I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes;
I write of youth, of love, and have access 5 By these to sing of cleanly wantonness; I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece, Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris; I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write How roses first came red and lilies white; I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing 11 The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King; I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.
UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES
I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:
Stately Julia, prime of all;
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; 10 But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late
And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. 16
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674)
Myrha, for the lute and voice. Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla: all are gone, Only Herrick's left alone, For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.
Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said 10 And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in,
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and Whenas a thousand virgins on this day bowers,
Of April, May, of June and July-flowers;
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in
Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying 55 This night, and locks picked, 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 die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapor or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
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