ROBERT HERRICK.

(1591-1674.)

Practically all of Herrick's poetry appeared first in Hesperides, 1648, and was probably written 1620-1648. There are numerous modern editions of Herrick, who, like Campion and so many others of the early lyrists, has only come into favour during the present century. The best are Dr. Grosart's (3 vols., London, 1877), Mr. A. W. Pollard's (2 vols. 1891, in the Muses' Library), and Mr. Saintsbury's (2 vols. 1893, in the Aldine Poets). Selections nearly complete have been edited by Prof. E. E. Hale, junr. (Athenæum Press Series, Boston, 1895), by Prof. Palgrave (Golden Treasury Series, 1877), by Prof. Henry Morley (the Universal Library, 1883), and by Mr. H. P. Horne (Canterbury Poets, 1887).

I

THE ARGUMENT OF THE HESPERIDES.

SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers;

I sing of maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of Youth, of Love;-and have access
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
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;

Sappho next, a principal;

Smooth Anthea, for a skin
White and heaven-like crystalline;
Sweet Electra, and the choice
Myrrha, 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.

TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES.

NOW is the time for mirth

Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;

For the flowery earth,

The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;

For now each tree does wear,

Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the Rose, and now
The Arabian dew besmears

My uncontrolled brow,

And my retorted1 hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,

In sack of such a kind,
That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth,

To pledge this second health
In wine whose each cup's worth
An Indian commonwealth.

1 thrown back.

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 ravished 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.

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' th' funeral fire,

And when all bodies meet

In Lethe to be drowned;

Then only numbers sweet,

With endless life are crowned.

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.

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.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay

To honour thy decree

Or bid it languish quite away,

And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;

And hast command of every part,

To live and die for thee.