pray make an end; Two days y'ave larded here; a third, ye know, Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go You to some other chimney, and there take Essay of other giblets; make Merry at another's hearth—y'are here Welcome as thunder to our beer; Manners know distance, and a man unrude Would soon recoil and not intrude His stomach to a second meal". No, no! Thy house well fed and taught can show No such crabb'd vizard: thou hast learnt thy train With heart and hand to entertain, And by the armsful, with a breast unhid, As the old race of mankind did, When either's heart and either's hand did strive To be the nearer relative. Thou dost redeem those times, and what was lost Of ancient honesty may boast It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son. Thus, like a Roman tribune, thou thy gate Early sets ope to feast and late; Keeping no currish waiter to affright With blasting eye the appetite, Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that The trencher-creature marketh what Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by Some private pinch tells danger's nigh A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites Skin-deep into the pork, or lights Upon some part of kid, as if mistook, When checked by the butler's look. No, no; thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer Is not reserved for Trebius here, But all who at thy table seated are Find equal freedom, equal fare; And thou, like to that hospitable god, Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode To eat thy bullock's thighs, thy veals, thy fat Wethers, and never grudged at. The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail, The cock, the curlew and the quail, These and thy choicest viands do extend Their taste unto the lower end Of thy glad table: not a dish more known To thee than unto anyone. But as thy meat so thy immortal wine Makes the smirk face of each to shine And spring fresh rosebuds, while the salt, the wit, Flows from the wine and graces it; While reverence, waiting at the bashful board, Honours my lady and my lord. No scurril jest; no open scene is laid Here for to make the face afraid; But temperate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet- ly that it makes the meat more sweet; And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou Dost rather pour forth than allow By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine As the Canary Isles were thine; But with that wisdom and that method, as No one that's there his guilty glass Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry Repentance to his liberty. No, thou knowest order, ethics, and has read All economics, know'st to lead A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show How far a figure ought to go, Forward or backward, sideward, and what pace Can give, and what retract a grace; What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees With those thy primitive decrees, To give subsistence to thy house, and proof What Genii support thy roof, Goodness and Greatness; not the oaken piles; For these and marbles have their whiles To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand. Such is thy house, whose firm foundation's trust Is more in thee than in her dust Or depth; these last may yield and yearly shrink When what is strongly built, no chink Or yawning rupture can the same devour, But fix'd it stands, by her own power And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock Which tries and counter-stands the shock And ram of time, and by vexation grows The stronger; virtue dies when foes Are wanting to her exercise, but great And large she spreads by dust and sweat. Safe stand thy walls and thee, and so both will, Since neither's height was rais'd by th' ill Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece Was rear'd up by the poor man's fleece; No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild Or fret thy ceiling or to build A sweating-closet to anoint the silk- soft skin, or bathe in asses' milk; No orphan's pittance left him serv'd to set The pillars up of lasting jet, For which their cries might beat against thine ears, Or in the damp jet read their tears. No plank from hallowed altar does appeal To yond' Star-Chamber, or does seal A curse to thee or thine; but all things even Make for thy peace and pace to heaven. Go on directly so, as just men may A thousand times more swear than say: This is that princely Pemberton who can Teach man to keep a god in man; And when wise poets shall search out to see Good men, they find them all in thee.

Vigil, watchman. Button'd-staff, staff with a knob at its end. Yirkt, scourged. Redeem, buy back. Suppling, tender. Trebius, friend of the epicure Lucullus; cp. Juv. v. 19.

378. TO HIS VALENTINE ON ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say Birds choose their mates, and couple too this day; But by their flight I never can divine When I shall couple with my valentine.

382. UPON M. BEN. JONSON. EPIG.

After the rare arch-poet, Jonson, died, The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride, Together with the stage's glory, stood Each like a poor and pitied widowhood. The cirque profan'd was, and all postures rack'd; For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act. Then temper flew from words, and men did squeak, Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak; No holy rage or frantic fires did stir Or flash about the spacious theatre. No clap of hands, or shout, or praise's proof Did crack the play-house sides, or cleave her roof. Artless the scene was, and that monstrous sin Of deep and arrant ignorance came in: Such ignorance as theirs was who once hiss'd At thy unequall'd play, the Alchemist; Oh, fie upon 'em! Lastly, too, all wit In utter darkness did, and still will sit, Sleeping the luckless age out, till that she Her resurrection has again with thee.

383. ANOTHER.

Thou had'st the wreath before, now take the tree, That henceforth none be laurel-crown'd but thee.

384. TO HIS NEPHEW, TO BE PROSPEROUS IN HIS ART OF PAINTING.

On, as thou hast begun, brave youth, and get The palm from Urbin, Titian, Tintoret, Brugel and Coxu, and the works outdo Of Holbein and that mighty Rubens too. So draw and paint as none may do the like, No, not the glory of the world, Vandyke.

Urbin, Raphael. Brugel, Jan Breughel, Dutch landscape painter (1569-1625), or his father or brother. Coxu, Michael van Coxcie, Flemish painter (1497-1592).

386. A VOW TO MARS.

Store of courage to me grant, Now I'm turn'd a combatant; Help me, so that I my shield, Fighting, lose not in the field. That's the greatest shame of all That in warfare can befall. Do but this, and there shall be Offer'd up a wolf to thee.

387. TO HIS MAID, PREW.

These summer-birds did with thy master stay The times of warmth, but then they flew away, Leaving their poet, being now grown old, Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold. But thou, kind Prew, did'st with my fates abide As well the winter's as the summer's tide; For which thy love, live with thy master here, Not one, but all the seasons of the year.

388. A CANTICLE TO APOLLO.

Play, Ph[oe]bus, on thy lute; And we will all sit mute, By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire.

Hark, hark, the god does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears.

389. A JUST MAN.

A just man's like a rock that turns the wrath Of all the raging waves into a froth.

390. UPON A HOARSE SINGER.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear, 'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

391. HOW PANSIES OR HEART'S-EASE CAME FIRST.

Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers.

392. TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, SIR EDWARD FISH, KNIGHT BARONET.

Since, for thy full deserts, with all the rest Of these chaste spirits that are here possest Of life eternal, time has made thee one For growth in this my rich plantation, Live here; but know 'twas virtue, and not chance, That gave thee this so high inheritance. Keep it for ever, grounded with the good, Who hold fast here an endless livelihood.

393. LAR'S PORTION AND THE POET'S PART.

At my homely country-seat I have there a little wheat, Which I work to meal, and make Therewithal a holy cake: Part of which I give to Lar, Part is my peculiar.

Peculiar, his own property.

394. UPON MAN.

Man is compos'd here of a twofold part: The first of nature, and the next of art: Art presupposes nature; nature she Prepares the way for man's docility.

395. LIBERTY.

Those ills that mortal men endure So long, are capable of cure, As they of freedom may be sure; But, that denied, a grief, though small, Shakes the whole roof, or ruins all.

396. LOTS TO BE LIKED.

Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot or not, to be content with all.

397. GRIEFS.

Jove may afford us thousands of reliefs, Since man expos'd is to a world of griefs.

399. THE DREAM.

By dream I saw one of the three Sisters of fate appear to me; Close to my bedside she did stand, Showing me there a firebrand; She told me too, as that did spend, So drew my life unto an end. Three quarters were consum'd of it; Only remained a little bit, Which will be burnt up by-and-by; Then, Julia, weep, for I must die.

402. CLOTHES DO BUT CHEAT AND COZEN US.

Away with silks, away with lawn, I'll have no scenes or curtains drawn; Give me my mistress as she is, Dress'd in her nak'd simplicities; For as my heart e'en so mine eye Is won with flesh, not drapery.

403. TO DIANEME.

Show me thy feet; show me thy legs, thy thighs; Show me those fleshy principalities; Show me that hill where smiling love doth sit. Having a living fountain under it; Show me thy waist, then let me therewithal, By the assention of thy lawn, see all.

404. UPON ELECTRA.

When out of bed my love doth spring, 'Tis but as day a-kindling; But when she's up and fully dress'd, 'Tis then broad day throughout the east.

405. TO HIS BOOK.

Have I not blest thee? Then go forth, nor fear Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here. But with thy fair fates leading thee, go on With thy most white predestination. Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing The farting tanner and familiar king, The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush; Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush, Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned, That doted on a maid of gingerbread; The flying pilchard and the frisking dace, With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race (Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes), Shall live, and thou not superlast all times. No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see The whole world die and turn to dust with thee. He's greedy of his life who will not fall Whenas a public ruin bears down all.

The farting tanner, etc., see Note.

406. OF LOVE.

I do not love, nor can it be Love will in vain spend shafts on me; I did this godhead once defy, Since which I freeze, but cannot fry. Yet out, alas! the death's the same, Kill'd by a frost or by a flame.

407. UPON HIMSELF.

I dislik'd but even now; Now I love I know not how. Was I idle, and that while Was I fir'd with a smile? I'll to work, or pray; and then I shall quite dislike again.

408. ANOTHER.

Love he that will, it best likes me To have my neck from love's yoke free.

412. THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go or send a kiss By 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 decreed That I shall never find him.

413. TO SPRINGS AND FOUNTAINS.

I heard ye could cool heat, and came With hope you would allay the same; Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold, Nor find that true which was foretold. Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat And labour with unequal heat; Cure, cure yourselves, for I descry Ye boil with love as well as I.

414. UPON JULIA'S UNLACING HERSELF.

Tell if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum; These musks, these ambers, and those other smells, Sweet as the vestry of the oracles. I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace Her silken bodice but a breathing space, The passive air such odour then assum'd, As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd, Whose pure immortal body doth transmit A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

415. TO BACCHUS, A CANTICLE.

Whither dost thou whorry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this, Here and there a fresh love is. That doth like me, this doth please, Thus a thousand mistresses I have now; yet I alone, Having all, enjoy not one.

Whorry, carry rapidly.

416. THE LAWN.

Would I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin? It should be only in my Julia's skin, Which so betrays her blood as we discover The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.

417. THE FRANKINCENSE.

When my off'ring next I make, Be thy hand the hallowed cake, And thy breast the altar whence Love may smell the frankincense.

420. TO SYCAMORES.

I'm sick of love, O let me lie Under your shades to sleep or die! Either is welcome, so I have Or here my bed, or here my grave. Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep Time with the tears that I do weep? Say, have ye sense, or do you prove What crucifixions are in love? I know ye do, and that's the why You sigh for love as well as I.

421. A PASTORAL SUNG TO THE KING: MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS.

Mon. Bad are the times. Sil. And worse than they are we. Mon. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. Sil. None crowns the cup Of wassail now or sets the quintell up; And he who us'd to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes grief-drown'd. Ambo. Let's cheer him up. Sil. Behold him weeping-ripe. Mir. Ah! Amaryllis, farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns my mirthful roundelay. Dear Amaryllis! Mon. Hark! Sil. Mark! Mir. This earth grew sweet Where, Amaryllis, thou didst set thy feet. Ambo. Poor pitied youth! Mir. And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine. This flock of wool and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here. Sil. Words sweet as love itself. Montano, hark! Mir. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent! Like to a field of beans when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown. Mon. A sweet-sad passion—— Mir. In dewy mornings when she came this way Sweet bents would bow to give my love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and, closing, sigh and weep. Besides (ay me!) since she went hence to dwell, The voices' daughter ne'er spake syllable. But she is gone. Sil. Mirtillo, tell us whither. Mir. Where she and I shall never meet together. Mon. Forfend it Pan, and, Pales, do thou please To give an end. Mir. To what? Sil. Such griefs as these. Mir. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure. Mon. Love for thy sake will bring her to these hills And dales again. Mir. No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep, And with my sighs, call home my bleating sheep: And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee. Mon. Set with the sun thy woes. Sil. The day grows old, And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold. Chor. The shades grow great, but greater grows our sorrow; But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep, And meet to weep To-morrow.

Quintell, quintain or tilting board. Bents, grasses. Pales, the goddess of sheepfolds.

422. THE POET LOVES A MISTRESS, BUT NOT TO MARRY.

I do not love to wed, Though I do like to woo; And for a maidenhead I'll beg and buy it too.

I'll praise and I'll approve Those maids that never vary; And fervently I'll love, But yet I would not marry.

I'll hug, I'll kiss, I'll play, And, cock-like, hens I'll tread, And sport it any way But in the bridal bed.

For why? that man is poor Who hath but one of many, But crown'd he is with store That, single, may have any.

Why then, say, what is he, To freedom so unknown, Who, having two or three, Will be content with one?

425. THE WILLOW GARLAND.

A willow garland thou did'st send Perfum'd, last day, to me, Which did but only this portend— I was forsook by thee.

Since so it is, I'll tell thee what, To-morrow thou shalt see Me wear the willow; after that, To die upon the tree.

As beasts unto the altars go With garlands dress'd, so I Will, with my willow-wreath, also Come forth and sweetly die.

427. A HYMN TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW.

'Twas not love's dart, Or any blow Of want, or foe, Did wound my heart With an eternal smart;

But only you, My sometimes known Companion, My dearest Crew, That me unkindly slew.

May your fault die, And have no name In books of fame; Or let it lie Forgotten now, as I.

We parted are And now no more, As heretofore, By jocund Lar Shall be familiar.

But though we sever, My Crew shall see That I will be Here faithless never, But love my Clipseby ever.

430. EMPIRES.

Empires of kings are now, and ever were, As Sallust saith, coincident to fear.

431. FELICITY QUICK OF FLIGHT.

Every time seems short to be That's measured by felicity; But one half-hour that's made up here With grief, seems longer than a year.

436. THE CROWD AND COMPANY.

In holy meetings there a man may be One of the crowd, not of the company.

438. POLICY IN PRINCES.

That princes may possess a surer seat, 'Tis fit they make no one with them too great.

440. UPON THE NIPPLES OF JULIA'S BREAST.

Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry, double grac'd, Within a lily centre plac'd? Or ever mark'd the pretty beam A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.

441. TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON.

Shut not so soon; the dull-ey'd night Has not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherd's star Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye, And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die.

442. TO THE LITTLE SPINNERS.

Ye pretty housewives, would ye know The work that I would put ye to? This, this it should be: for to spin A lawn for me, so fine and thin As it might serve me for my skin. For cruel Love has me so whipp'd That of my skin I all am stripp'd: And shall despair that any art Can ease the rawness or the smart, Unless you skin again each part. Which mercy if you will but do, I call all maids to witness to What here I promise: that no broom Shall now or ever after come To wrong a spinner or her loom.

Spinners, spiders.

443. OBERON'S PALACE.

After the feast, my Shapcot, see The fairy court I give to thee; Where we'll present our Oberon, led Half-tipsy to the fairy bed, Where Mab he finds, who there doth lie, Not without mickle majesty. Which done, and thence remov'd the light, We'll wish both them and thee good-night.

Full as a bee with thyme, and red As cherry harvest, now high fed For lust and action, on he'll go To lie with Mab, though all say no. Lust has no ears; he's sharp as thorn, And fretful, carries hay in's horn, And lightning in his eyes; and flings Among the elves, if moved, the stings Of peltish wasps; well know his guard— Kings, though they're hated, will be fear'd. Wine lead[s] him on. Thus to a grove, Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinselled with twilight, he and they, Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num'rous feet, which, by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn and many a cross- Track they redeem a bank of moss, Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft than the finest Lemster ore, Mildly disparkling like those fires Which break from the enjewell'd tyres Of curious brides; or like those mites Of candi'd dew in moony nights. Upon this convex all the flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought, As if love's sampler here was wrought: Or Citherea's ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine, Who, as they low, impearl with milk The four-leaved grass or moss like silk. The breath of monkeys met to mix With musk-flies are th' aromatics Which 'cense this arch; and here and there And farther off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card With peeps of hearts, of club, and spade Are here most neatly inter-laid Many a counter, many a die, Half-rotten and without an eye Lies hereabouts; and, for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels' and children's teeth late shed Are neatly here enchequered With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plum. The nails fallen off by whitflaws: art's Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others, from ourselves, Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stolen from the neck Of the shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance, where within The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake: enfriez'd throughout With eyes of peacocks' trains and trout- Flies' curious wings; and these among Those silver pence that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm's eyes; the shining scales Of silv'ry fish; wheat straws, the snail's Soft candle light; the kitling's eyne; Corrupted wood; serve here for shine. No glaring light of bold-fac'd day, Or other over-radiant ray, Ransacks this room; but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful day or night. By this quaint taper light he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tann'd Mab, as somewhat sick, And (love knows) tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandillions, high- Rear'd, lies her elvish majesty: Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown Her Mabship in obedient down. For either sheet was spread the caul That doth the infant's face enthral, When it is born (by some enstyl'd The lucky omen of the child), And next to these two blankets o'er- Cast of the finest gossamore. And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seemed to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity. Thus soft she lies: and overhead A spinner's circle is bespread With cob-web curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air. The fringe about this are those threads Broke at the loss of maidenheads: And, all behung with these, pure pearls, Dropp'd from the eyes of ravish'd girls Or writhing brides; when (panting) they Give unto love the straiter way. For music now, he has the cries Of feigned-lost virginities; The which the elves make to excite A more unconquered appetite. The king's undrest; and now upon The gnat's watchword the elves are gone. And now the bed, and Mab possess'd Of this great little kingly guest; We'll nobly think, what's to be done, He'll do no doubt; this flax is spun.

Mickle, much. Carries hay in's horn (f[oe]num habet in cornu), is dangerous. Peltish, angry. Redeem, gain. Lemster ore, Leominster wool. Tyres, head-dresses. Picks, diamonds on playing-cards were so called from their points. Peeps, pips. Whitflaws, whitlows. Corrupted, i.e., phosphorescent. Winds his errors up, brings his wanderings to an end. Dandillions, dandelions. Comply, embrace. Spinner, spider. Proof, sign.

444. TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR. THOMAS SHAPCOTT, LAWYER.

I've paid thee what I promis'd; that's not all; Besides I give thee here a verse that shall (When hence thy circummortal part is gone), Arch-like, hold up thy name's inscription. Brave men can't die, whose candid actions are Writ in the poet's endless calendar: Whose vellum and whose volume is the sky, And the pure stars the praising poetry. Farewell

Circummortal, more than mortal. Candid, fair.

445. TO JULIA IN THE TEMPLE.

Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one To make up now a congregation. Let's to the altar of perfumes then go, And say short prayers; and when we have done so, Then we shall see, how in a little space Saints will come in to fill each pew and place.

446. TO OENONE.

What conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why! yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together.

447. HIS WEAKNESS IN WOES.

I cannot suffer; and in this my part Of patience wants. Grief breaks the stoutest heart.

448. FAME MAKES US FORWARD.

To print our poems, the propulsive cause Is fame—the breath of popular applause.

449. TO GROVES.

Ye silent shades, whose each tree here Some relique of a saint doth wear, Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of love: Here is the legend of those saints That died for love, and their complaints: Their wounded hearts and names we find Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind. Give way, give way to me, who come Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom: And have deserv'd as much (love knows) As to be canonis'd 'mongst those Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your greeny calendar: By all those virgins' fillets hung Upon your boughs, and requiems sung For saints and souls departed hence (Here honour'd still with frankincense); By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering to the dead; By all those true love-knots that be With mottoes carv'd on every tree; By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me: By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me, forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ: That my poor name may have the glory To live remembered in your story.

Phyllis, the Thracian princess who hanged herself for love of Demophoon. Iphis, a Cyprian youth who hanged himself for love of Anaxaretes.

450. AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN.

Here a solemn fast we keep, While all beauty lies asleep Hush'd be all things—no noise here— But the toning of a tear: Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering.

451. TO THE RIGHT GRACIOUS PRINCE, LODOWICK, DUKE OF RICHMOND AND LENNOX.

Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war (Not without glory), noble sir, you are, Despite of all concussions, left the stem To shoot forth generations like to them. Which may be done, if, sir, you can beget Men in their substance, not in counterfeit, Such essences as those three brothers; known Eternal by their own production. Of whom, from fame's white trumpet, this I'll tell, Worthy their everlasting chronicle: Never since first Bellona us'd a shield, Such three brave brothers fell in Mars his field. These were those three Horatii Rome did boast, Rome's were these three Horatii we have lost. One C[oe]ur-de-Lion had that age long since; This, three; which three, you make up four, brave prince.

452. TO JEALOUSY.

O jealousy, that art The canker of the heart; And mak'st all hell Where thou do'st dwell; For pity be No fury, or no firebrand to me.

Far from me I'll remove All thoughts of irksome love: And turn to snow, Or crystal grow, To keep still free, O! soul-tormenting jealousy, from thee.

453. TO LIVE FREELY.

Let's live in haste; use pleasures while we may; Could life return, 'twould never lose a day.

455. HIS ALMS.

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.

Deal, portion.

456. UPON HIMSELF.

Come, leave this loathed country life, and then Grow up to be a Roman citizen. Those mites of time, which yet remain unspent, Waste thou in that most civil government. Get their comportment and the gliding tongue Of those mild men thou art to live among; Then, being seated in that smoother sphere, Decree thy everlasting topic there; And to the farm-house ne'er return at all: Though granges do not love thee, cities shall.

457. TO ENJOY THE TIME.

While Fates permit us let's be merry, Pass all we must the fatal ferry; And this our life too whirls away With the rotation of the day.

458. UPON LOVE.

Love, I have broke Thy yoke, The neck is free; But when I'm next Love-vexed, Then shackle me.

'Tis better yet To fret The feet or hands, Than to enthral Or gall The neck with bands.

459. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE MILDMAY, EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

You are a lord, an earl, nay more, a man Who writes sweet numbers well as any can; If so, why then are not these verses hurled, Like Sybil's leaves, throughout the ample world? What is a jewel if it be not set Forth by a ring or some rich carcanet? But being so, then the beholders cry: See, see a gem as rare as Belus' eye. Then public praise does run upon the stone, For a most rich, a rare, a precious one. Expose your jewels then unto the view, That we may praise them, or themselves prize you. Virtue concealed, with Horace you'll confess, Differs not much from drowsy slothfulness.

Belus' eye, the eye onyx. "The stone called Belus' eie is white, and hath within it a black apple." (Holland's Pliny.)

460. THE PLUNDER.

I am of all bereft, Save but some few beans left, Whereof, at last, to make For me and mine a cake, Which eaten, they and I Will say our grace, and die.

461. LITTLENESS NO CAUSE OF LEANNESS.

One feeds on lard, and yet is lean, And I but feasting with a bean Grow fat and smooth. The reason is: Jove prospers my meat more than his.

464. THE JIMMALL RING OR TRUE-LOVE KNOT.

Thou sent'st to me a true love-knot, but I Returned a ring of jimmals to imply Thy love had one knot, mine a triple tie.

Jimmal or gimmal, double or triple ring.

465. THE PARTING VERSE OR CHARGE TO HIS SUPPOSED WIFE WHEN HE TRAVELLED.

Go hence, and with this parting kiss, Which joins two souls, remember this: Though thou be'st young, kind, soft, and fair And may'st draw thousands with a hair; Yet let these glib temptations be Furies to others, friends to me. Look upon all, and though on fire Thou set their hearts, let chaste desire Steer thee to me, and think, me gone, In having all, that thou hast none. Nor so immured would I have Thee live, as dead and in thy grave; But walk abroad, yet wisely well Stand for my coming, sentinel. And think, as thou do'st walk the street, Me or my shadow thou do'st meet. I know a thousand greedy eyes Will on thy feature tyrannise In my short absence, yet behold Them like some picture, or some mould Fashion'd like thee, which, though 't have ears And eyes, it neither sees or hears. Gifts will be sent, and letters, which Are the expressions of that itch, And salt, which frets thy suitors; fly Both, lest thou lose thy liberty; For, that once lost, thou't fall to one, Then prostrate to a million. But if they woo thee, do thou say, As that chaste Queen of Ithaca Did to her suitors, this web done, (Undone as oft as done), I'm won; I will not urge thee, for I know, Though thou art young, thou canst say no, And no again, and so deny Those thy lust-burning incubi. Let them enstyle thee fairest fair, The pearl of princes, yet despair That so thou art, because thou must Believe love speaks it not, but lust; And this their flattery does commend Thee chiefly for their pleasure's end. I am not jealous of thy faith, Or will be, for the axiom saith: He that doth suspect does haste A gentle mind to be unchaste. No, live thee to thy self, and keep Thy thoughts as cold as is thy sleep, And let thy dreams be only fed With this, that I am in thy bed; And thou, then turning in that sphere, Waking shalt find me sleeping there. But yet if boundless lust must scale Thy fortress, and will needs prevail, And wildly force a passage in, Banish consent, and 'tis no sin Of thine; so Lucrece fell and the Chaste Syracusian Cyane. So Medullina fell; yet none Of these had imputation For the least trespass, 'cause the mind Here was not with the act combin'd. The body sins not, 'tis the will That makes the action, good or ill. And if thy fall should this way come, Triumph in such a martyrdom. I will not over-long enlarge To thee this my religious charge. Take this compression, so by this Means I shall know what other kiss Is mixed with mine, and truly know, Returning, if't be mine or no: Keep it till then; and now, my spouse, For my wished safety pay thy vows And prayers to Venus; if it please The great blue ruler of the seas, Not many full-faced moons shall wane, Lean-horn'd, before I come again As one triumphant, when I find In thee all faith of womankind. Nor would I have thee think that thou Had'st power thyself to keep this vow, But, having 'scaped temptation's shelf, Know virtue taught thee, not thyself.

Queen of Ithaca, Penelope. Incubi, adulterous spirits. Cyane, a nymph of Syracuse, ravished by her father whom (and herself) she slew. Medullina, a Roman virgin who endured a like fate. Compression, embrace.

466. TO HIS KINSMAN, SIR THOS. SOAME.

Seeing thee, Soame, I see a goodly man, And in that good a great patrician. Next to which two, among the city powers And thrones, thyself one of those senators; Not wearing purple only for the show, As many conscripts of the city do, But for true service, worthy of that gown, The golden chain, too, and the civic crown.

Conscripts, "patres conscripti," aldermen.

467. 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 a while, To blush and gently smile; And go at last.

What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you a while, they glide Into the grave.

468. MAN'S DYING-PLACE UNCERTAIN.

Man knows where first he ships himself, but he Never can tell where shall his landing be.

469. NOTHING FREE-COST.

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

470. FEW FORTUNATE.

Many we are, and yet but few possess Those fields of everlasting happiness.

471. TO PERENNA.

How long, Perenna, wilt thou see Me languish for the love of thee? Consent, and play a friendly part To save, when thou may'st kill a heart.

472. TO THE LADIES.

Trust me, ladies, I will do Nothing to distemper you; If I any fret or vex, Men they shall be, not your sex.

473. THE OLD WIVES' PRAYER.

Holy rood, come forth and shield Us i' th' city and the field: Safely guard us, now and aye, From the blast that burns by day; And those sounds that us affright In the dead of dampish night. Drive all hurtful fiends us fro, By the time the cocks first crow.

475. UPON HIS DEPARTURE HENCE.

Thus I Pass by, And die: As one Unknown And gone: I'm made A shade, And laid I' th' grave: There have My cave, Where tell I dwell. Farewell.

476. THE WASSAIL.

Give way, give way, ye gates, and win An easy blessing to your bin And basket, by our entering in.

May both with manchet stand replete; Your larders, too, so hung with meat, That though a thousand, thousand eat,

Yet, ere twelve moons shall whirl about Their silv'ry spheres, there's none may doubt But more's sent in than was served out.

Next, may your dairies prosper so As that your pans no ebb may know; But if they do, the more to flow,

Like to a solemn sober stream Bank'd all with lilies, and the cream Of sweetest cowslips filling them.

Then, may your plants be prest with fruit, Nor bee, or hive you have be mute; But sweetly sounding like a lute.

Next, may your duck and teeming hen Both to the cock's tread say Amen; And for their two eggs render ten.

Last, may your harrows, shears, and ploughs, Your stacks, your stocks, your sweetest mows, All prosper by our virgin vows.

Alas! we bless, but see none here That brings us either ale or beer; In a dry house all things are near.

Let's leave a longer time to wait, Where rust and cobwebs bind the gate, And all live here with needy fate.

Where chimneys do for ever weep For want of warmth, and stomachs keep, With noise, the servants' eyes from sleep.

It is in vain to sing, or stay Our free feet here; but we'll away: Yet to the Lares this we'll say:

The time will come when you'll be sad And reckon this for fortune bad, T'ave lost the good ye might have had.

Manchet, fine white bread. Prest, laden. Near, penurious. Leave to wait, cease waiting.

477. UPON A LADY FAIR BUT FRUITLESS.

Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed. Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years; Yet not a lily from the bed appears: Nor will; for why, Pudica this may know, Trees never bear unless they first do blow.

478. HOW SPRINGS CAME FIRST.

These springs were maidens once that lov'd, But lost to that they most approv'd: My story tells by Love they were Turn'd to these springs which we see here; The pretty whimpering that they make, When of the banks their leave they take, Tells ye but this, they are the same, In nothing chang'd but in their name.

479. TO ROSEMARY AND BAYS.

My wooing's ended: now my wedding's near When gloves are giving, gilded be you there.

481. UPON A SCAR IN A VIRGIN'S FACE.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.

482. UPON HIS EYESIGHT FAILING HIM.

I begin to wane in sight; Shortly I shall bid good-night: Then no gazing more about, When the tapers once are out.

483. TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, M. THOS. FALCONBIRGE.

Stand with thy graces forth, brave man, and rise High with thine own auspicious destinies: Nor leave the search, and proof, till thou canst find These, or those ends, to which thou wast design'd. Thy lucky genius and thy guiding star Have made thee prosperous in thy ways thus far: Nor will they leave thee till they both have shown Thee to the world a prime and public one. Then, when thou see'st thine age all turn'd to gold, Remember what thy Herrick thee foretold, When at the holy threshold of thine house He boded good luck to thy self and spouse. Lastly, be mindful, when thou art grown great, That towers high rear'd dread most the lightning's threat: Whenas the humble cottages not fear The cleaving bolt of Jove the thunderer.

484. UPON JULIA'S HAIR FILL'D WITH DEW.

Dew sat on Julia's hair And spangled too, Like leaves that laden are With trembling dew: Or glitter'd to my sight, As when the beams Have their reflected light Danc'd by the streams.

485. ANOTHER ON HER.

How can I choose but love and follow her Whose shadow smells like milder pomander? How can I choose but kiss her, whence does come The storax, spikenard, myrrh, and laudanum?

Pomander, ball of scent.

486. LOSS FROM THE LEAST.

Great men by small means oft are overthrown; He's lord of thy life who contemns his own.

487. REWARD AND PUNISHMENTS.

All things are open to these two events, Or to rewards, or else to punishments.

488. SHAME NO STATIST.

Shame is a bad attendant to a state: He rents his crown that fears the people's hate.

489. TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW.

Since to the country first I came I have lost my former flame: And, methinks, I not inherit, As I did, my ravish'd spirit. If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line. Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him who only can Be in prose a grateful man.

490. UPON HIMSELF.

I could never love indeed; Never see mine own heart bleed: Never crucify my life, Or for widow, maid, or wife.

I could never seek to please One or many mistresses: Never like their lips to swear Oil of roses still smelt there.

I could never break my sleep, Fold mine arms, sob, sigh, or weep: Never beg, or humbly woo With oaths and lies, as others do.

I could never walk alone; Put a shirt of sackcloth on: Never keep a fast, or pray For good luck in love that day.

But have hitherto liv'd free As the air that circles me: And kept credit with my heart, Neither broke i' th' whole, or part.

491. FRESH CHEESE AND CREAM.

Would ye have fresh cheese and cream? Julia's breast can give you them: And, if more, each nipple cries: To your cream here's strawberries.

492. AN ECLOGUE OR PASTORAL BETWEEN ENDYMION PORTER AND LYCIDAS HERRICK, SET AND SUNG.

End. Ah! Lycidas, come tell me why Thy whilom merry oat By thee doth so neglected lie, And never purls a note?

I prithee speak. Lyc. I will. End. Say on. Lyc. 'Tis thou, and only thou, That art the cause, Endymion. End. For love's sake, tell me how.

Lyc. In this regard: that thou do'st play Upon another plain, And for a rural roundelay Strik'st now a courtly strain.

Thou leav'st our hills, our dales, our bowers, Our finer fleeced sheep, Unkind to us, to spend thine hours Where shepherds should not keep.

I mean the court: Let Latmos be My lov'd Endymion's court. End. But I the courtly state would see. Lyc. Then see it in report.

What has the court to do with swains, Where Phyllis is not known? Nor does it mind the rustic strains Of us, or Corydon.

Break, if thou lov'st us, this delay. End. Dear Lycidas, e're long I vow, by Pan, to come away And pipe unto thy song.

Then Jessamine, with Florabell, And dainty Amaryllis, With handsome-handed Drosomell Shall prank thy hook with lilies.

Lyc. Then Tityrus, and Corydon, And Thyrsis, they shall follow With all the rest; while thou alone Shalt lead like young Apollo.

And till thou com'st, thy Lycidas, In every genial cup, Shall write in spice: Endymion 'twas That kept his piping up.

And, my most lucky swain, when I shall live to see Endymion's moon to fill up full, remember me: Meantime, let Lycidas have leave to pipe to thee.

Oat, oaten pipe. Prank, bedeck. Drosomell, honey dew.

493. TO A BED OF TULIPS.

Bright tulips, we do know You had your coming hither, And fading-time does show That ye must quickly wither.

Your sisterhoods may stay, And smile here for your hour; But die ye must away, Even as the meanest flower.

Come, virgins, then, and see Your frailties, and bemoan ye; For, lost like these, 'twill be As time had never known ye.

494. A CAUTION.

That love last long, let it thy first care be To find a wife that is most fit for thee. Be she too wealthy or too poor, be sure Love in extremes can never long endure.

495. TO THE WATER NYMPHS DRINKING AT THE FOUNTAIN.

Reach, with your whiter hands, to me Some crystal of the spring; And I about the cup shall see Fresh lilies flourishing.

Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this, To th' glass your lips incline; And I shall see by that one kiss The water turn'd to wine.

496. TO HIS HONOURED KINSMAN, SIR RICHARD STONE.

To this white temple of my heroes here, Beset with stately figures everywhere Of such rare saintships, who did here consume Their lives in sweets, and left in death perfume, Come, thou brave man! And bring with thee a stone Unto thine own edification. High are these statues here, besides no less Strong than the heavens for everlastingness: Where build aloft; and, being fix'd by these, Set up thine own eternal images.

497. UPON A FLY.

A golden fly one show'd to me, Clos'd in a box of ivory, Where both seem'd proud: the fly to have His burial in an ivory grave; The ivory took state to hold A corpse as bright as burnish'd gold. One fate had both, both equal grace; The buried, and the burying-place. Not Virgil's gnat, to whom the spring All flowers sent to's burying; Not Martial's bee, which in a bead Of amber quick was buried; Nor that fine worm that does inter Herself i' th' silken sepulchre; Nor my rare Phil,[K] that lately was With lilies tomb'd up in a glass; More honour had than this same fly, Dead, and closed up in ivory.

Virgil's gnat, see 256. Martial's bee, see Note.

[K] Sparrow. (Note in the original edition.)

499. TO JULIA.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies, Close thou up thy poet's eyes: And his last breath, let it be Taken in by none but thee.

500. TO MISTRESS DOROTHY PARSONS.

If thou ask me, dear, wherefore I do write of thee no more, I must answer, sweet, thy part Less is here than in my heart.

502. HOW HE WOULD DRINK HIS WINE.

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus I see't in's puris naturalibus: Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine; 'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine. What madman's he, that when it sparkles so, Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?

503. HOW MARIGOLDS CAME YELLOW.

Jealous girls these sometimes were, While they liv'd or lasted here: Turn'd to flowers, still they be Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.

504. THE BROKEN CRYSTAL.

To fetch me wine my Lucia went, Bearing a crystal continent: But, making haste, it came to pass She brake in two the purer glass, Then smil'd, and sweetly chid her speed; So with a blush beshrew'd the deed.

Continent, holder.

505. PRECEPTS.

Good precepts we must firmly hold, By daily learning we wax old.

506. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD, EARL OF DORSET.

If I dare write to you, my lord, who are Of your own self a public theatre, And, sitting, see the wiles, ways, walks of wit, And give a righteous judgment upon it, What need I care, though some dislike me should, If Dorset say what Herrick writes is good? We know y'are learn'd i' th' Muses, and no less In our state-sanctions, deep or bottomless. Whose smile can make a poet, and your glance Dash all bad poems out of countenance; So that an author needs no other bays For coronation than your only praise, And no one mischief greater than your frown To null his numbers, and to blast his crown. Few live the life immortal. He ensures His fame's long life who strives to set up yours.

507. UPON HIMSELF.

Thou'rt hence removing (like a shepherd's tent), And walk thou must the way that others went: Fall thou must first, then rise to life with these, Mark'd in thy book for faithful witnesses.

508. HOPE WELL AND HAVE WELL: OR, FAIR AFTER FOUL WEATHER.

What though the heaven be lowering now, And look with a contracted brow? We shall discover, by-and-by, A repurgation of the sky; And when those clouds away are driven, Then will appear a cheerful heaven.

509. UPON LOVE.

I held Love's head while it did ache; But so it chanc'd to be, The cruel pain did his forsake, And forthwith came to me.

Ay me! how shall my grief be still'd? Or where else shall we find One like to me, who must be kill'd For being too-too kind?

510. TO HIS KINSWOMAN, MRS. PENELOPE WHEELER.

Next is your lot, fair, to be number'd one, Here, in my book's canonisation: Late you come in; but you a saint shall be, In chief, in this poetic liturgy.

511. ANOTHER UPON HER.

First, for your shape, the curious cannot show Any one part that's dissonant in you: And 'gainst your chaste behaviour there's no plea, Since you are known to be Penelope. Thus fair and clean you are, although there be A mighty strife 'twixt form and chastity.

Form, beauty.

513. CROSS AND PILE.

Fair and foul days trip cross and pile; the fair Far less in number than our foul days are.

Trip cross and pile, come haphazard, like the heads and tails of coins.

514. TO THE LADY CREW, UPON THE DEATH OF HER CHILD.

Why, madam, will ye longer weep, Whenas your baby's lull'd asleep? And (pretty child) feels now no more Those pains it lately felt before. All now is silent; groans are fled: Your child lies still, yet is not dead; But rather like a flower hid here To spring again another year.

515. HIS WINDING-SHEET.

Come thou, who art the wine and wit Of all I've writ: The grace, the glory, and the best Piece of the rest. Thou art of what I did intend The all and end; And what was made, was made to meet Thee, thee, my sheet. Come then, and be to my chaste side Both bed and bride. We two, as reliques left, will have One rest, one grave. And, hugging close, we will not fear Lust entering here, Where all desires are dead or cold As is the mould; And all affections are forgot, Or trouble not. Here, here the slaves and pris'ners be From shackles free: And weeping widows long oppress'd Do here find rest. The wronged client ends his laws Here, and his cause. Here those long suits of chancery lie Quiet, or die: And all Star-Chamber bills do cease, Or hold their peace. Here needs no Court for our Request, Where all are best, All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to fear the frown Of court or crown: Where fortune bears no sway o'er things, There all are kings. In this securer place we'll keep, As lull'd asleep; Or for a little time we'll lie As robes laid by; To be another day re-worn, Turn'd, but not torn: Or, like old testaments engrost, Lock'd up, not lost. And for a while lie here conceal'd, To be reveal'd Next at that great Platonick year, And then meet here.

Platonick year, the 36,000th year, in which all persons and things return to their original state.

516. 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.

517. CHANGE GIVES CONTENT.

What now we like anon we disapprove: The new successor drives away old love.

519. ON HIMSELF.

Born I was to meet with age, And to walk life's pilgrimage. Much I know of time is spent, Tell I can't what's resident. Howsoever, cares, adieu! I'll have nought to say to you: But I'll spend my coming hours Drinking wine and crown'd with flowers.

Resident, remaining.

520. FORTUNE FAVOURS.

Fortune did never favour one Fully, without exception; Though free she be, there's something yet Still wanting to her favourite.

521. TO PHYLLIS, TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM.

Live, live with me, and thou shall see The pleasures I'll prepare for thee; What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board. The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed With crawling woodbine over-spread; By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown Made of the fleece's purest down. The tongues of kids shall be thy meat, Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread, With cream of cowslips buttered; Thy feasting-tables shall be hills With daisies spread and daffodils, Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by, For meat, shall give thee melody. I'll give thee chains and carcanets Of primroses and violets. A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave; So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes, When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it. On holidays, when virgins meet To dance the heyes with nimble feet, Thou shall come forth, and then appear The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee, my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear, And shame-fac'd plum, all simp'ring there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribands to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spiced wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth. Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love. These, nay, and more, thine own shall be If thou wilt love, and live with me.

Carcanets, necklaces. Wakes, village feasts on the dedication day of the church. The heyes, a winding, country dance. Be-prank'd, be-decked.

522. TO HIS KINSWOMAN, MISTRESS SUSANNA HERRICK.

When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay But here a-while, to languish and decay, Like to these garden-glories, which here be The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee; With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry: Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die.

523. UPON MISTRESS SUSANNA SOUTHWELL, HER CHEEKS.

Rare are thy cheeks, Susanna, which do show Ripe cherries smiling, while that others blow.

524. UPON HER EYES.

Clear are her eyes, Like purest skies, Discovering from thence A baby there That turns each sphere, Like an Intelligence.

A baby, see Note to 38, "To his mistress objecting to him neither toying nor talking".

525. UPON HER FEET.

Her pretty feet Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at Bo-Peep, Did soon draw in again.

526. TO HIS HONOURED FRIEND, SIR JOHN MINCE.

For civil, clean, and circumcised wit, And for the comely carriage of it, Thou art the man, the only man best known, Mark'd for the true wit of a million: From whom we'll reckon. Wit came in but since The calculation of thy birth, brave Mince.

527. UPON HIS GREY HAIRS.

Fly me not, though I be grey: Lady, this I know you'll say; Better look the roses red When with white commingled. Black your hairs are, mine are white; This begets the more delight, When things meet most opposite: As in pictures we descry Venus standing Vulcan by.

528. ACCUSATION.

If accusation only can draw blood, None shall be guiltless, be he ne'er so good.

529. PRIDE ALLOWABLE IN POETS.

As thou deserv'st, be proud; then gladly let The Muse give thee the Delphic coronet.

530. A VOW TO MINERVA.

Goddess, I begin an art; Come thou in, with thy best part For to make the texture lie Each way smooth and civilly; And a broad-fac'd owl shall be Offer'd up with vows to thee.

Civilly, orderly. Owl, the bird sacred to Athene or Minerva.

534. TO ELECTRA.

'Tis evening, my sweet, And dark, let us meet; Long time w'ave here been a-toying, And never, as yet, That season could get Wherein t'ave had an enjoying.

For pity or shame, Then let not love's flame Be ever and ever a-spending; Since now to the port The path is but short, And yet our way has no ending.

Time flies away fast, Our hours do waste, The while we never remember How soon our life, here, Grows old with the year That dies with the next December.

535. DISCORD NOT DISADVANTAGEOUS.

Fortune no higher project can devise Than to sow discord 'mongst the enemies.

536. ILL GOVERNMENT.

Preposterous is that government, and rude, When kings obey the wilder multitude.

Preposterous, lit. hind-part before.

537. TO MARIGOLDS.

Give way, and be ye ravish'd by the sun, And hang the head whenas the act is done, Spread as he spreads, wax less as he does wane; And as he shuts, close up to maids again.

538. TO DIANEME.

Give me one kiss And no more: If so be this Makes you poor, To enrich you, I'll restore For that one two Thousand score.

539. TO JULIA, THE FLAMINICA DIALIS OR QUEEN-PRIEST.

Thou know'st, my Julia, that it is thy turn This morning's incense to prepare and burn. The chaplet and Inarculum[L] here be, With the white vestures, all attending thee. This day the queen-priest thou art made, t' appease Love for our very many trespasses. One chief transgression is, among the rest, Because with flowers her temple was not dressed; The next, because her altars did not shine With daily fires; the last, neglect of wine; For which her wrath is gone forth to consume Us all, unless preserved by thy perfume. Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus, O pious priestess! make a peace for us. For our neglect Love did our death decree; That we escape. Redemption comes by thee.

[L] A twig of a pomegranate, which the queen-priest did use to wear on her head at sacrificing. (Note in the original edition.)

540. ANACREONTIC.

Born I was to be old, And for to die here: After that, in the mould Long for to lie here. But before that day comes Still I be bousing, For I know in the tombs There's no carousing.

541. MEAT WITHOUT MIRTH.

Eaten I have; and though I had good cheer, I did not sup, because no friends were there. Where mirth and friends are absent when we dine Or sup, there wants the incense and the wine.

542. LARGE BOUNDS DO BUT BURY US.

All things o'er-ruled are here by chance: The greatest man's inheritance, Where'er the lucky lot doth fall, Serves but for place of burial.

543. UPON URSLEY.

Ursley, she thinks those velvet patches grace The candid temples of her comely face; But he will say, whoe'er those circlets seeth, They be but signs of Ursley's hollow teeth.

544. AN ODE TO SIR CLIPSEBY CREW.

Here we securely live and eat The cream of meat, And keep eternal fires, By which we sit, and do divine As wine And rage inspires.

If full we charm, then call upon Anacreon To grace the frantic thyrse; And having drunk, we raise a shout Throughout To praise his verse.

Then cause we Horace to be read, Which sung, or said, A goblet to the brim Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd, Around We quaff to him.

Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours In wine and flowers, And make the frolic year, The month, the week, the instant day To stay The longer here.

Come then, brave knight, and see the cell Wherein I dwell, And my enchantments too, Which love and noble freedom is; And this Shall fetter you.

Take horse, and come, or be so kind To send your mind, Though but in numbers few, And I shall think I have the heart, Or part Of Clipseby Crew.

Securely, free from care. Thyrse, a Bacchic staff. Instant, oncoming. Numbers, verses.

545. TO HIS WORTHY KINSMAN, MR. STEPHEN SOAME.

Nor is my number full till I inscribe Thee, sprightly Soame, one of my righteous tribe; A tribe of one lip, leaven, and of one Civil behaviour, and religion; A stock of saints, where ev'ry one doth wear A stole of white, and canonised here; Among which holies be thou ever known, Brave kinsman, mark'd out with the whiter stone Which seals thy glory, since I do prefer Thee here in my eternal calender.

546. TO HIS TOMB-MAKER.

Go I must; when I am gone, Write but this upon my stone: Chaste I lived, without a wife, That's the story of my life. Strewings need none, every flower Is in this word, bachelour.

547. GREAT SPIRITS SUPERVIVE.

Our mortal parts may wrapp'd in sear-cloths lie: Great spirits never with their bodies die.

548. NONE FREE FROM FAULT.

Out of the world he must, who once comes in. No man exempted is from death, or sin.

549. UPON HIMSELF BEING BURIED.

Let me sleep this night away, Till the dawning of the day; Then at th' opening of mine eyes I, and all the world, shall rise.

550. PITY TO THE PROSTRATE.

'Tis worse than barbarous cruelty to show No part of pity on a conquered foe.

552. HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY.

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 Prew 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 others' 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.

Prew, i.e., his servant, Prudence Baldwin.

553. THE CREDIT OF THE CONQUEROR.

He who commends the vanquished, speaks the power And glorifies the worthy conqueror.

554. ON HIMSELF.

Some parts may perish, die thou canst not all: The most of thee shall 'scape the funeral.

556. THE FAIRIES.

If ye will with Mab find grace, Set each platter in his place; Rake the fire up, and get Water in, ere sun be set. Wash your pails, and cleanse your dairies; Sluts are loathsome to the fairies; Sweep your house, who doth not so, Mab will pinch her by the toe.

557. TO HIS HONOURED FRIEND, M. JOHN WEARE, COUNCILLOR.

Did I or love, or could I others draw To the indulgence of the rugged law, The first foundation of that zeal should be By reading all her paragraphs in thee, Who dost so fitly with the laws unite, As if you two were one hermaphrodite. Nor courts[t] thou her because she's well attended With wealth, but for those ends she was intended: Which were,—and still her offices are known,— Law is to give to ev'ry one his own; To shore the feeble up against the strong, To shield the stranger and the poor from wrong. This was the founder's grave and good intent: To keep the outcast in his tenement, To free the orphan from that wolf-like man, Who is his butcher more than guardian; To dry the widow's tears, and stop her swoons, By pouring balm and oil into her wounds. This was the old way; and 'tis yet thy course To keep those pious principles in force. Modest I will be; but one word I'll say, Like to a sound that's vanishing away, Sooner the inside of thy hand shall grow Hisped and hairy, ere thy palm shall know A postern-bribe took, or a forked fee, To fetter Justice, when she might be free. Eggs I'll not shave; but yet, brave man, if I Was destin'd forth to golden sovereignty, A prince I'd be, that I might thee prefer To be my counsel both and chancellor.

Hisped (hispidus), rough with hairs. Postern-bribe, a back-door bribe. Forked fee, a fee from both sides in a case; cp. Ben Jonson's Volpone: "Give forked counsel, take provoking gold on either hand". Eggs I'll not shave, a proverb.

560. THE WATCH.

Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never Wound up again: once down, he's down for ever. The watch once down, all motions then do cease; And man's pulse stop'd, all passions sleep in peace.

561. LINES HAVE THEIR LININGS, AND BOOKS THEIR BUCKRAM.

As in our clothes, so likewise he who looks, Shall find much farcing buckram in our books.

Farcing, stuffing.

562. ART ABOVE NATURE: TO JULIA.

When I behold a forest spread With silken trees upon thy head, And when I see that other dress Of flowers set in comeliness; When I behold another grace In the ascent of curious lace, Which like a pinnacle doth show The top, and the top-gallant too. Then, when I see thy tresses bound Into an oval, square, or round, And knit in knots far more than I Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie; Next, when those lawny films I see Play with a wild civility, And all those airy silks to flow, Alluring me, and tempting so: I must confess mine eye and heart Dotes less on Nature than on Art.