No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be

Only to kiss that air

That lately kissed thee.

ROBERT HERRICK

TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIM NEITHER TOYING NOR TALKING

OU

You say I love not, 'cause I do not play

Still with your curls, and kiss the time away. You blame me too, because I can't devise Some sport to please those babies in your eyes; By love's religion, I must here confess it, The most I love when I the least express it. Small griefs find tongues: full casks are ever found To give (if any, yet) but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below. So, when love speechless is, she doth express A depth in love and that depth bottomless. Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such Who speak but little 'cause I love so much.

ROBERT HERRICK

A CONJURATION TO ELECTRA

OY those soft tods 1 of wool

BY

With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;

1 Gossamers.

By all those sweets that be
I' th' flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate ;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,

While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest :
O my Electra! be

In love with none, but me.

ROBERT HERRICK

Sw

TO DIANEME

WEET, be not proud of those two eyes
Which, starlike, sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air ;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,

Will last to be a precious stone

When all your world of beauty's gone.

ROBERT HERRICK

TO ANTHEA

NOW is the time, when all the lights wax dim;

And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him

Who was thy servant. Dearest, bury me

Under that Holy-oak or Gospel-tree,

Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think
Me, when thou yearly go'st procession;
Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb
In which thy sacred relics shall have room.
For
my embalming, sweetest, there will be
No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee.

upon

ROBERT HERRICK

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS

γου

are a tulip seen to-day,

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 distil 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 wither'd 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.

ROBERT HERRICK

TO CARNATIONS-A SONG

TAY while ye will, or go

STAY

And leave no scent behind ye :

Yet, trust me, I shall know

The place where I

may find ye.

Within my Lucia's cheek,

Whose livery ye wear,

Play ye at hide or seek,

I'm sure to find ye there.

ROBERT HERRICK

THE PRIMROSE

ASK me why I send you here

This sweet Infanta of the year;

Ask me why I send to you

This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew;
I will whisper to your ears:

The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending (yet it doth not break);
I will answer: These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.

ROBERT HERRICK

THE MAD MAID'S SONG

OOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morrow, 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.

ROBERT HERRICK