Next, Virgil I'll call forth
To pledge this second health
In wine, whose each cup's worth
An Indian commonwealth.

A goblet next I'll drink
To Ovid, and suppose,

Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup

Of aromatic wine,

Catullus, I quaff up

To that terse muse of thine!

Wild I am now with heat :

O Bacchus, cool thy rays,

Or, frantic, I shall eat

Thy thyrse, and bite the bays!

Round, round the roof does run,
And, being ravish'd thus,
Come, I will drink a tun
To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus, next,

This flood I drink to thee!

But stay, I see a text

That this presents to me :

6 Behold, Tibullus lies

Here burnt, whose small return

Of ashes scarce suffice

To fill a little urn.'

Trust to good verses then :
They only will aspire
When pyramids, as men,

Are lost i' the funeral fire;

And when all bodies meet
In Lethe to be drown'd,
Then only numbers sweet
With endless life are crown'd.

Robert Herrick.

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may :
Old Time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;

But, being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry :
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

207

A MEDITATION FOR HIS

You are a tulip seen to-day :

But, dearest, of so short a stay

Robert Herrick.

MISTRESS

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.

208

Robert Herrick.

TO MUSIC, TO BECALM

HIS FEVER

CHARM me asleep and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,

That, being ravished, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.

Ease my sick head
And make my bed,

Thou Power that canst sever

From me this ill,

And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,

May think thereby
I live and die

'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew,

Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers!
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains,
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For heaven !

Robert Herrick.

TO THE

209

ROSE: A SONG

Go, happy Rose, and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands.
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods (at will)
For to tame, though not to kill.

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teem'd her refreshing dew?
Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower;

Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or wrapp'd as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, such like to orphans young,
To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep.

Is it for want of sleep
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweetheart to this?

No, no, this sorrow shown

By your tears shed

Would have this lecture read:

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceiv'd with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Robert Herrick.