Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,

Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day;

Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine:

All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end,—

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,
As wholly thine;

-But the acceptance, that must be,

My Christ, by Thee.

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 they've 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.

UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

Till, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility ;

Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.

ART ABOVE NATURE

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 shew
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.

CHERRY-RIPE.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come, and buy:
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer, there
Where my Julia's lips do smile ;—
There's the land, or cherry-isle ;
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

THE BRIDE-CAKE

This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding-cake:
Knead but the dough, and it will be
To paste of almonds turn'd by thee;
Or kiss it thou but once or twice,
And for the bride-cake there'll be spice

Formers ought to
buy Julia's lipo wher
they need cops.

My God!
Amen!

of you must commun
for petés sabe

make it mething
with while.

HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON.

When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,

For old religion's sake,

Saint Ben, to aid me.

Make the way smooth for me,
When, I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee on my knee
Offer my Lyric.

Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar;

And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.

AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON.

Ah Ben!

Say how or when

Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,
Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine

Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!

Or come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus;

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it,

Lest we that talent spend;

And having once brought to an end
That precious stock,-the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.

TO ANTHEA.

Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;

Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free

As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.